Prince of Dharma

AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE INDIAN HARDCOVER EDITION 2007 Unlike people, a broken spine on a book is a good thing. So are battered covers, peeling lamination, torn corners, tea stains, and dog-eared pages. They’re signs that the book is loved and has been enjoyed often. In the four years since the first book of my Ramayana series was published, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing and signing many such copies of my books. It’s the best sight in the world to an author. It means you’ve written a book, or in this case, a series of books, that readers genuinely love. Some of those copies even had favourite passages underlined or highlighted. You can’t buy that kind of appreciation with a fat marketing budget or media hype; it has to be earned, word by word, page by page. As of this writing, each of the six books in the series have gone through multiple reprints. Rather than tapering off after the publication of the sixth and final book, sales have continued to increase steadily—despite my not having publicized the books nor given any media interviews, attended any book launches, signings or readings, for close to two years. If anything, the reader response has swelled overwhelmingly, with the online community showing extraordinary support for the series and for my humble attempt to retell this seminal epic. And so, four years after the first paperback edition of Prince of Ayodhya was released, the Indian publishers of my Ramayana series have decided that it’s time that this appreciative readership had an edition that was more durable and better designed to withstand such enthusiasm and affection. With the publication of this hardcover omnibus set, you finally get to see my Ramayana retelling exactly as I originally intended: as one long book split into three continuous parts, rather than six separate paperback novels. The text remains almost exactly the same, I’ve reinstated the original volume titles that I had wanted for the series and the story is now split at exactly the points at which I wanted it split. Prince of Dharma, the first volume, contains the complete, unabridged text of Prince of Ayodhya and Siege of Mithila. Prince in Exile, the second volume, contains Demons of Chitrakut and Armies of Hanuman. Prince at War, the third and final volume, contains Bridge of Rama and King of Ayodhya. If you’re new to the series, then turn the page and read the introduction reprinted from the paperback editions, which will answer many questions and hopefully help prepare you for perhaps the most unorthodox and unusual retelling of this classic tale ever attempted. And when you’re done with that, then I wish you happy reading. Scuff these shiny new covers, cause the laminate to peel off, spill tea or coffee or cola on the book, bend and crack the spine. Even published in this fancy hardcover edition, this isn’t a book

that’s designed to be put on a shelf and admired over the years, it’s a book meant to be read, and reread, and reread yet again...and loved. Because that’s how it was written, with love. And passion. And devotion. And that always shines through, no matter how thick that hardcover, or how stiff that spine. May you find many happy hours of pleasure and contemplation in travelling this long, winding road of dharma with its greatest proponent. Jai Bajrang Bali. Jai Siyaram. Jai Hind. Ashok Kumar Banker Mumbai, April 2007

AKB eBOOKS Home of the epics! RAMAYANA SERIES® PRINCE OF DHARMA

PRINCE OF AYODHYA & SIEGE OF MITHILA

PRINCE IN EXILE DEMONS OF CHITRAKUT & ARMIES OF HANUMAN

PRINCE AT WAR BRIDGE OF RAMA & KING OF AYODHYA

KING OF DHARMA VENGEANCE OF RAVANA & SONS OF SITA

KRISHNA CORIOLIS SERIES SLAYER OF KAMSA DANCE OF GOVINDA FLUTE OF VRINDAVAN LORD OF MATHURA FORTRESS OF DWARKA CHARIOT OF ARJUNA RIDER OF GARUDA LORD OF VAIKUNTA

MAHABHARATA SERIES® THE FOREST OF STORIES THE SEEDS OF WAR THE CHILDREN OF MIDNIGHT (& 15 more volumes)

MUMBAI NOIR

THE IRON BRA TEN DEAD ADMEN MURDER & CHAMPAGNE A BLOOD RED SAREE THE ARBITRATOR

GODS OF WAR VORTAL:SHOCWAVE VERTIGO

THE VALMIKI SYNDROME TEN KINGS SAFFRON WHITE GREEN & MUCH, MUCH MORE! only from

AKB eBOOKS www.ashokbanker.com

AKB eBOOKS Home of the epics! RAMAYANA SERIES® PRINCE OF DHARMA

PRINCE OF AYODHYA & SIEGE OF MITHILA

PRINCE IN EXILE DEMONS OF CHITRAKUT & ARMIES OF HANUMAN

PRINCE AT WAR BRIDGE OF RAMA & KING OF AYODHYA

KING OF DHARMA VENGEANCE OF RAVANA & SONS OF SITA

KRISHNA CORIOLIS SERIES SLAYER OF KAMSA DANCE OF GOVINDA FLUTE OF VRINDAVAN LORD OF MATHURA FORTRESS OF DWARKA CHARIOT OF ARJUNA RIDER OF GARUDA LORD OF VAIKUNTA

MAHABHARATA SERIES® THE FOREST OF STORIES THE SEEDS OF WAR THE CHILDREN OF MIDNIGHT (& 15 more volumes)

MUMBAI NOIR

THE IRON BRA TEN DEAD ADMEN MURDER & CHAMPAGNE A BLOOD RED SAREE THE ARBITRATOR

GODS OF WAR VORTAL:SHOCWAVE VERTIGO

THE VALMIKI SYNDROME TEN KINGS SAFFRON WHITE GREEN & MUCH, MUCH MORE! only from

AKB eBOOKS www.ashokbanker.com

PRINCE OF AYODHYA

Ashok K. Banker

RAMAYANA SERIES® Book 1

AKB eBOOKS

Invocation

Ganesa, lead well this army of words

Dedication For Biki and Bithika Banker, The Gemini twins. One saved my life, The other gave me Two new ones. For Ayush Yoda Banker, Friend, son, Jedi Master. When you were born, I was born again. For Yashka Banker, Devi, daughter, princess. You made me believe in luck again, And, more important, in love.

Epigraph

Om Bhur Bhuvah Swah: Tat Savitur Varenyam Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi Dhiyo yo nah prachodayat Maha-mantra Gayatri (whispered into the ears of newborn infants at their naming ceremony)

INTRODUCTION Adi-kavya: The first retelling

Some three thousand years ago, a sage named Valmiki lived in a remote forest ashram, practising austerities with his disciples. One day, the wandering sage Narada visited the ashram and was asked by Valmiki if he knew of a perfect man. Narada said, indeed, he did know of such a person, and then told Valmiki and his disciples a story of an ideal man. Some days later, Valmiki happened to witness a hunter killing a kraunchya bird. The crane’s partner was left desolate, and cried inconsolably. Valmiki was overwhelmed by anger at the hunter’s action, and sorrow at the bird’s loss. He felt driven to do something rash, but controlled himself with difficulty. After his anger and sorrow subsided, he questioned his outburst. After so many years of practising meditation and austerities, he had still not been able to master his own emotions. Was it even possible to do so? Could any person truly become a master of his passions? For a while he despaired, but then he recalled the story Narada had told him. He thought about the implications of the story, about the choices made by the protagonist and how he had indeed shown great mastery of his own thoughts, words, deeds and feelings. Valmiki felt inspired by the recollection and was filled with a calm serenity such as he had never felt before. As he recollected the tale of that perfect man of whom Narada had spoken, he found himself reciting it in a particular cadence and rhythm. He realized that this rhythm or metre corresponded to the warbling cries of the kraunchya bird, as if in tribute to theloss that had inspired his recollection. At once, he resolved to compose his own version of the story, using the new form of metre, that others might hear it and be as inspired as he was. But Narada’s story was only a bare narration of the events, a mere plot outline as we would call it today. In order to make the story attractive and memorable to ordinary listeners, Valmiki would have to add and embellish considerably, filling in details and inventing incidents from his own imagination. He would have to dramatize the whole story in order to bring out the powerful dilemmas faced by the protagonist. But what right did he have to do so? After all, this was not his story. It was a tale told to him. A tale of a real man and real events. How could he make up his own version of the story? At this point, Valmiki was visited by Lord Brahma Himself. The Creator told him to set his worries aside and begin composing the work he had in mind. Here is how Valmiki quoted Brahma’s exhortation to him, in an introductory passage not unlike this one that you are reading right now:

Recite the tale of Rama . . . as you heard it told by Narada. Recite the deeds of Rama that are already known as well as those that are not, his adventures . . . his battles . . . the acts of Sita, known and unknown. Whatever you do not know will become known to you. Never will your words be inappropriate. Tell Rama’s story . . . that it may prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist.

Valmiki needed no further urging. He began composing his poem. He titled it, Rama-yana, meaning literally, The Movements (or Travels) of Rama. Foretelling the future

The first thing Valmiki realized on completing his composition was that it was incomplete. What good was a story without anyone to tell it to? In the tradition of his age, a bard would normally recite his compositions himself, perhaps earning some favour or payment in coin or kind, more often rewarded only with the appreciation of his listeners. But Valmiki knew that while the form of the story was his creation, the story itself belonged to all his countrymen. He recalled Brahma’s exhortation that Rama’s story must prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist. So he taught it to his disciples, among whose number were two young boys whose mother had sought sanctuary with him years ago. Those two boys, Luv and Kusa, then travelled from place to place, reciting the Ramayana as composed by their guru. In time, fate brought them before the very Rama described in the poem. Rama knew at once that the poem referred to him and understood that these boys could be none other than his sons by the banished Sita. Called upon by the curious king, Valmiki himself then appeared before Rama and entreated him to take back Sita. Later, Rama asked Valmiki to compose an additional part to the poem, so that he himself, Rama Chandra, might know what would happen to him in future. Valmiki obeyed this extraordinary command, and this supplementary section became the Uttara Kaand of his poem. Valmiki’s Sanskrit rendition of the tale was a brilliant work by any standards, ancient or modern. Its charm, beauty and originality can never be matched. It is a true masterpiece of world literature, the ‘adi-kavya’ which stands as the fountainhead of our great cultural record. Even today, thousands of years after its composition, it remains unsurpassed. And yet, when we narrate the story of the Ramayana today, it is not Valmiki’s Sanskrit shlokas that we recite. Few of us today have even read Valmiki’s immortal composition in its original. Most have not even read an abridgement. Indeed, an unabridged Ramayana itself, reproducing Valmiki’s verse without alteration or revisions, is almost impossible to find. Even the most learned of scholars, steeped in a lifetime of study of ancient Sanskrit literature, maintain that the versions of Valmiki’s poem that exist today have been revised and added to by later hands. Some believe that the first and seventh kaands, as well as a number of passages within the other kaands, were all inserted by later writers who preferred to remain anonymous.

Perhaps the earliest retelling of Valmiki’s poem is to be found in the pages of that vast ocean of stories we call the Mahabharata. When Krishna Dwaipayana-Vyasa, more popularly known today as Ved Vyasa, composed his equally legendary epic, he retold the story of the Ramayana in one passage. His retelling differs in small but significant ways. Sometime later, the burgeoning Buddhist literature, usually composed in the Pali dialect, also included stories from the Ramayana, recast in a somewhat different light. Indeed, Buddhist literature redefined the term dharma itself, restating it as dhamma and changing the definition of this and several other core concepts. In the eleventh century, a Tamil poet named Kamban undertook his own retelling of the Ramayana legend. Starting out with what seems to have been an attempt to translate Valmiki’s Ramayana, Kamban nevertheless deviated dramatically from his source material. In Kamban’s Ramayana, entire episodes are deleted, new ones appear, people and places are renamed or changed altogether, and even the order of some major events is revised. Most of all, Kamban’s Ramayana relocates the entire story in a milieu that is recognizably eleventh-century Tamil Nadu in its geography, history, clothes, customs, etc., rather than the north Indian milieu of Valmiki’s Sanskrit original. It is essentially a whole new Ramayana, retold in a far more passionate, rich and colourful idiom. A few centuries later, Sant Tulsidas undertook his interpretation of the epic. Tulsidas went so far as to title his work Ramcharitramanas, rather than calling it the Ramayana. By doing so, he signalled that he was not undertaking a faithful translation, but a wholly new variation of his own creation. The differences are substantial. In art, sculpture, musical renditions, even in dance, mime and street theatrical performances, the story of Valmiki’s great poem has been retold over and over, in countless different variations, some with minor alterations, others with major deviations. The tradition of retellings continues even in modern times, through television serials, films, puppet theatre, children’s versions, cartoons, poetry, pop music and, of course, in the tradition of Ramlila enactments across the country every year. Yet how many of these are faithful to Valmiki? How many, if any at all, actually refer to the original Sanskrit text, or even attempt to seek out that text? Should they even do so? So many Ramayanas

Does a grandmother consult Valmiki’s Ramayana before she retells the tale to her grandchildren at night? When she imitates a rakshasa’s roar or Ravana’s laugh, or Sita’s tears, or Rama’s stoic manner, whom does she base her performance on? When an actor portrays Rama in a television serial, or a Ramlila performer enacts a scene, or a sculptor chisels a likeness, a painter a sketch, whom do they all refer to? There were no illustrations in Valmiki’s Ramayana. No existing portraits of Rama survive from that age, no recordings of his voice or video records of his deeds.

Indeed, many of the episodes or ‘moments’ we believe are from Valmiki’s Ramayana are not even present in the original Sanskrit work. They are the result of later retellers, often derived from their own imagination. One instance is the ‘seema rekha’ believed to have been drawn by Lakshman before leaving Sita in the hut. No mention of this incident exists in Valmiki’s Ramayana. Then there is the constant process of revision that has altered even those scenes that remain constant through various retellings. For example, take the scene where Sita entreats Rama to allow her to accompany him into exile. In Valmiki’s Ramayana, when Rama tells Sita he has to go into exile, and she asks him to allow her to go with him, he refuses outright. At first, Sita pleads with him and cries earnest tears, but when Rama remains adamant, she grows angry and rebukes him in shockingly harsh terms. She refers to him as a ‘woman disguised as a man’, says that ‘the world is wrong when they say that there is no one greater than Rama’, calls him ‘depressed and frightened’, ‘an actor playing a role’, and other choice epithets. It is one of the longer scenes in Valmiki’s Ramayana, almost equalling in length the entire narration of Rama’s early childhood years! Tamil poet Kamban retells this incident in his more compressed, volatile, rich style, reducing Sita’s objections to a couple of brief rebukes: ‘Could it be that the real reason [for Rama not taking her into exile] is that with me left behind, you’ll be free to enjoy yourself in the forest?’ By the time we reach Sant Tulsidas’s recension, Sita’s rebukes are reduced to a few tearful admonitions and appeals. Were these changes the result of the change in the socially accepted standards of behaviour between men and women in our country? Quite possibly. Tulsidas’s Ramcharitramanas depicts a world quite different from that which Valmiki or even Kamban depict. In fact, each of these three versions differs so drastically in terms of the language used, the clothes worn, the various social and cultural references, that they seem almost independent of one another. Perhaps the most popularly known version in more recent times is a simplified English translation of a series of Tamil retellings of selected episodes of the Kamban version, serialized in a children’s magazine about fifty years ago. This version by C. Rajagopalachari, aka Rajaji, was my favourite version as a child too. It was only much later that I found, through my own extensive research that my beloved Rajaji version left out whole chunks of the original story and simplified other parts considerably. Still later, I was sorely disappointed by yet another version by an otherwise great writer, R. K. Narayan. In his severely abridged retelling, the story is dealt with in a manner so rushed and abbreviated, it is reduced to a moral fable rather than the rich, powerful, mythic epic that Valmiki created. English scholar William S. Buck’s nineteenth-century version, dubiously regarded as a classic by English scholars, reads like it might have been composed under the influence of certain intoxicants: in one significant departure from Indian versions, Guha, the tribal chief of the Nisada fisherfolk, without discernible reason, spews a diatribe against Brahmins, and ends by kicking a statue of Lord Shiva. To add further confusion, in the illustration accompanying this chapter, Guha is shown kicking what appears to be a

statue of Buddha! If you travel outside India, farther east, you will find more versions of the Ramayana that are so far removed from Valmiki, that some are barely recognizable as the same story. In one recent study of these various versions of the epic across the different cultures of Asia, an ageing Muslim woman in Indonesia is surprised to learn from the author that we have our own Ramayana in India also! The kings of Thailand are always named Rama along with other dynastic titles, and consider themselves to be direct descendants of Rama Chandra. The largest Rama temple, an inspiring ruin even today, is situated not in India, or even in Nepal, the only nation that takes Hinduism as its official religion, but in Cambodia. It is called Angkor Vat. In fact, it is now possible to say that there are as many Ramayanas as there are people who know the tale, or claim to know it. And no two versions are exactly alike. My Ramayana: a personal odyssey

And yet, would we rather have this democratic melange of versions and variations, or would we rather have a half-remembered, extinct tale recollected only dimly, like a mostly forgotten myth that we can recall only fragments of? Valmiki’s ‘original’ Ramayana was written in Sanskrit, the language of his time and in an idiom that was highly modern for its age. In fact, it was so avant garde in its style—the kraunchya inspired shloka metre—that it was considered ‘adi’ or the first of its kind. Today, few people except dedicated scholars can understand or read it in its original form—and even they often disagree vehemently about their interpretations of the dense archaic Sanskrit text! Kamban’s overblown rhetoric and colourful descriptions, while magnificently inspired and appropriate for its age, are equally anachronistic in today’s times. Tulsidas’s interpretation, while rightfully regarded as a sacred text, can seem somewhat heavy-handed in its depiction of man–woman relationships. It is more of a religious tribute to Lord Rama’s divinity than a realistic retelling of the story itself. In Ved Vyasa’s version, the devices of ill-intentioned Manthara, misguided Kaikeyi and reprehensible Ravana are not the ultimate cause of Rama’s misfortunes. In fact, it is not due to the asuras either. It is Brahma himself, using the mortal avatar of Vishnu to cleanse the world of evil, as perpetuated by Ravana and his asuras, in order to maintain the eternal balance of good and evil. My reasons for attempting this retelling were simple and intensely personal. As a child of an intensely unhappy broken marriage, a violently bitter failure of parents of two different cultures (Anglo-Indian Christian and Gujarati Hindu) to accept their differences and find common ground, I turned to literature for solace. My first readings were, by accident, in the realm of mythology. So inspired was I by the simple power and heroic victories of those ancient ur-tales, I decided to become a writer and tell stories of my own that would be as great, as inspiring to others. To attempt, if possible, to bridge cultures,

and knit together disparate lives by showing the common struggle and strife and, ultimately, triumph of all human souls. I was barely a boy then. Thirty-odd years of living and battling life later, albeit not as colourful as Valmiki’s thieving and dacoit years, I was moved by a powerful inexplicable urge to read the Ramayana once more. Every version I read seemed to lack something, that vital something that I can only describe as the ‘connection’ to the work. In a troubled phase, battling with moral conundrums of my own, I set to writing my own version of the events. My mind exploded with images, scenes, entire conversations between characters. I saw, I heard, I felt . . . I wrote. Was I exhorted by Brahma Himself? Probably not! I had no reader in mind, except myself—and everyone. I changed as a person over the course of that writing. I found peace, or a kind of peace. I saw how people could devote their lives to worshipping Rama, or Krishna, or Devi for that matter, my own special ‘Maa’. But I also felt that this story was beyond religion, beyond nationality, beyond race, colour, or creed. Undertaking to retell a story as great and as precious as our classic adi-kavya is not an enterprise lightly attempted. The first thing I did was study every available edition of previous retellings to know what had been done before, the differences between various retellings, and attempt to understand why. I also spoke extensively to people known and unknown about their knowledge of the poem, in an attempt to trace how millennia of verbal retellings have altered the perception of the tale. One of the most striking things was that most people had never actually read the ‘original’ Valmiki Ramayana. Indeed, most people considered Ramcharitramanas by Tulsidas to be ‘the Ramayana’, and assumed it was an accurate reprise of the Sanskrit work. Nothing could be farther from the truth. For instance, Valmiki’s Ramayana depicts Dasaratha as having three hundred and fifty concubines in addition to his three titled wives. In keeping with the kingly practices of that age, the ageing raja’s predilection for the fairer sex is depicted honestly and without any sense of misogyny. Valmiki neither comments on nor criticizes Dasaratha’s fondness for fleshly pleasures, he simply states it. When Rama takes leave of his father before going into exile, he does so in the palace of concubines, and all of them weep copiously for the exiled son of their master. When Valmiki describes women, he does so by enumerating the virtues of each part of their anatomy. There is no sense of embarrassment or male chauvinism evident here: he is simply extolling the beauty of the women characters, just as he does for the male characters like Rama and Hanuman and, yes, even Ravana. Even in Kamban’s version, the women are depicted in such ripe, full-blown language, that a modern reader like myself blushes in embarrassment. Yet the writer exhibits no awkwardness or prurience in these passages—he is simply describing them as he perceived them in the garb and fashion of his time. By the time we reach Tulsidas and later versions, Rama is no less than a god in human avatar. And in keeping with this foreknowledge, all related characters are depicted accordingly.

So Dasaratha’s fleshly indulgences take a backseat, the women are portrayed fully clad and demure in appearance, and their beauty is ethereal rather than earthly. How was I to approach my retelling? On one hand, the Ramayana was now regarded not as a Sanskrit epic of real events that occurred in ancient India, but as a moral fable of the actions of a human avatar of Vishnu. On the other hand, I felt the need to bring to life the ancient world of epic India in all its glory and magnificence, to explore the human drama as well as the divinity that drove it, to show the nuances of word and action and choice rather than a black-and-white depiction of good versus evil. More importantly, what could I offer that was fresh and new, yet faithful to the spirit of the original story? How could I ensure that all events and characters were depicted respectfully yet realistically? There was little point in simply repeating any version that had gone before—those already existed, and those who desired to read the Ramayana in any one of its various forms could simply pick up one of those previous versions. But what had never been done before was a complete, or ‘sampoorn’, Ramayana, incorporating the various, often contradictory aspects of the various Indian retellers (I wasn’t interested in foreign perspectives, frankly), while attempting to put us into the minds and hearts of the various characters. To go beyond a simple plot reprise and bring the whole story, the whole world of ancient India, alive. To do what every verbal reteller attempts, or any classical dancer does: make the story live again. In order to do this, I chose a modern idiom. I simply used the way I speak, an amalgam of English–Hindi–Urdu–Sanskrit, and various other terms from Indian languages. I deliberately used anachronisms like the terms ‘abs’ or ‘morph’. I based every section, every scene, every character’s dialogues and actions on the previous Ramayanas, be it Valmiki, Kamban, Tulsidas, or Vyasa, and even the various Puranas. Everything you read here is based on actual research, or my interpretation of some detail noted in a previous work. The presentation, of course, is wholly original and my own. Take the example of the scene of Sita entreating Rama to let her accompany him into exile. In my retelling, I sought to explore the relationship between Rama and Sita at a level that is beyond the physical or social plane. I believed that their’s was a love that was eternally destined, and that their bond surpassed all human ties. At one level, yes, I believed that they were Vishnu and Lakshmi. Yet, in the avatars they were currently in, they were Rama and Sita, two young people caught up in a time of great turmoil and strife, subjected to hard, difficult choices. Whatever their divine backgrounds and karma, here and now, they had to play out their parts one moment at a time, as real, flesh-andblood people. I adopted an approach that was realistic, putting myself (and thereby the reader) into the feelings and thoughts of both Rama and Sita at that moment of choice. I felt the intensity of their pain, the great sorrow and confusion, the frustration at events beyond their control, and also their ultimate acceptance of what was right, what must be done, of

dharma. In my version, they argue as young couples will at such a time, they express their anger and mixed emotions, but in the end, it is not only through duty and dharma that she appeals to him. In the end, she appeals to him as a wife who is secure in the knowledge that her husband loves her sincerely, and that the bond that ties them is not merely one of duty or a formal social knot of matrimony, but of true love. After the tears, after all other avenues have been mutually discussed and discarded, she simply says his name and appeals to him, as a wife, a lover, and as his dearest friend: ‘Rama,’ she said. She raised her arms to him, asking, not pleading. ‘Then let me go with you.’

And he agrees. Not as a god, an avatar, or even a prince. But as a man who loves her and respects her. And needs her. In the footsteps of giants

Let me be clear.

This is not Valmiki’s story. Nor Kamban’s. Nor Tulsidas’s. Nor Vyasa’s. Nor R.K. Narayan’s. Nor Rajaji’s charming, abridged children’s version. It is Rama’s story. And Rama’s story belongs to every one of us. Black, brown, white, or albino. Old or young. Male or female. Hindu, Christian, Muslim, or whatever faith you espouse. I was once asked at a press conference to comment on the Babri Masjid demolition and its relation to my Ramayana. My answer was that the Ramayana had stood for three thousand years, and would stand for all infinity. Ayodhya, in my opinion, is not just a place in north-central Uttar Pradesh. It is a place in our hearts. And in that most sacred of places, it will live forever, burnished and beautiful as no temple of consecrated bricks can ever be. When Rama himself heard Luv and Kusa recite Valmiki’s Ramayana for the first time, even he, the protagonist of the story, was flabbergasted by the sage’s version of the events—after all, even he had not known what happened to Sita after her exile, nor the childhood of Luv and Kusa, nor had he heard their mother’s version of events narrated so eloquently until then. And in commanding Valmiki to compose the section about future events, Rama himself added his seal of authority to Valmiki, adding weight to Brahma’s exhortation to recite the deeds of Rama that were already known ‘as well as those that are not’. And so the tradition of telling and retelling the Ramayana began. It is that tradition that Kamban, Tulsidas, Vyasa, and so many others were following. It is through the works of these bards through the ages that this great tale continues to exist among us. If it changes shape and structure, form and even content, it is because that is the nature of the story itself: it inspires the teller to bring fresh insights to each new version, bringing us ever closer to understanding Rama himself. This is why it must be told, and retold, an infinite number of times. By me.

By you. By grandmothers to their grandchildren. By people everywhere, regardless of their identity. The first time I was told the Ramayana, it was on my grandfather’s knee. He was excessively fond of chewing tambaku paan and his breath was redolent of its aroma. Because I loved lions, he infused any number of lions in his Ramayana retellings—Rama fought lions, Sita fought them, I think even Manthara was cowed down by one at one point! My grandfather’s name, incidentally, was Ramchandra Banker. He died of throat cancer caused by his tobacco-chewing habit. But before his throat ceased working, he had passed on the tale to me. And now, I pass it on to you. If you desire, and only if, then read this book. I believe if you are ready to read it, the tale will call out to you, as it did to me. If that happens, you are in for a great treat. Know that the version of the Ramayana retold within these pages is a living, breathing, new-born avatar of the tale itself. Told by a living author in a living idiom. It is my humbleattempt to do for this great story what writers down the ages have done with it in their times. Maazi naroti

In closing, I’d like to quote briefly from two venerable authors who have walked similar paths. The first is K.M. Munshi whose Krishnavatara series remains a benchmark of the genre of modern retellings of ancient tales. These lines are from Munshi’s own Introduction to the Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan edition of 1972: In the course of this adventure, I had often to depart from legend and myth, for such a reconstruction by a modern author must necessarily involve the exercise of whatever little imagination he has. I trust He will forgive me for the liberty I am taking, but I must write of Him as I see Him in my imagination.

I could not have said it better. Yuganta, Iravati Karve’s landmark Sahitya Akademi Award-winning study of the Mahabharata, packs more valuable insights into its slender 220-page pocket-sized edition (Disha) than any ten encyclopaedias. In arguably the finest essay of the book, ‘Draupadi’, she includes this footnote: ‘The discussion up to this point is based on the critical edition of the Mahabharata. What follows is my naroti [naroti = a dry coconut shell, i.e. a worthless thing. The word ‘naroti’ was first used in this sense by the poet Eknath].’

In the free musings of Karve’s mind, we learn more about Vyasa’s formidable epic than from most encyclopaedic theses. For only from free thought can come truly progressive ideas. In that spirit, I urge readers to consider my dried coconut shell reworking of the

Ramayana in the same spirit. If anything in the following pages pleases you, thank those great forebears in whose giant footsteps I placed my own small feet. If any parts displease you, then please blame them on my inadequate talents, not on the tale.

ASHOK K. BANKER Mumbai April 2005

PRARAMBH

ONE RAMA. The blow-heat of rancid breath against his face, guttural whisper in his ear. He snapped awake. Sweat-drenched, feverhot, bone-chilled, springing from his satin bed, barefoot on the cool redstone floor. Sword, now. A yard and a half of gleaming Kosala steel, never out of reach, a bolt of lightning in his fist. Soft rustle of the silken gold-embroidered loincloth around his tight abs. Naked feline grace. Taut young muscles, supple limbs, senses instantly attuned to the slightest hint of threat. He scanned the moonlit expanse of his bedchamber with the sharpness of a panther with the scent of stag in its nostrils. Barely three seconds after rising from deep, dreamless sleep, he was ready to take on a dozen armed men. Or worse. But the bedchamber was empty. The moon was full tonight and the room was caught in a silvery net, more than sufficient for his trained eyes to scan the princely apartment. Jewelled ornaments and regal furnishings gleamed richly in the silvered dimness. The far wall, some twenty yards from where he stood, showed him a pale imitation of his own reflection in an oval mirror framed in solid gold. He had heard enough descriptions of his appearance in kavyas composed by the royal bards to know what the mirror would have shown had the light been sufficient. A distinct dynastic resemblance, unmistakably related to one of those towering portraits of his illustrious ancestors adorning the walls of Suryavansha Hall. Classically

handsome (the bards would sing), a fitting heir to the dynasty of the Sun. The reality was harder, leaner and more austere. His piercing brown eyes, as sharp and all-seeing as a kite-hawk’s thousand-yard gaze, scoured every square inch as he traversed the apartment with quick military precision, his movements graceful and flowing. Bedchamber, clear. Gymnasium, clear. Bathing chambers, clear. Enemy not sighted, repeat, not sighted. Circuit complete. Return to bedchamber. Breathing in the pranayam style, he executed a martial asana that was part attack and part spiritual discipline. In three breathtakingly graceful leaps, it took him to the veranda that ringed one side of the circular chamber. Sword slashing through the gossamer folds of the translucent drapes that could conceal an assassin. Turn, turn, breathe, slice, follow-through, recover, resume stance. Guru Vashishta had trained him superbly. A quad of assassins striking with two weapons apiece would have been hard-pressed to put a scratch on his lithe body. The veranda was empty. He checked his perimeter in a sweeping three-hundred-andsixty-degree arc that put him back precisely in his original position, and scanned over the ornately carved redwood balustrade, first checking topside then below. Above, the complex vaulting architecture of the mahal rose up in an ingeniously layered design that allowed efficient guardwatches without the royal residents ever seeing their vigilant protectors, out of their line of sight. But he had to be sure; the sense of mortal dread was too real,

too powerful. He vaulted out on to the lip of the ledge that encircled the veranda, flicked the sword from one hand to the other, gripped the sculpted corner of the balustrade, then leaned out over a twenty-yard fall into darkness. In the bright wash of the purnima moon, he could see the helmeted heads and spear tips of the night-watch patrolling the south grounds, moving in perfect unison in the regular rhythmic fourcount pattern of a normal chowkidari sweep. Ground level, clear. Topside, clear, all the way to the roof. Silvery gleam of the tip of a lance held in defensive position: roof watch on guard and alert. Leap down to the veranda. Turn, arc sword in a sweeping action that clears the first circle of personal safety. Circle clear. Hold stance. Sword blade flat on right shoulder. Cold steel on sleep-warm skin. Breathe. Exhale. Scan down. Move to the far end of the long veranda, twenty yards running the length of the princely chambers, covering the distance in a cheetah-swift instant. From here, he could see down to the western grounds, the distant front gates of the palace and the darkened length of Raghuvamsha Avenue beyond. Again, deserted, except for the night-watch, patrolling alertly even at this silent hour. Armour and sandalled feet clinking and tramping in precisely coordinated rhythms. Quads of four armed and armoured royal guards scouring every square yard in an endlessly overlapping pattern. Squares interwoven with squares interwoven with more squares, in a grid extending outwards in every direction. The grid extending to the seventh wall, the outermost defence of the greatest fortress city ever built by the Arya

nations. Ayodhya the Unconquerable. From the south, a gentle wind, carrying the scent of battle elephants, horses, camels, buffaloes, boar, deer, cow, fowl, a thick murky soup of animal odours. Source: the royal stables and stockyards behind the palace. Somewhere in the still, silent night, a domesticated wolfhound baying uneasily, as if feeling the same sense of not-quiterightness that stirred Rama’s hackles. An elephant trumpeting sleepily in response. A rooster clearing its throat, croaking once irritably, then lapsing into silence, stealing a last few moments of sleep before the imminent dawn. He forced himself to stand down from the martial asana of full alertness, changing the pattern of his pranayam breathing, dialling down his biorhythm using yoga techniques. From battle readiness to mere watchfulness. There was no danger anywhere to be seen. The night breeze was cool on his sweatlimned body, the air damp with the sweet mist of the river, barely thirty yards from where he stood. As eldest prince—by mere weeks, but eldest all the same—he had the corner suite in the maharaja’s palace, giving him a view of his beloved Sarayu. Even though coyly concealed by his father’s palace, he could smell her. That invigorating mineral tang of glacial flow, a smell that brought back memories of a childhood spent on its banks. The gentle murmur of the river helped him calm himself. His body released its tension in carefully graded stages. Warming down. Sweat cooling on his heated skin. Odour of the royal stables fading away as the wind changed, coming now from the north, carrying the frosty bite of the distant snow-capped

peaks of the Himalayas and the delicate fragrance of nightqueen blossom, raat ki rani, from the palace gardens. Your women ravished, your children enslaved, your city sacked and razed to ashes. His eyes widened. Full alert instantly. Turn, turn, slash, clear first circle, second, third, turn, turn, slice, jab, breathe, always breathe. In moments, he had covered the seven circles of personal safety. If this had been a battlefield, a dozen men would lie dead or dying around him. Nothing could survive the seven-circle asana. Nothing human at least. But still, there was nobody there. Neither man, beast, nor asura. What was going on here? Then he felt it. A foul presence, like the nostril-clogging stink of wild Southwoods boar five days rotted and worm-infested. Maggots seeping out of blood-encrusted orifices. Mulch and mildew. The raw, fetid stench of deep jungle. He felt the heat of a living breath on his face, heard the rasping gravel of a voice in his ear. A voice like rock scraping across glass. It isn’t my imagination. Someone—something—is here with me. Invisible, unseen, venomous as a stepped-on cobra. You will watch your birth-mother savaged beyond recognition, your clan-mothers and sisters impregnated by my rakshasas, your father and brothers eaten while still alive, your race massacred, your proud cities pillaged and razed— ‘Who’s there? Show yourself, coward! Face me and fight!’

you

—and when you think you can endure no more, when the horror is over and every living mortal is enslaved or converted to my cause, when you have suffered as much torture as any of your kind can endure and still live, then I shall snuff you out and start all over again. The samay chakra, your sacred wheel of time, will repeat the cycle of birth and suffering infinitely. You will wish you were in hell then, for even the underworld of Narak will seem a blessed escape from the living nightmare of mortal existence. ‘Damn you! Show your face!’ Boy. You still do not understand. See for yourself then. See the future and tremble. And in a flash of blinding light, Rama was transported.

TWO He stood in the Seers’s Tower, the highest point in Ayodhya. The stone tower rose like a sword in the sky, an awe-inspiring achievement of Arya architecture as well as a perfect lookout post. Such a tower existed in every Arya city from Gandahar to Ayodhya, to alert the citizens to an approaching enemy host. But it had been more than two decades since the Arya nations had tasted the bitter salt of war. And Ayodhya itself had not once in its proud history been under siege. Hence its title, Ayodhya, literally, the Unconquerable. Even the seven legendary seer-mages who had raised the tower with the mystical power of Brahman had not found reason to assemble within its impregnable walls for hundreds of years. This circular chamber of the tower’s topmost level, nicknamed the Seers’s Eye, was damp and musty with disuse, the grey flagstone floor frosted over by night dew beneath Rama’s bare feet. He turned and turned again, sword prescribing the arc of the first circle. The elements were wilder here in this edifice of sorcerous architecture, carrying a sense of ancient times when war was a way of life and places like this were all that kept the Arya nations a swordlength ahead of their mortal enemies. He listened carefully, but at first all he heard was the whistling breath of Vayu, the wind god, blowing through the windowless openings and the distant growling of Indra, the god of lightning and thunder, threatening to unleash a storm even though the monsoon season was months away. Then he heard it. There. Below the howling of the wind

and the distant growling of thunder. A sound like nothing he had heard before in his fifteen years of mortal life. Yet he knew at once what the sound meant. War. It was the sound of war. Within Ayodhya. For the first time since coming awake, he felt a needle of fear pierce his heart. He started to freeze, muscles locking reflexively; then, with an effort of will, he forced himself to maintain his breathing pattern. He moved forward, towards the dark maw of the windowless aperture, and faced the most shocking sight of his life. Ayodhya was being raped. A great war raged in its streets. A huge army of asuras had breached the seven gates and invaded the city. The three defensive moats were choked to overflowing with the corpses of the inhuman races of the asura army as well as the bodies of the city’s mortal defenders. The rich crimson of human blood mingled with the multi-hued lifefluids of the alien invaders, lying splattered in swathes everywhere he looked, flowing into and polluting the sacred life-giving Sarayu herself. The river was dark and heavy with the offal of death, her pristine purity turned into a corpse-gutter. Asuras of all sizes and shapes butchered Ayodhyans. Rama had heard countless tales of asura atrocities before, nightmare tales from the Last asura War that he knew still haunted his father on moonless awamas nights such as this one—for awamas was the night when

evil flourished—but never had he heard of or envisioned such atrocities taking place within the walls of his home city, mighty Ayodhya herself. In a single glimpse, his entire world tilted and went out of balance. A thousand impossible sights filled his vision, threatening to drive him insane. Rakshasas twice as tall as men, roaring with exultation as they impaled human soldiers on their enormous antlered horns, then using their curved yellow talons to tear open their bellies and suck the steaming entrails into their hungry mouths. A quad of palace guards encircling a rakshasi, her sagging breasts suckling two hairy infants that clung with tenacious stubbornness to her waist. The guards jabbed the rakshasi with their longspears, trying to contain her and shepherd her away from the palace gates. He guessed that they were squeamish about killing a female, a mother at that. Their moral strength was their downfall. The rakshasi grasped their spears and twisted them around the necks of the soldiers as easily as winding wool. She grabbed a soldier in each hand and held them high in the air. Her infants screamed with delight and tore the guards open, one feeding greedily on dripping intestines, the other sucking the spray of blood jetting from an unfortunate soldier’s throat with relish, as if it were mother’s milk. Everywhere Rama looked, rakshasas were killing and devouring Ayodhyans with terrifying ease. For every rakshas that fell or was wounded, a hundred of Rama’s fellow countrymen died horrible deaths. Most of those eaten weren’t even killed off properly; he could see hundreds lying with their bellies torn open, crying for merciful death.

Rakshasas strode over them, trampling their wounds underfoot as they sought new victims on whom to inflict their terrible butchery. They were the forerunners of the asura army, heading the invasion and leading the rest of the inhumans into the city. Pisacas followed in their wake, clicking their insectile mandibles as they swarmed noisily through the streets, seeking out and destroying their prey. They inflicted a double violation upon their victims: first tearing open their soft flesh with their razor-sharp claws, then squatting above the agonised Ayodhyans to deposit their loads of greenish-black crystalline eggs. Then they exuded a viscous fluid that instantly sealed the gaping wounds. Only then did they move on to other victims—a single Pisaca impregnating dozens of humans in this manner. Their victims would survive the few hours it took for the eggs within their ruined bellies to hatch and the tiny swarms of crab-like infants to feed on their warm-blooded hosts, eating their way out of their bodies. Most asuras combined warfare with the eating of enemies. Only the Pisacas used their enemy to breed as well. Nagas, giant cobra-like beings with a human head and torso but with yardlong forked tongues and serpentine lower bodies and long tails. They slithered through the alleyways and up walls, finding the strays and those who tried to flee the more organised invaders. Rama saw a group of Nagas converge hissing on an unarmed Brahmin mother and her two shaven-headed sons. The raised hoods mercifully hid what happened next. When the hoods parted, the three Brahmins lay prone on the street, their skin turning blue from several twin-puckered bites.

Uragas, enormous reptilian brethren of the Nagas, flowed slimily among their cousin species, their enormous python bodies swollen with telltale lumps—the Ayodhyans they’d swallowed alive. Their deceptively human faces were cast in the appearance of beautiful girl-children, a detail that only added to the horror of their violations. Yaksas, the anthromorphic races. Even though Rama had grown up with tales of their magical antics, he had never heard of Yaksas being openly malevolent. They were generally benign, lovable but mischievous pranksters who used their morphing abilities to tease and entertain, not to kill and maim. Here, their mischief was vicious, their antics deadly. He saw a group of Yaksas morph into a herd of horses as they turned a corner and came face to face with a troop of citizens armed with an assortment of farming implements and kitchen weapons. The Ayodhyans paused to let the horses ride past, realising their mistake only when the Yaksas tore into them like predators rather than the gentle herbivores they were masquerading as. Hooves flailed, smashing skulls like ripe pumpkins. Powerful equestrian teeth ripped necks and bit off limbs. Half-ton heavy battlehorse bodies trampled screaming humans underfoot, shattering bones and smashing organs. Elsewhere, other Yaksas were using their morphing abilities to disguise themselves as elephants, camels, deer, dogs, swine, even an unlikely band of murderous buffalo, loping along with horns dripping blood and gore. There were other asura races too, committing other unspeakable acts of violence and desecration. Defiling holy

icons, demolishing temples, slaughtering, always slaughtering.

and

A rumbling sound forced Rama to raise his gaze to the extremities of the city, where he saw the king’s highway boiling with more intruders. The asura forces covered the road all the way to the edge of the Southwoods, a distance of a full yojana. They flowed from the high rises of the Southwoods down to the city like a boiling black river of pestilence. Even at a glance, it was clear that the invaders vastly outnumbered the defenders. And yet, more kept coming in a constant seething flow. There seemed to be no end to their unholy numbers. A screeching cry startled him from his horrified reverie. He looked up to see the early dawn sky darkening. Great hulking shadows coalesced into the winged shapes of flying bird-beasts, humanoid creatures out of myth and fable. He stared in disbelief at what seemed to be Garudas and Jatayus, named after the gigantic mythic maneagle and enormous fabled man-vulture of ancient folklore. Their slender, lightly feathered bodies were strikingly humanoid, except for the bird-like eyes and beaks, and the incredible muscular wings growing from their backs. Some had a wingspan as much as ten yards or more. They swooped down to the streets below, down to the killing floor of the slaughterhouse that Ayodhya had become. Rama scanned the sky and saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of the flying creatures, flocking to the carnage, calling to each other exultantly in their proto-human speech. As they reached street level and a new wave of horror began, he shut his eyes and staggered back, away from the aperture, unable to absorb any more.

Now do you see the futility of resisting me and my forces? Would you like to see your kith and kin ravished and slaughtered like your countrymen below? Your brothers, perhaps? Or your birthmother? Or— Rama lashed out. This time he struck without discipline or stance. Pure rage fuelled his actions. The sword slashed through empty air. He came to his senses a moment later, at the far end of the tower chamber, sword vibrating in his double-handed grip. He had traced an interweaving mandala pattern that covered every square yard of the chamber. There was no living being here. His eyes misted with impotent rage. ‘Who are you? Why do you show me these monstrous visions? Reveal yourself, damn you!’ Boy. You still haven’t seen the real horrors. The best part comes later, when the survivors are taken back to Lanka as my slaves and whores. Shall I show you that now? ‘What do you want from me, demon?’ The cry was torn from his throat by an emotion more powerful than simple rage. It was an attempt to understand, to make sense of the evil that confronted him.

before you is when I kneel to aim an arrow at your cursed brain. Show yourself and face me like the man you claim you are, coward!’ Lightning shattered the sky above the Seers’ Tower. Lightning out of a pitchblack sky. Thunder boomed and echoed an instant later. When the voice resumed, it sounded like giant teeth gnashing in frustration. Boy. Still just a boy. But you will learn. I will teach you the song of pain and terror. And you will bend your knee then. You will beg and cry for the honour of kneeling to me. Until then, sleep your childish sleep, boy. And remember this well: Ayodhya will fall. Another blinding flash of white light. He woke in his bed, chest heaving, sweat-drenched, fever-hot, bone-chilled. He sprang to his feet, stood naked on the cool redstone floor—he had tossed off his loincloth as the night grew warmer. Even as he reached for his sword, he knew that it was still there on the bed where it had lain all night, untouched.

He forced his breathing to stay measured, his voice as steady as he could keep it. It took more strength than wielding the sword.

Just another bad dream, he thought, willing himself to calm down. He remembered the perfection of his movements and asanas in the dream, and also how futile all his training had proved. Who was this faceless beast that tortured him this way? This was the third time this week alone that the monster had appeared and shown him similarly horrible dream-visions. Too horrible to discuss with anyone else. He hadn’t even told Lakshman, and he always told Lakshman everything. Just another nightmare. As real and terrifying as all nightmares usually were.

‘The only time I would bend my knee

But this time, it felt like something more.

Now, you begin to learn. Yes, I do want something from you. A vow of allegiance. Bend your knee to me now, this instant, and swear fealty to me. Do this now, and perhaps I shall see fit to spare Ayodhya when my armies lay waste the nations of Arya. Kneel, boy, and live.

It felt like a prophecy.

THREE

Ayodhya.

him entirely. And at this fateful moment, this cusp of history, as he stood sketched against the sky on that high peak, gazing down at the lush, epic beauty of the Sarayu valley, he looked every inch the king he had once been.

He was clad in the simple garb of an ascetic. The coarse white dhoti girding his loins, wooden toe-grip slippers on his feet, matted unkempt hair swirling around his craggy face, the long straggly white beard, the red-beaded rudraksh mala around his neck, all marked him for a hermit returning from a long, hard tapasya. His gaunt face and deep-set eyes completed the portrait of a forest penitent, a tapasvi sadhu.

Leaning lightly on the head-tall wildwood staff, his large frame silhouetted against the dusky purple of the pre-dawn sky, he resembled nothing so much as a warrior-king surveying his battlements. He would have looked at home on a royal chariot, gripping the carved bonewood of a longbow, polished armour gleaming in the cold sunlight, contemplating the battlefield’s lie.

Yet there was something about him that set him apart from any ordinary sadhu or hermit. An indefinable quality that belied the obvious first impression. An alertness in his intense predatory eyes, a sense of banked power in his fluid movements, a hint of hidden strength, and most of all, an unmistakable regal air.

Even the gentle northern wind that rustled the vast rolling banks of kusa grass below seemed to pause briefly, awaiting his command. The waters of the Sarayu, ice-pure and crystal-clear, stilled their gurgling momentarily. The world grew silent, marking the moment, as he spoke aloud a sacred mantra. Not just a mantra, a maha-mantra. The sacred and omnipotent Gayatri.

The traveller reached the top of the rise and paused.

He had been a warrior once. A king even. Lord of an ancient and illustrious northern Arya clan, master of a great throne and monarch of a rich dynasty. He had given it all up millennia earlier to pursue a life of total dedication to the pursuit of Brahman, the life-force that knit the universe. Now, he wielded this wooden staff instead of a sword, voiced mantras instead of royal edicts. His kingdom was the realm of atman and Brahman, spirit and power. His name had passed beyond history, across the boundaries of legend, into the misty realms of myth. A guru among gurus, a seer that other seers looked up to reverentially. A Brahmarishi. Yet the regal bearing and manner had not left

As he spoke, the lines of destiny swirled around him. The faint blue hue of Brahman, the raw energy of spiritual enlightenment, caressed his form, an invisible cloak of power. From here on, every step he took closer to Ayodhya would bring about change, historic change. For on this cool, crisp morning, the last night of winter, the first day of spring, he was about to make a king. Perhaps the greatest king of them all. What he wrought today in that city by the river would reverberate down the corridors of human history. Gripping the hefty staff more firmly, the seer-mage Vishwamitra stepped back on

the well-worn cart track of the king’s highway and began the long downward trek to the first wall. The city itself was still a whole yojana distant and he wished to be there before daybreak. But first he had to alter his appearance. It would not do to appear as himself. The unannounced appearance of a seer-mage of his legendary status would become the talk of the city, bringing Brahmins by the hundreds out of doors to pay their respects, which would only delay his urgent mission. Without slowing his pace he spoke the mantra of transformation. The glow of Brahman grew brighter around him as nature itself responded to the sacred incantation. Countless tiny motes of bluish light began to swirl around him, blurring his form. A large boulder lay off to one side of the road and he stepped off the path and into the knee-deep kusa grass, droplets of dew clinging to his dhoti like beads of quicksilver. As he strode around the rock and passed out of sight, his body shimmered as if seen through a curtain of smoke. When he emerged scant seconds later on the far side of the boulder, it was no longer as the great seer-mage Vishwamitra. The man who stepped back on to the cartwheel-ridged mud road was a muscular, dark-skinned young man with the traditional animal-skin loincloth, bone necklace and body-pierce adornments of a sudra hunter. A bulging game bag was slung over one shoulder, a gleaming sickle-spear clutched in the other hand. A few scattered motes of blue light trailed behind him, winking out slowly like fireflies extinguished by rain. The hunter strode towards Ayodhya.

FOUR High on the hill, a dark shadow detached itself from a small grove of eucalyptus trees. It hopped forward cautiously, reached a mossy ledge overhanging the path below and peered over the rim. Its keen eyes easily picked out the figure of the sudra hunter far below, striding north at a determined pace. The disguise did not deceive it. It was familiar with creatures that changed their bhes-bhav at will. Even at this distance, the seermage’s aura was as keenly visible to its preternatural senses as a halo around a blue-skinned deva. Its bright golden eyes followed the hunter’s striding form until he disappeared over a rise a mile distant. Then it chittered and scratched repeatedly at the mossy ledge underfoot. Its yard-long talons drew deep grooves, sending the thick damp moss flying in shredded strips, exposing the rock. The tips of its claws drew sparks from the rock as it raised its head and issued a blood-curdling scream. The cry was almost human and the traveller on the path below heard it and recognised its source, but strode on without slowing. An ordinary sudra hunter would have been terrified out of his wits; the great seer-mage Vishwamitra barely gave the cry a second’s attention. The creature chittered again, frustrated. It now wished it had attacked the traveller while he was still in the dense jungles of Bhayanak-van, the darkwoods. The seer-mage had been aware of its presence from the very outset, it knew, so it had made no attempt to conceal itself. But rather than glance up fearfully at the gigantic shadow lurking overhead as most ordinary mortals would have done, the sage had simply strode on

relentlessly, as if it had been a mere raven or crow flying overhead, not the legendary Jatayu itself, first of its name, a name that struck terror into the hearts of mortals across the Arya nations. Furious at being ignored, weary of circling endlessly to compensate for the far slower pace of the earth-bound mortal, Jatayu had longed to plunge down, down, strike at the dhoti-clad human and rip him to shreds. But its orders had been clear: follow and observe. Nothing more, nothing less. The Dark Lord of Lanka had been explicit in his instructions. It scratched the ledge one last time, hard enough to draw a cracking noise like a dry twig being split. Its great talons had caused a fissure in the rock. Turning its enormous bald head skywards, it considered its next move. It had a long way to travel, in the shortest time possible. Lanka was a whole subcontinent away and the news it carried was important. The Lord of the asuras would not be pleased to learn the seer-mage Vishwamitra’s destination, but he would certainly be pleased at his spy’s diligence. It spread its wings; first the left one, then the right, unfolding them slowly, painfully, sighing as it did so. They were weary from the long journey. What was more, its belly rumbled with hunger. It had been able to snatch a few small prey on the wing, a pair of parrots, a duck that had strayed from its fellows, even a juicy pregnant bat. But they were barely snacks for its enormous appetite. If it could just stay awhile, forage around until it found the burning ghats where it knew these Ayodhyans must cremate their dead, it would have food aplenty.

After all, if it was part-human, it was also part-vulture. And the vulture part craved human flesh. But Lanka was thrice as far as the distance it had flown already. Even with brief rests, the journey would consume precious time. Hopefully, the seer-mage would stay in the city that long. These holy men usually took their time when they made their rare forays back into civilisation. And this particular one had broken his retreat after a considerable time, even by Jatayu’s count. Over two hundred mortal years, it reckoned. Which meant there had to be a very good reason for Vishwamitra’s visit to Ayodhya. Which meant in turn that the Lord of Lanka would not appreciate the news being delivered late. Sighing in frustration, Jatayu began the arduous task of flapping its mighty wings, trying to work up enough wind to elevate itself off the ground until it found an air current. For yards around, the grass was flattened by the tremendous force of its flapping. A family of hares creeping from their hole were pressed to the ground, their long ears laid flat on the earth to either side of their heads. With a final ear-splitting screech of effort, Jatayu launched itself off the ledge, plummeting downwards like a boulder for several heart-stopping seconds before it found a small windwave and clung to it fiercely. The wave strengthened and it straightened out scant yards above the trail the sage had taken. With one more massive effort, it rode the wave out into the Sarayu valley. Airborne at last, it drifted for several minutes, climbing steadily higher to find a current flowing in the direction it wished to go. It saw the seven gates of Ayodhya far below, ringing the mortal

city like a set of concentric necklaces around a queen’s throat. The river Sarayu undulated like a silver cord through the lush valley. The magnificent palaces and mahals at the centre of the city straddled the roaring river with a variety of vaulting arches and inbuilt bridges in a large complex system of architecture. It was an amazing sight and Jatayu accepted grudgingly that it had never seen a mortal city as intricately designed as this one. So this was the great Ayodhya the Unconquerable. As it drifted on a strong up-current that flowed parallel to the river, the sicklysweet odour of mortal flesh came clearly to its hunger-heightened senses. All the beauty and splendour of the magnificent Arya architecture was forgotten as its appetite was provoked again. To Jatayu, that was what this great city was ultimately: a giant feeding trough. Soon, it knew, its lord and master would beat down the proud walls of this so-called unconquerable city, and Jatayu and its kind would feast to their heart’s content. The giant man-vulture issued an ululating cry, mocking the city and its inhabitants and their puerile quest for immortality before riding the air current southwards to its distant destination. The sound that issued was a single word, split into three extended syllables by the bird-beast’s cry: ‘Ra-van-a!’

FIVE The guards on watch at the city walls below heard the cry of the bird-beast and started involuntarily. A grizzled veteran at the seventh gate glanced up and glimpsed the shockingly large silhouette that was sketched briefly against the deep-blue pre-dawn sky. ‘What in Shiva’s name was that?’ asked his companion, a much younger man, barely old enough to sport a beard. ‘Did you see the size of that thing? It must have a wingspan of at least twenty yards!’ The veteran shrugged. ‘Trick of the light. Like I told you before, this is the time of day you see the strangest things.’ The young guard stared at his companion. ‘But you must have seen it. It was right above us. It looked like a giant vulture. That round head, long hooked beak, that hunched back. But there was something odd about the body. It was broader than a bird, differently shaped, almost like a—’ ‘A man? A giant man-vulture, is that what it looked like, young novice?’ the older man responded sharply. ‘Exactly!’ The young soldier looked eagerly at his senior. ‘Then you saw it too?’ The old man hawked and spat over the rim of the stone wall. The gob of phlegm glistened in the light of the gate-lamps. He watched it splash into the still waters of the moat far below before he answered in a disinterested tone. ‘There are no giant man-vultures, boy. Not any more. A trick of the light is all

we saw. One sees strange things on purnima. The full moon dazzles the senses. Now, get your thoughts back on your work. It’s almost time to open the gates.’ Still the young guard pressed on. ‘But Somasra, you saw it too! It was a Garuda. Just like the ones in the frescoes at the War Museum. From the asura wars.’ The veteran snorted derisively, choosing not to reply. It was a silent message to the young novice to let the matter drop. First of all, the veteran thought to himself, if that thing they had glimpsed had indeed been a man-vulture, it would have been called a Jatayu. A Garuda was a man-eagle, the great flying mount of the devas and a holy icon. A Jatayu, on the other hand, was not man’s friend. But one of the failings of youth was that it tended to be slow to heed warnings, or heeded them too late. The novice spoke impetuously, ignoring the silent message. ‘You were there, Somasra. You fought in the Last War with my father. You’ve seen creatures like that before, haven’t you? How can you say they don’t exist?’ That was more than the veteran could take. He turned on his companion sharply. ‘Because they don’t, is why! You talk about the Last War? What do you know of it? You were not even a seed in your father’s gonads when the last asura war ended. That was twenty-two years ago this past Shravan. Who are you to speak of such things?’ The young soldier’s face turned sullen. He knew how sensitive the old veterans were about talking lightly of the old days

and old ways. His father had thrashed him once for simply repeating a playyard rhyme about rakshasas; he had been only seven at the time. He never made fun of asuras or the asura War ever again. Still, he knew what he had seen just now. And it was no ordinary bird. It was the old guard who spoke again, gruffly, after several minutes of tense silence. ‘What do you greenhorns know of asuras and suchlike? Giant manvultures? Jatayus? Jatayus, not Garudas, mind you!’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Aye, I fought with your father, shoulder to shoulder. If not for him, I would not be standing here manning this wall today. Your father was a good man, Vishnu take his atma. He and I saw enough beasts out of hell to last a hundred lifetimes. That’s why Maharaja Dasaratha formed the PFs, to give us veterans a regiment of our own. He almost disbanded the entire army, that’s how much he wanted to put the war behind him. We all did. Because some things are best forgotten.’ He stared into the distance, as if seeing straight into the past. He shuddered once, shook his head, and spat again into the moat. The young soldier spoke cautiously. ‘I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, Somasra. It’s thanks to you all that we live in times of peace today. I know that. Every Arya in the seven nations knows it.’ The veteran nodded once, acknowledging the apology. ‘You’re lucky, is what you are, to be born in the first time of peace since the rise of the Arya nations. But don’t just thank us PFs. Thank the good Maharaja Dasaratha. He was always at the forefront of the Arya armies, fighting right beside us, and it’s thanks to him and Maharaja Janak and the other clan-

chiefs that we were able to rid the land of the last asuras. Why, Dasaratha was away fighting so long, he was in his fortieth year by the time the wars ended, and he hadn’t even begun a family yet! Imagine that if you will! Most of us are grandparents by that age, and his queen, bless her atma, had not produced a single heir till then. Even after his return, it took another ten years and two more queens to give him his heirs. Truly, he gave his best years and best men to the cause. He planted the banyan tree of peace and prosperity beneath which we all shelter today.’ The young soldier nodded, abashed. ‘I must have seen a vulture, that’s all, and my imagination ran away with me. I’ve been listening to too many stories in the Veterans’ Inn, I guess.’ Somasra laughed, clapping the young man on the back almost hard enough to knock the novice off the wall and into the moat. ‘Stories are necessary, young youngun. Even the seers teach us that katha, the art of story, is the food and drink of an intelligent mind. But that’s all the tales of the asura war are now. Stories. And may they always stay just that, Vishnu be praised.’ He looked up abruptly, squinting at the eastern sky. ‘Past gate-opening time. Move to it, greenhorn. Time enough for stories and wine when the shift’s ended.’ He winked, his grizzled features a grey shadow in the dusky dimness. ‘You want Jatayus? I’ll tell you a story about Jatayus that’ll turn your blood to icemelt, over a matka of the maharaja’s bhaang at the Holi feast today. Now get back to work.’ The gates opened a few minutes later and the two mismatched guards had no time to discuss mythical giant vultures

again. They were busy working the heavy winch-wheel that lowered the enormous wooden gate. The gate also served as a bridge across the moat outside; when lowered fully, it spanned the fifteen-yard gap. The sound of it settling in its iron cradle was like a giant thumping his fist. Then they worked the levers that drained and refilled the moat with fresh water directly from the river. This was done weekly to avoid diseases breeding in the water. A small crowd was waiting outside the gate when it came down. The brief chatter between the two guards had delayed gate-opening by a few minutes. The other six gates had already opened and allowed in the travellers eager to enter Ayodhya. It was a motley bunch. Mostly bullockcarts carrying entire families from the outlying northern farms, children squealing excitedly at the thought of spending a feast day in the great city. A few Kshatriyas, professional armsmen, also arriving for the festival or simply passing through. A courier from Mithila, Ayodhya’s sister city in the eastern region of Kosala, with Maharaja Janak’s royal seal on his leather bag. A few Brahmins on foot or riding mules and asses, their enormous bellies murmuring at the promise of the feast ahead. A vendor leading three camels laden with bagfuls of rang, the brightly coloured powders used during the Holi festival. An assortment of street entertainers—a snake charmer, a family of acrobats carrying their paraphernalia, a rope climber, two jadugars, a flautist, a Shaivite self-flagellator wielding a fiveyard-long set of metal-tipped whips, a bear-and-monkey show-man. They were just the early birds. By sunrise, there would be an incessant flow of traffic into

Ayodhya. In recent years, it seemed as if every citizen in the kingdom of Kosala wanted to come to their capital city to avail themselves of the king’s openhouse policy of free food and drink to all for the day. Holi was the biggest festival day of the Arya year apart from Deepavali. And while Deepavali provided one last opportunity to celebrate and feast before the onset of winter, Holi marked the celebration of the first day of spring. A new beginning to a new harvest year. The two seventh-gate guards watched the ragged caravan of travellers trundle excitedly through the open gates. It was Somasra’s ageing but still sharp eyes that saw the figure in the thick of the crowd, a tall white-bearded man clad in the redochre robes of a seer, carrying a wildwood staff. Somasra peered at the seer and blinked, startled. The crowd cleared, turning right and left as their business took them, and for a moment the seer was clearly visible, illuminated in the flickering torchlight from the mashaals bordering the gate. He strode purposefully into the city, heading up Harishchandra Avenue. Somasra rubbed his eyes, unable to believe he was seeing right. If his eyesight hadn’t failed him at last, then that old seer over there, now already several dozen yards down the main street of Ayodhya, was none other than the legendary seer-mage Brahmarishi Vishwamitra himself. The famous likeness was unmistakable, a mirror image of the huge portrait in the Seers’ Gallery. But how could it possibly be Vishwamitra? The great seer hadn’t been seen by human eyes in over . . . how many years was it? Two hundred? Two hundred and fifty?

Several minutes later, while Somasra was still trying to decide whether he had seen correctly, the real Vishwamitra, still disguised as a sudra hunter, strode through the gate, following the same route as the impostor who had assumed his form. This time, even Somasra’s alert vision failed to recognise the visitor.

SIX Manthara hated her own shadow. It was one thing to be a hunchback and quite another to see the deformed evidence of her own misshapen form projected ten times lifesize on to a wall. But the serving girl holding the mashaal had been slow in getting out of the carriage after her, and was following Manthara when she should have been ahead of her. The flickering flames of the backlight sent Manthara’s shadow fleeing ahead of her, dancing across the cobbled street then up the wall that marked the end of the blind alley. At this dark hour, after yet another sleepless night in a succession of sleepless nights spent in anxious anticipation, the sight was more than Manthara could bear. She turned abruptly to face the startled serving girl and laid her hand across the wretch’s face. The girl cried out, whimpering, but kept her hold on the mashaal. Even in the flickering glow, the marks of Manthara’s long bony fingers stood out as clearly as lashes on the girl’s pale young cheeks. She stared wide-eyed, not knowing what her error had been, and Manthara didn’t bother to inform her. She had already turned back and was shuffling the last yards to the door at the end of the alley. Manthara paused for a moment to listen for the sounds of the night patrol. But her sharp ears heard nothing except the faint sound of the seventh gate being lowered with a booming like distant thunder. It was getting dangerously late. She must return to the palace before the change of guards which took place at dawn. She raised her hand to knock on the door but it opened even before her knuckles fell on the battered and scarred

wood. A short dark figure clad in a flowing black chaddar gestured her in impatiently. She entered a small room dimly lit by a foul-smelling pair of candles and sparsely furnished. The serving girl followed her, extinguishing the mashaal as usual. The walls of the windowless room were painted black and appeared bare of any decoration, but Manthara knew from past experience that when illuminated by a violet light, phosphorescent writing would be revealed, covering virtually every square inch of those apparently blank surfaces. Forbidden tantric symbols in a tribal dialect long since forgotten by most Aryas, pagan markings from a primitive age when the thousands of deities in the Vedic pantheon were regarded not as manifestations of the One True God but as individual gods in their own right, a polytheistic outlook that was considered blasphemy in these civilised times. Even worse, these wall markings professed allegiance to the darkest and most forbidden of those ancient deities. Not the benign and just devas that civilised Aryas worshipped, but the primordial spirit-lords that the asura races bowed to—and a few discontented Aryas like Manthara herself. Manthara herself was shrewd enough to keep her worship of asura gods a secret; there were no blasphemous symbols painted on her walls, in phosphorescent paint or otherwise. Even her yagna chamber was secret, unknown to even her mistress and ward, Second Queen Kaikeyi. By painting his walls with such symbols, this tawdry tantric was inviting trouble. The kind of trouble that came dressed in the purple and black uniform of the Purana Wafadars whose job it was, among other things, to seek out and arrest such demon-worshippers. She turned to the man. ‘Do you have

what I need?’ He didn’t reply. He rarely talked, this one. Most tantrics affected that posture in the belief that it gave them an aura of great wisdom. Manthara didn’t care. She didn’t have much to say to him anyway, and there was nothing he could say that she would want to hear. He went over to the far end of the room, bent down and picked up a gunnysack filled with something heavy. Dragging it across the room, he dumped it at her feet. A subdued moan issued from the coarse jute sack and faint movements caused it to billow outward. The tantric frowned, looked around, picked up a short wedge of wood, bent down and clubbed a rounded bulge that was distending the mouth end of the sack. At the unmistakable sound of wood striking bone, the moaning and agitated movements subsided. Satisfied, the tantric dropped the makeshift club and stood, dusting his hands. Behind Manthara, the serving girl gasped out a brief prayer for forgiveness to the Mother Deity Sri. She was forever offering prayers to the Devi, despite Manthara’s specific orders forbidding her. She would have to be reminded later. Manthara unknotted the calf’sleather purse that she wore at her waist and fished out the coins she owed the tantric. He reached out silently for the rupees but she held them clutched in her fist a moment longer. His eyes registered the delay and rose slowly to meet her own. She realised at once that the man was under the influence of some drug. Ganja, most likely. Tantrics always seemed to favour ganja for some reason. She wrinkled her face with distaste. She

disapproved of drugs and intoxicants; they made one careless, and when employed in such undertakings, a careless man was a dead man. She held the money back, bitterly aware of how easily this wretched fool could ruin everything. She questioned him sharply. ‘Were you seen or heard?’ He stared dully at her, his black pupils dilated far more than warranted by the dim light. She waited. He shook his head at last. She gestured at the gunnysack. ‘He will not be missed?’ She waited another eternity for another dumb shake of his head. ‘He was an orphan like the others? Taken from an anarthashram like the five before him? No parents or known relatives?’ Another shake of the head. ‘And yet you made sure he was a born Brahmin, with his naming ceremony and thread ceremony performed correctly, as well as his coming-of-age ceremony performed in the past week, just like the other boys before him?’ A longer pause this time, followed by an up-down affirmative nod. ‘And nobody has questioned you about any of the earlier disappearances? You haven’t talked to anyone about any of these kidnappings, or about your dealings with me at all? No PFs sniffing

around asking funny questions?’ He seemed unsure whether that required a shake or a nod. He settled for moving his head diagonally. His eyes had drifted down to her fist, still clenched tightly around the six silver coins, one for each year of the boy’s age. She wasn’t satisfied. Far from it. But if he had been stupid or overtly careless, she wouldn’t be standing here bantering right now; PFs would be breaking down the door and hauling them all away to the maharaja’s dungeons. And he had delivered a half-dozen Brahmin boys to her thus far. It wasn’t easy to find someone to kidnap a fresh six-year-old boy every month in a city as priggishly self-righteous as Ayodhya. Even the outlaws and waylayers she had interviewed over the years balked once they learned what was to become of the boys, spitting viciously at her feet. She didn’t understand how murderers and thieves could claim to be so righteous, but that was Arya morality for you. She had found this tantric after great effort and risk. But now, she realised, she had dealt with him once too often. He knew too much of her affairs. With the great day so close at hand, that much knowledge could be dangerous to her. Yes, she decided, she would have to make sure he didn’t have an opportunity to share his knowledge with anyone else. She had come much too far to be thwarted now by a pathetic bhaangaddled tantric who thought that a few painted symbols were sufficient to show his devotion to the Dark Lord. The sound of him clearing his throat distracted her from her thoughts. She

realised she was still holding the money and her work here was finished. Move, Manthara. It will be daybreak soon. There’s much to be accomplished today, and it can’t be done standing around in this stupid man’s shack. ‘Here,’ she said disdainfully, holding out the money. To her surprise, he didn’t take it. Instead, he raised his eyes to look at her. Insolently. ‘You promised,’ he said. His voice was hoarse and cracked. It told her that he took his ganja through a hookah rather than through a chillum. She frowned. ‘Yes, I promised six silvers. Here they are. Take them quickly. I am in a hurry.’ He shook his head, straining to express himself better. Speaking in a dialect of commonspeak so chopped and garbled as to be almost incomprehensible. No wonder he didn’t talk much. ‘Promised, I join you. This yagna. Dark Lord, welcome, into Ayodhya.’ She stared at him. Had she promised this lout that she would let him aid her in performing her yagna? How did he know that this was the crucial rite, the penultimate sacrifice with which she would welcome her lord on the eve of His entry into Ayodhya? Why in the three worlds would she have revealed this much to a ganja-addicted tantric? Then she remembered. It had been his insistence, not her revelation. He had guessed without being told. Had put two and two together over the months—it wasn’t hard, given the task she had hired

him to do—and had added rumour, dark gossip, and word brought by tantrics from the Southwoods of strange developments afoot. He had come up with this smart but wholly logical conclusion: that she was a worshipper of the Dark Lord of Lanka, who demanded the sacrifice of a threaded Brahmin boy at every interface, and who was prophesied to rise from his ignominious failure in the last asura war and launch a great new campaign of conquest. Starting with the invasion of Ayodhya. Yes, she recalled how eagerly, excitedly, nervously this fool had blurted out his findings and eventual conclusion at their last exchange, and how impatiently she had waved him away, hardly caring whether he thought she was agreeing to his requests or simply dismissing him. She hadn’t expected the wretch to have the gumption to actually follow up that ill-voiced demand. And yet here he was, voicing it again, mumbling on in his fractured ganjascattered syntax about how his talents and hers would make a perfect union of yoni and lingam shakti, the meshing of female and male energies that resulted in the perfect circle of tantric power. How they would form a new order together, the Order of Lanka, and after the Dark Lord’s arrival, they would preside as the high priest and priestess of their new religion. She resisted the urge to laugh aloud at his impudence. High priest and priestess indeed! This fool would drop dead with terror if the Dark Lord appeared before him even for an instant. And did he really think that by helping feed her sacrificial fire with a few young Brahmin boys—for which he had been well

paid—he had earned the right to make these ludicrous demands? Really, the human capacity for arrogance was only exceeded by its capacity for ignorance. Arrogant, ignorant gaddha! Sensing that he wasn’t getting through to her quite as effectively as he desired, the tantric stopped his rambling and looked at her dully. He was waiting for her response. She surprised him by smiling warmly. Or as warmly as her wizened, paralysisstricken right side allowed. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘you have great vidya, great kala. This knowledge and art would be an immense aid to me in my rituals. The Dark Lord desires acolytes such as yourself to join His cause. We are islanded here in the midst of these deva-worshipping hordes, tiny isolated islets in an ocean of wretched Brahman. We must join together and ensure our lord’s victory.’ She paused, opening her purse and reaching into it once more. ‘As recognition of our new alliance, I offer you in our lord’s name this special dispensation. Use it as you see fit to recruit new acolytes to His cause. There is much, much more where this came from. The Dark Lord knows how easily these mortals are seduced by the lure of gold. Keep as much as you think fit as your own reward. You have served Him well and He is greatly pleased.’ She held out a handful of gold and silver rupees that would be enough to purchase a comfortable house in the upper avenues of Ayodhya. His pupils dilated even more as he stared roundly at the small fortune in her fist. His throat jumped as he swallowed, and he nodded

dumbly, acquiescing. He held out his hands, cupped together, to receive the lavish payment, probably more money than he had ever seen in all his wretched life. She turned her hand to drop the coins into his open palms, then pretended to lurch sideways, spilling the money across the floor. It jangled and clanked and rolled in several directions at once. He stared dully at the coins for a moment, then dropped hard to his knees and began scrambling around frantically. Manthara watched him for a moment, then she parted the folds of her thick robe and pulled out the long curved dagger she had sheathed in a specially made leather-lined pocket. She had poured several drops of a potion of her own making into the sheath before sliding the dagger in before she left the palace a half-hour ago, a precaution she took whenever she went on one of these illicit nocturnal forays. As she exposed the dagger to the smoky candlelight, the tip of the wavy blade gleamed yellowishgreen with the lethal poison. She gripped the dagger’s hilt tightly in both hands, the double-grip ensuring a steadier stance with her deformity. Then she bent and struck the tantric on the back of his neck with the dagger. Just a prick, barely enough to break the skin. He seemed not to feel it at first, still pawing the floor in search of his lost reward. Then, after a moment, he stopped, grew still, and slowly reached up to touch the back of his neck. The tiniest spot of blood came away on a fingertip. He stared at it for an instant, then put the fingertip in his mouth, sucking. Slow recognition dawned on his scrawny features. He started to raise his eyes, seeking out Manthara. Before he

could find her, the poison—admitted through his blood as well as through his mouth by now—took effect. His nerves spasmed and he fell face-down on the floor, the coins he had managed to gather falling again noisily. Manthara watched his death throes for a moment, then turned to the serving girl. Her face had turned as white as a Brahmin’s dhoti. She was pressed back against the door, as if trying to melt into the wood and disappear. ‘Take the bag to the carriage,’ Manthara said harshly. ‘Make sure the footmen don’t know what it contains. Place it in the usual khazana box inside. Carefully. You bruised the last one.’ The serving girl looked as if she would bolt. Her hand crept down to the door latch. But at the last moment, her eyes returned to the spasming, choking tantric on the ground and she remembered the fate that befell those who crossed Manthara. She darted forward, picked up the gunnysack, threw it over her shoulder like a bag of potatoes, and preceded Manthara out of the door. Manthara stayed a moment, surveying the foul-smelling candle-lit room. There was something here that could be used to her advantage. There was always something. She pulled a scarf from within the folds of her robe, an anonymous silk garment used by the titled and untitled queens alike in the maharaja’s palace—but only by them. With a smile as sly as a mongoose toying with a cobra, she reached down and placed it in the dead tantric’s fist, as if he had snatched at his assailant in his last moment. There. That would fox his fellow tantrics, give them something to get worked up about. Anger could be

useful. Leaving the shack, she was caught unawares by the brightness. She raised her deformed right hand, snarling. The wretched purnima moon. Full and bloated as a pregnant witch, it glared down at her, omniscient and grim as a judge. In her clan, Chandramukhi, the moon deity, had been a revered and feared totem. All clan panchayat judgements had been passed on purnima nights like this one. Even though her loyalties had changed long since, it was difficult to shrug off the instinctive fear drummed in by those youthful rituals. She drew the cowl of the robe over her head and walked as quickly as her hunchbacked gait would permit. Her moon-cast shadow danced before her all the way down the alley, mocking her silently. She spat on it before climbing into the carriage and kept the drapes drawn tight all the way back to the maharaja’s palace.

KAAND 1

ONE ‘Kausalya!’ The winding corridors of the First Queen’s Palace reverberated with the booming voice. The female guards at the entrance goggled at the large barrelchested man striding towards them, then hurriedly lowered their spears and bowed to their king. Men were forbidden in the First Queen’s Palace, with only one exception. Maharaja Dasaratha, ruler of the kingdom of Kosala, was that solitary exception, yet it had been so long since he had last entered these chambers that some of the female attendants stirring sleepily or peeping through silk curtains and ornately filigreed panels took several startled moments to identify the loudvoiced visitor. Some scrambled to cover their modesty with whatever was at hand—satin cushions, a billowing drape, a silver flower vase—while others deliberately flaunted their nudity, seeking to attract the eyes of the maharaja by posturing coyly in doorways and on luxurious shaasan. They knew that apart from the three queens in their individual palaces, there were three hundred and fifty more wives in the king’s palace. Yet it never hurt to try. But the maharaja’s eyes did not stray to those distracting feminine bodies or those alluring almond-shaped eyes. He strode through the First Queen’s Palace with an energetic gait that belied his considerable bulk and age. ‘Kausalya,’ he called again. The calling was more by way of giving her advance warning of his approach. It had been a long time since he had come to these chambers and he covered up his anxiety and nervousness with bluster and

authority. It was an effective disguise; to the startled serving girls, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to see the maharaja striding through the palace, calling his maharani. He passed through the last of the forerooms and emerged into a small chaukat, a square without a roof. Glancing up at the sky as he stepped around the delicate sculptures and the marble fountain in the centre of the chaukat, he saw that dawn was just breaking, turning the sky several shades of purple. A soft dewy precipitation made the air cool and fragrant here, carrying the aroma of the first queen’s famous gulmohur gardens. He glanced nostalgically at the statue of Kama that towered above the fountain and the lotus pool, smiling wistfully at the sugarcane bow and flower-arrow held daintily in the marble god’s chubby hands. He remembered when Kausalya had first installed this fountain, showing it off with great pride—she had personally conceived the whole arrangement, as she had the interiors of most of her palace. He had watched wonder-struck, holding her in his arms at the base of this very fountain, beneath the midnight-blue sky of a Varsha night, as a gentle drizzle fell on them. Seventeen long years separated that day from this one. And yet, the sight of the fountain brought back the memory as clearly as if it had been just days ago. ‘Kausalya,’ he called again, gently this time, as he passed into the inner chambers. A young serving girl, lying on a shaasan squealed and sprang to her feet, then froze, wide-eyed as a doe before a chariot, transfixed by the sight of her king bearing down on her. Dasaratha put a hand out, gripping the girl gently by the shoulder—and moved

her aside gently. His elbow brushed her as he passed her, and he heard her emit a tiny gasp. He walked on without a backward glance. He noted the distinct change in decor as he entered his queen’s private chambers. A muted, almost sombre effect achieved through sober colours and exquisitely chosen furnishings and artefacts displayed at perfect aesthetic intervals. Even the mashaal stands and candelabra were arranged artistically, their fluted vents designed to conceal their true purpose, which was simply to provide an upward exit for the smoke and heat of the flames. He shook his head wryly as he trod carelessly over intricately embroidered eastern carpets without even noticing their unusual weaves and patterns. It was like stepping through a doorway between ages, back into the past. He paused, struck by the sensations coursing through his body. Once he had spent almost every single waking hour in these chambers, and all his sleeping ones. It was startling to see how little it had changed. The chamber was empty. He was about to turn away, about to look elsewhere for Kausalya, when something caught his eye. The flash of a familiar face at the far end of the room. There, by the window, in an alcove where the flickering light of the mashaal barely reached. It drew him like an apsara drawing a traveller to her enticing embrace. It was a portrait of Kausalya and himself. From back then. He winced at the difference between himself then and now, the slender, tautly muscled limbs that had thickened and softened, the torso that had seemed sculpted and so

sharply masculine then and was now filled out and almost rounded, the face that was so clear and bright with ambition then, now turned dark and fleshy, the hair . . . Enough, enough. Bad enough that his physicians berated him constantly for his excess weight and lack of exercise; he didn’t need a picture from the past to rub salt into the wounds. At sixty-three years of age, physical appearance was the least of his concerns. But he could stand to look at Kausalya a moment longer. Or an eternity. Her beauty still took his breath away. He reached out, compelled to touch that soft face, that smooth cheek unlined by years of care, childbearing and motherhood. She was a picture of Arya perfection: doe-eyed, raven-haired, wheat-complexioned, delicately featured, small-limbed, large-breasted . . . In her carefree smile, he could see himself, young, strong, unaffected by these mystery ailments and unaccountable fainting spells. The sound of bells brought him out of his reverie. He turned with a rustling of his silk dhoti to see Kausalya, a pooja thali in her hands, standing in the doorway of her bedchamber. Unlike his own weary, illness-plagued body, Kausalya’s beauty had matured like a ripening mango, swelling just enough to enhance her femininity. And her eyes, those deep dark eyes he had once swore he could see his soul mirrored in, those eyes were still the same. Still smouldering. Except that right now, at the sight of him standing uninvited in her private bedchamber, they were closer to blazing. ‘Ayodhya-naresh,’ she said, using his formal title. ‘What brings you to this forlorn part of the city?’

He grimaced as the barb struck home. The First Queen’s Palace was right beside his own, linked by a common corridor, no more than a few hundred yards away. ‘It’s good to see you haven’t lost your wit, Kausalya,’ he said, walking towards her. ‘Nor your sense of dharma.’ The second comment was directed at the pooja thali in her hands. She raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. ‘Dharma, my lord? A big word to use for a small act of daily habit. Surely all your queens begin their day by offering a few basic prayers to the ancestors, the gods, and to their lord and master? No decent married woman in Kosala would do any less.’ He shifted his gaze, pretending to examine the view through a latticed window. The dawn was just breaking and he could glimpse the neatly arrayed rows of flowers and smell the strong, arousing odour of jasmine, always her favourite. He knew her comment was directed at the fact that his second queen, Kaikeyi, was more likely to be sleeping at this hour than performing the ritual dawn prayer. He resisted the provocation in the comment with a small effort. It had been a long time since anyone had dared to rebuke or taunt him. ‘Kausalya,’ he tried again, ‘how have you been, my queen? I trust all is well with you? You do not want for anything?’ He tried to put as much sincerity as possible into his voice, to sound suitably regal and king-like to deflect any further arrows of sarcasm. But she was not done yet. Barely begun.

Her still lovely face twisted slightly in a small moue of mock surprise. ‘Me, great naresh?’ she said, using the Sanskrit word for lord this time— anything but his first name, he noted. ‘What is there about me that could possibly interest you any longer?’ He smiled with an effort. ‘Come, come now. You know that you are my first queen, my first bride.’ He gestured at the large empty bed that dominated the chamber. ‘We have shared so many happy nights here on this playground of pleasure.’ ‘And we do so no more.’ The rebuke was as sharp and brief as a whip-crack. His smile faded. ‘Let me come to the point. I came here this morning because—’ She shook her head. ‘Not yet, my king. Not all your wives may be as diligent in their duties, but I was brought up better than that. There are traditions to be followed.’ Before he could protest, she clapped her hands. A serving girl, perhaps the same one he had passed in the hallway outside, appeared instantly, bowing low enough to almost strike her forehead on the floor. She had clothes on now, but he didn’t notice. ‘Arghya,’ Kausalya said, and the girl scuttled away, returning at once with a large metal bowl and jug of water. He sighed as he took the seat Kausalya indicated. ‘My queen, this is ridiculous. Arghya is done to greet a guest honouring your house with a rare visit. Not your own husband!’

She looked up from her crouched posture as she washed his feet. ‘I could name guests who have visited our house more often, raje.’ That one cut deep. He reached down and grasped her arms, stopping her in the act of wiping his feet dry with the end of her own sari pallo. ‘I have to speak to you on a matter of great importance. Dispense with these foolish games.’ She looked down at her hands. At his large hairy fists gripping her wrists, pressing her gold bracelets into her slender forearms. ‘You are truly a great king, Ayodhya-naresh. You visit your first wife’s chambers after such a long absence, and this is how you show your affection towards her.’ He released her wrists at once, stung with shame. Even if she had goaded him, it was his own guilt that had provoked his temper. He turned away, unable to look her in the eyes for a moment. He had been away from her for too long; had forgotten that she was not Kaikeyi. And now, in re-entering her little circle of power, he had granted her the opportunity to taunt him, rebuke him, make him feel as guilty as a young bridegroom stealing a kiss from his sister-in-law. He willed himself to stay calm. After all, he had been prepared for this when he made the decision to visit her this morning. Whatever the provocation now, he would stay within the bounds of chivalry. But her next words were completely unexpected, as was her tone. Her voice was gentle and soft and sincere. And it came from right beside him. Her hand

touched his bare arm and the very touch brought sense-memories flooding back. ‘Raje,’ she said, again using the affectionate ‘e’ suffix instead of the more formal ‘maharaja’. ‘I apologise if I spoke harshly. It has been a long time since you graced me with your presence. I have been so long in my own company, I seem to have forgotten how to behave in the presence of my king.’ He was startled to find his eyes turning moist. The nape of his neck creeping with shame. She went on. ‘Please, do me the honour of sitting with me in my akasa-chamber. Together we shall watch the new day dawn and you may speak your mind freely. I shall not forget the rules of royal hospitality again.’ He turned and gripped her shoulders so unexpectedly, so strongly, she gasped at first. Then she saw the look in his eyes. Not anger. Far from it. ‘Please,’ he said, making no attempt to sound regal any longer, ‘say no more. Not another word. I am ashamed enough as it is.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Raje?’ ‘Please. Believe me. I have never stopped loving you. Not a day, not an hour, not a moment has passed when I did not think of you.’ She stared. For once, Kausalya the silvertongued was at a loss for words. ‘I know,’ he went on, ‘that I acted foolishly, even cruelly. I neglected you without cause or reason, explanation or excuse. It is shameful in a Kshatriya,

unforgivable in a king. But even after I realised it, I did not know how to express my regret to you. How to make amends. Even the gurus are not so wise in matters of men and women, Kausalya.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I had no idea.’ He hung his head. ‘You do not know how many times I desired to come to you, to beseech you to forgive me. To let me start afresh.’ She looked at him as if seeing him now for the first time since he had entered her chambers. ‘You should have come. I would have forgiven you in a trice. If only you had come.’ ‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I should have come. But I had not the heart. You know, you alone know, how much I fear rejection. I hesitate to venture where I might not find certain victory. For grieving as I was—yes, that is the word, grieving for our lost love—I could not bear the thought of you turning me away, pushing me out. Then I should have been lost utterly.’ ‘How could I?’ she cried. ‘Turn you away? Push you out? You fool? You royal fool! I would have taken you in with open arms. I could never turn you away.’

that much you can be certain.’ They were both silent for several moments. Thinking of the nights they had lain awake in their respective beds, so near to one another, yet so emotionally distant. Longing, wanting, fearing. ‘I am a fool,’ he admitted. ‘An old fool now.’ She looked up anxiously. The deterioration in his health had been no secret around the palace. ‘Have you had more attacks? The royal vaids—’ He snorted. ‘The royal vaids find my ailment fascinating to study, and impossible to cure!’ He shook his head. ‘I am being uncharitable. They do their best, it is true. Yet even the great medical science of Ayurveda doesn’t have all the answers.’ He shrugged aside the topic brusquely. ‘We will speak of that later, I promise. But right now, I am better than I have been in years.’ He gestured wistfully at the portrait of his younger self. ‘Not what I was once. Never again that strength, that burning ambition, that war-lust, that—’ He coughed once. ‘But I feel good. Better than I have felt in a long time. Perhaps that is why I was able to find the strength to come to you at last.’

He stared at her. ‘Is it true then? Would you have forgiven me so easily?’

He looked at her, a gentleness in his moist eyes that was more than mere politeness. ‘And I thank the ancestors that I did.’

She looked down for a moment. There was a ragged edge to her voice when she spoke again. ‘Perhaps forgiveness would have taken a while. I am no devi, just a woman. A woman still trying to be a queen. But I would have let you stay. Of

She felt his gaze move down her face, to her breasts, her still slender waist, her flaring hips, her navel . . . He saw her fair almond-white complexion turn scarlet, the flush spreading from her cheeks to her throat . . . He moved closer.

‘Kausalya,’ he whispered in her ear. Her knees buckled and gave way. She slipped down, her sari rustling, bangles clinking against each other. She crumpled in a heap at his feet, boneless, breathless. He sighed and bent with an effort. He caught her hands and pulled her to her feet. She came easily, not resisting, and he caught a whiff of jasmine and was instantly flooded with memories. Of their first years together, their first nights, when there had been only she and he, no second or third queens, no three hundred and fifty other wives, just a young prince and his princess, lying on a flower-bedecked bed in the open chaukat beneath the stars. The jasmine brought that back with a suddenness that was all the more shocking because he had blocked out the memories for so long. She looked up at him with eyes that were as wide, as beautiful—no, far more beautiful—as the ones in the portrait. No amount of artistry could capture the way the light caught her eyes, this glowing inner flame that made her seem both angel and conquering warrior princess. It was as if the years had never passed, as if she had never borne a son, as if he had never lost interest in her and grown distant, as if . . . He shook his head and released her, stepping back. His bare feet trod on the edge of the arghya bowl and tipped it over, spilling water and making a clattering sound that echoed hollowly in the large chamber. Neither noticed or cared. He drew her to the bed. As he did, he saw her reach out and yank on a slender tasselled cord tied to a post of the bed. A

shower of cool, delicately scented rose petals coated the bed and their bodies. He was amazed. How many years had she waited, night after night, replenishing that cache of petals daily, for just this one moment when he would come to her again? He could not conceive of such infinite patience. He was astonished to find himself weeping with pleasure and pain both at once, the pleasure of her clasp and the pain of their long separation. He remembered then that he had not yet spoken to her of the real reason for his coming to visit her. Afterwards. He would afterwards.

tell

her

immediately

TWO Second Queen Kaikeyi was being murdered by a rakshas. The horned demon was sitting astride her chest, crushing her lungs with his bear-like bulk, hammering away at her head with his pounding paws, as rhythmically as a dhol-player at a Holi celebration. Bambam-bam-bam, pause, bam-bam-bambam, pause. He would have continued until her skull cracked open to spill out her brains but her thought of Holi seemed to interrupt his rhythm. He growled angrily and squeezed his thighs, making her ribs ache unspeakably. She struggled to open her eyes. Holi. What was it about the festival of Holi that had angered the rakshas? It was sometime soon, wasn’t it? She knew it was, because just the other day Manthara had told her that this was Bharat’s first Holi at home since the age of seven. Kaikeyi had been startled to hear this. She knew Bharat and his brothers had spent several years at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul, being schooled in God knows what. But they had been home for three seasons now, and it seemed like he had always been here with her. Had he really been away for eight years? Manthara couldn’t be mistaken, she was never mistaken. That was why Kaikeyi trusted her to decide everything for her. Where was Manthara now anyway? Why wasn’t she doing something about this damn rakshas sitting on her chest? And this head. Blessed Earth-Mother Sri. She wished the rakshas would just tear off her head and be done with it. Decapitation would be a blessed relief after this pounding. Then she might dare to open her eyes and resume her life

once more. Of course it might be awkward to pursue a normal life without a head. Although of course the great god Ganesha had managed fine with a baby elephant’s head. Perhaps she could have a doe’s head attached, or better still, a stag, one of those giant Nilgiri stags, ten feet high at the shoulder, antlers bristling menacingly. She could picture herself, standing naked, her neckline ragged and blood-smeared, with the head of a Nilgiri stag, proud and black-eyed, antlers rising like a bizarre crown. Interesting. In a strange gods-and-monsters kind of way. Like a mythic victim of a terrible curse. Arousing, like those strange paintings of twisted creatures she had once seen at a foreign merchant’s stall on the road to Janakpuri. ‘Kaikeyi!’ Or like those tribals she had watched performing that dance inspired by the forbidden shakti-pooja ritual. The dance had been so shockingly coarse, she had wondered what it would have been like to witness the ritual itself. Or even—bite your tongue—participate in it. The tribals had worn animal pelts, complete with heads and glassily staring eyes. That was how she would look if she had the head of a Nilgiri stag and the body of a woman, a perfect body like she used to have, before marriage, before motherhood, before living well and eating even better took their toll. What a formidable, terrifying, awe-inspiring thing she would be. ‘Kaikeyi, if you don’t wake up this instant, I will pour this ice-cold water on your head.’ And if she danced for Dasaratha then, really danced, not the cautious, precisely

choreographed natya performances designed for royal viewing but the wild abandoned frenzy of the Gandaharis or Kazakhs or Krygziks, then even his long ailing would not be able to suppress the urges he would feel. Yes, she would have that power over him once again. That sense of complete and utter control. ‘Kaikeyi, this is your last warning, girl. Next comes the water. Brace yourself.’ Why did the stupid hag always call her ‘girl’? Just because she had tended her since childhood. It was ludicrous to call her that at this age. She was a mother. A queen no less. And yet Manthara still treated her like she was nothing more than a snivelling, spoilt little— ‘Aaaah!’

water had started. Manthara’s use of foul language told her at once that something was seriously wrong; the hunchback wasn’t above using bad language to express herself at times, but when she addressed Kaikeyi in such terms, it always meant that Kaikeyi had made a serious mistake, one that had repercussions on her, Manthara’s, own life and fortunes. And while Manthara could overlook a mistake that affected Kaikeyi alone, she would never, ever forgive a mistake that affected herself. That was a lesson Kaikeyi had learned a very long time ago, as a girl barely tall enough to reach Manthara’s knee, staring up with large infant eyes at the hulking hunchbacked woman who had absolute power over her life and needs, or so it had seemed then.

‘Manthara,’ Kaikeyi spluttered, wiping water from her eyes. ‘You witch!’

Kaikeyi scooted to the far side of the bed, her miserable headache suddenly forgotten. Suddenly she was that little girl again, clinging fearfully to Manthara’s sari, completely at the mercy of her daiimaa. It had been years since Manthara had thrashed her physically but Kaikeyi suspected she intended to make up for lost time. She had that familiar diamond-bright gleam in her eyes and the part of her lower lip where her overhanging upper teeth rested was shiny with spittle.

Manthara’s grin widened. ‘Yes, me witch.’ She dropped the arghya jug with a clatter and shuffled forward, reached out with one wizened, claw-like hand. Slapping Kaikeyi once across each cheek, hard enough to sting. ‘And you hussy. Now wake up, and see where your master has gone while you slept the dawn away.’

Kaikeyi drew her knees up to her chest, crouching at the far edge of the large luxurious bed, watching Manthara with feral darting eyes. She didn’t know what she might have done to enrage her surrogate mother-cum-nanny but she didn’t intend to sit still and accept whatever new brutality Manthara was planning to dish out.

Kaikeyi blinked rapidly, the slaps completing the wake-up process the

To her surprise, Manthara’s next words were a question, not the string of four-

She sat up in bed, opening her eyes to a watery hell. No, not hell, for hell would be hot and blazing. This was cold, ice cold, and the stupid hag had splashed it across her face and her chest— she still had the jug in her hand, as she stood there, grinning her crooked-toothed grin—like she was washing down a horse or, or, or . . .

letter words she’d expected. ‘How long is it since he came to you?’ Kaikeyi rose to her knees and stared suspiciously at Manthara, wiping away the water seeping from her drenched tresses into her eyes. ‘Who?’ The hunchback snorted. ‘Who? Foolish woman, your husband. The King of Kosala, master of Ayodhya, Maharaja Dasaratha, who else? How many other men do you share your bed with?’ Kaikeyi wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a real question or a rhetorical one. She had never been good with subtlety and the pounding in her skull had only become worse. Oh, what cheap brew had that lout at the inn poured into her cup last night? She held her head in her hands and struggled to frame a good answer instead. What was the question again? Ah yes, how long had it been since Dasaratha had visited her bed? Good question. How long had it been? ‘I don’t know,’ she replied at last, truthfully for once. ‘A long time. Maybe a year, maybe longer.’ Manthara nodded thoughtfully, setting the jug down on a chaupat table— Kaikeyi never actually played the game, but Dasaratha sometimes did. Several pieces—an elephant, a rook, and a few foot-soldiers—tumbled off the squarish board and clattered on the floor. ‘That was what I thought. Naturally, I assumed it was because of his health. An ailing septuagenarian does not desire physical intimacy as frequently as a robust young man.’ Manthara wagged a finger. ‘But you can never tell with men. They often feign

weakness only to conserve their lustful energies for other, newer conquests.’ Her face twisted in a snarl. ‘I was fooled just as you were, believing his health kept him from your bed. Now, I see, he’s had his own agenda, the shrewd bastard.’ Kaikeyi’s eyes widened. Manthara’s abusive outbursts had never included the maharaja before. She shuddered. Whatever this was about, it was something she didn’t want to deal with right now. Not with a splitting headache. The old hunchback went on sharply, ‘What are you gaping at, girl? Standing around here won’t do us any good. We have to find out what the old man is up to, and quickly. Get dressed, Kaikeyi.’ She gestured at the suit of clothes she had placed on a couch. ‘Go on then. Jaldi! There’s work to be done.’ Kaikeyi did as she was told without argument. She had endured a lifetime of such bossing about, being told what to wear, what to say, how to say it, what to do and when and to whom. It was almost a relief to fall into this easy obedience. As she wiped the water from her face—this was to be the extent of her morning ablutions today, it seemed—she glanced repeatedly at Manthara, trying to read the daiimaa’s mood more clearly. Manthara stared at a diya beside the bed, her eyes fixed directly on the flickering flame. ‘What happened?’ Kaikeyi asked as she stripped off the loincloth in which she had slept and put on a fresh one. ‘Why are you asking about Dasaratha? What

did he do?’ Manthara’s attention remained on the lamp, her small glassy pupils transformed into tiny pinpoints of yellow fire by the twin reflections of the diya’s flame. Kaikeyi wrapped the sari around her waist with quick, practised efficiency. ‘Manthara,’ she said, starting to feel really scared now, ‘what’s wrong? Talk to me, won’t you?’ Manthara looked up at last. The reflected diya flame in her eyes seemed red now, deep fiery ochre, the colour of blood, if blood could flow upwards like a flame. ‘The maharaja is in the first queen’s bedroom,’ she said. Kaikeyi paused in mid-fold, one hand at her hip, the other holding the bunched material at waist-height. She stared at Manthara, trying to absorb the implications of her words. It must be a joke. Dasaratha hadn’t entered Kausalya’s chambers in years! Except . . . except . . . Manthara never joked. ‘Doing what?’ Her voice screeched on the second word. Manthara’s face twisted in another grimace of disgust. ‘Doing what men do to women.’ Kaikeyi started. Whatever she had been expecting or fearing, this was not it. ‘But . . .’ she began, confused and bewildered. She looked around, found the silver lota of water kept on her bedside table, picked it up and downed it in one long swallow. Her tongue worked again, although her throat still felt desert dry. ‘But why? Why her? I mean . . . I thought . . . You said he was too ill to . .

.’ The implication struck her like a sledgehammer. A surge of anger rose like bile in her throat. ‘Why her, Manthara? Dammit! Why her?’ Manthara looked at her grimly. With the flames dancing in her eyes, she eerily resembled the rakshas in Kaikeyi’s dream. ‘That’s what we have to find out, you stupid woman.’

THREE Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra saw Guru Vashishta levitating a moment before he entered the yoga chamber. He glimpsed the guru’s white-clad longbearded form between the closely bunched stone pillars that ringed the central chaukat. And for one startled moment, he could have sworn the guru was levitating. Not very high, perhaps just a foot or so—but rising steadily, definitely rising—above the ground. Sumantra’s view was blocked for an instant, just a fraction of a second as he rounded the last pillar, but when he reached the chaukat, the guru was firmly seated on the ground, eyes half-shut in the classic yoga-nidra asana of deep transcendental meditation. If it had been anyone else, Sumantra would have thought he’d imagined it and put it out of his mind at once. He was a scientific man, the most pragmatic prime minister the kingdom had ever had. Not given to tales of the Seven Seers and their fantastic mastery of Brahman sorcery. But he had never known quite what to make of Guru Vashishta. After all, the brahmarishi was a legend among legends. It was said he had been ordained by the Creator, mighty Brahma himself. Even Sumantra’s pragmatic outlook faltered momentarily before such a reputation. ‘Namaskar, gurudev.’ His message delivered, the prime minister carefully kept his gaze directed at the guru’s feet, waiting silently for the sage’s response. Vashishta remained in the lotus posture for a few moments longer, his eyes shut, breathing slowed to the point of stasis. Out of the corner of his eye, Sumantra imagined he could glimpse a faint bluish tint to the sage’s white dhoti. Even the

guru’s toenails seemed to glow briefly with the electric-blue tint. Sumantra blinked. The blue tint was gone. The dhoti’s edge was pristine, white as a sesa rabbit and spotless. He swallowed and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Perhaps he needed to have the royal vaids check his vision once more. He heard the the sage’s breathing gradually assume a more normal rhythm. He sensed rather than saw the sage’s eyes opening. ‘Kaho, Sumantra.’ The prime minister glanced up, startled. The guru’s voice had seemed to come from within his brain itself, rather than from his lips. There was a faint hint of a twinkle in the brahmarishi’s eyes as he gazed serenely at Sumantra. And for an instant, Sumantra thought he glimpsed a faint sizzle of electric blue, like two very tiny bolts of blue lightning, within the orb of the seer’s pupils. Sumantra blinked twice and they were gone. ‘Kaho, Pradhan-Mantri. Kya samasya hain?’ Speak, Prime Minister. What seems to be the problem? Sumantra bowed his head, admonishing himself for giving in to his imagination once again. This always seemed to happen when he met Vashishta alone: it was as if the seer-mage was secretly toying with him, testing the limits of his scientific rationality. ‘Shama, mahadev. Forgive me for interrupting your sacred meditation. There is a visitor who wishes to have your audience at once. Normally, I

would have told any visitor to come back at a more suitable time, but this is no ordinary lord or lady seeking your ashirwaad.’ ‘Who is it then? Speak, noble Sumantra.’

‘Sumantra? Aakhir samasya kya hai?’ he said with no trace of impatience. What exactly is the problem? ‘Guruji, the maharaja is not in his chambers.’

Sumantra could contain his excitement no longer. ‘Mahadev, it is none other than the great sage Vishwamitra himself! The famed seer-mage in person! He is standing at the gate of the royal palace, refusing to take a step inside. He says he cannot enter until invited by the lord of the abode. I pray I did nothing to offend him. I rushed directly here to inform you.’

‘So? You must know where he is then. You always know, Sumantra. You are the eyes, ears and conscience of the throne.’

‘You did the right thing as always, Sumantra.’ Guru Vashishta was as calm as Sumantra was excited. ‘Now you must go and inform the maharaja. Protocol demands that he and I must both go to the gate and welcome this illustrious visitor with all due formality. You understand what an honour this is. Vishwamitra has been in the deep forest, meditating for a great length of time. If he has interrupted his meditation, there must be a very good reason. It is imperative that all the necessary traditions and rituals be followed to the last detail. Go quickly and fetch Maharaja Dasaratha. I will make the other arrangements and meet you both in the foyer in a few minutes.’ Sumantra was not a nervous man and matters of protocol were his daily bread and butter, but he had never been confronted with the dilemma he was in right now.

Sumantra raised his eyes reluctantly.

‘Mahadev, the maharaja . . .’ He paused, considering how to phrase the rest of the sentence. Vashishta saw the expression on his face.

Sumantra nodded. ‘Yes, I have an idea where he might be.’ When the mantri did not go on, Vashishta asked with infinite patience: ‘Sumantra, where is the king?’

‘Guruji, the maharaja is with First Queen Kausalya in her private sleeping chambers.’ The slight emphasis he placed on the word with left no doubt as to his meaning. ‘For the first time in fifteen years.’ There was silence for a minute. Then, slowly, like the first flush of dawn creeping across the benighted sky, a smile appeared on the face of the mahaguru.

FOUR Dasaratha and Kausalya reclined on comfortable cushioned floor-mats in the first queen’s beautifully designed akasachamber. The room was perfectly circular, with an enormous domed roof that filled his entire field of vision when he lay back and looked up. The dome was made of the finest, most translucent glass in the kingdom, so flawless he could see the first flush of dawn spread across the eastern sky as clearly as if he had been lying on a grass mound out of doors. In fact, he mused, when he was young, akasa-chambers were not furnished. Their floors were carpeted daily with freshly scythed kusa grass, soft and dew-dampened, still smelling of earth. ‘Raje.’ Kausalya’s gentle voice roused him from his daydream. Dasaratha raised himself on his elbow and looked at his queen. She looked contented and sleepy-eyed after their time together. Kausalya was a traditional Arya woman, brought up never to reveal her desires, yet not constrained from enjoying them when a legitimate opportunity presented itself. She was pleased by their joining, he saw, and her pleasure gave him pleasure. With Kaikeyi, his second queen, it was always a challenge. To see who could outdo whom, in what exotic manner. Almost a circus. And with Sumitra, his docile youngest wife, the third queen, it was like lying with a naïve gandharva, a forest nymph, so innocent and guileless was she, almost to the point of being unexciting. And with his other wives, it was only the sport of Kama. But this . . . what he felt now, lying in this state of bliss in the akasa-chamber,

staring up at the new day washing the sky clean and preparing to paint a gorgeous sunrise, the first spring sunrise of the year, he felt . . . at home. It had been a long time since he had felt this good. ‘Much as I would love you to come to me every day like this,’ she said softly in his ear, ‘you did mention something you wished to discuss with me. What was it?’ He smiled up at her. ‘Yes, my rani. I do indeed have something of great importance to tell you. But any discussion about it will have to wait for later. Already I have spent almost an hour in your beguiling embrace. Much as I hate to leave your company, our good Sumantra and mahaguru Vashishta will already be seeking me out. And in another hour or two, the festival celebrations will begin in earnest and then the usual endless queue of court nobility and well-wishers will start arriving with their rang thalis.’ What he said was true. It was customary to visit a colleague or superior’s house on Holi and apply a little rang on their face; in Dasaratha’s case, all of Ayodhya looked upon it as a golden opportunity to share a rare moment of friendly intimacy with their king. Kausalya smiled at the mention of the rang thalis. She remembered nights spent massaging him with warm, gently scented coconut oil to cleanse the rang stains and soothe his tired nerves. Behind the public pomp and ceremony of the maharaja’s throne, there were a million such private inconveniences. She touched his arm affectionately, stroking the curling silver growth that sprouted thickly along the back of his

hand. ‘Dasa, just tell me what’s on your mind.’ He took his first queen’s hand in his own and looked into her eyes. He wanted to see her initial, most natural reaction. He was not a great patron of the performing arts—to him hunting wild boar was a sport, not dancing with silver bells attached to one’s feet—but he was a great observer of human behaviour, a necessary skill for anyone dealing with the machinations and politics of high office, and he had considerable ability in reading human faces and reactions, particularly at unguarded moments. He spoke in an almost flat tone, denuding his voice of all stresses or emotions. He could have been asking her to bring him a paan, specifying what supari he wanted in it and whether he wished the betelnut flaked, cut or sweetened. ‘Today, after the Holi parade, I will announce the coronation of my successor. I will name our son Rama crown prince of Ayodhya.’ Of all the possible responses Dasaratha had expected, the expression on Kausalya’s face and the words from her lips were the last ones imaginable. In fact, they weren’t even in the range of responses he was expecting. Her face drained of all colour, turning her already pale complexion into an almost albino whiteness—she had always had a tendency to iron-lack in the blood, he recalled. His first thought was that she was fainting with shock. But then her hand, the one that had been caressing him so gently an instant ago, tightened on his forearm in a grip stronger than he had felt in years. Leaning forward, she looked at him with tears misting in her eyes and said in a

voice choked with sudden shock: ‘But you’re still young, Dasa. You still have many years of life and vigour in you. Your father Aja, his father Raghu, your ancestors, almost all the Suryavansha kings, reigned well into their grey years. Why, Raghu was almost thirty years older than you when he crowned Aja prince of Ayodhya. It’s too soon to step down from the throne. It’s much too soon, Dasa.’ Dasaratha found himself filled with an emotion so powerful, he was unable to find his voice for a moment. When he could speak again, the tremor in his voice betrayed his inner feelings. ‘My queen, what breed of woman are you? I tell you I am going to crown your birth-son Rama prince of Ayodhya and you try to dissuade me! Is this the way a mother speaks?’ ‘No,’ Kausalya replied. ‘This is the way a queen speaks, out of love and concern for her husband and king.’ Dasaratha was silent. Suddenly the smells and sights of the akasa-chamber seemed unbearable. Was it possible for any woman to love her husband this much? To be more concerned about her liege’s health than about her son’s inheritance? Dasaratha was no philosopher or sage, but he knew that what he had just witnessed, was still witnessing, was a hallmark in his long illustrious life. Kausalya had passed his test and proved herself a perfect wife. His eyes brimmed with an emotion that was simultaneously sorrowful and joyous. ‘You are like no other woman I

have ever known, Kausalya.’ He didn’t need to add the obvious corollary: and like no other wife. Kausalya ignored the compliment, eyes still shining with anxious concern. ‘Raje, I beg of you, reconsider your decision.’ Dasaratha shook his head. ‘It is already marked on the royal calendar, my queen. Guru Vashishta has even picked an auspicious date for the coronation. The tenth day of the first half of the month of Chaitra.’ Kausalya sat up. ‘On Rama’s sixteenth birthday?’ ‘Not just his birthday; it’s the most auspicious day of the year apart from the usual feast days.’ He appealed to her maternal side. ‘Almost as auspicious as the day he was born to you, my queen. That night was truly a great tryst of the stars and planets. It was as if the devas themselves graced his birth with good omens.’ Her eyes softened. ‘It was a miraculous moment.’ ‘Miracle is the right word. He came to us when we had lost all hope of progeny. After all the yagnas and pooja rituals had failed to produce results. All of Kosala celebrated for a week.’ He saw her yield and pressed home his advantage. ‘What better muhurat to announce Rama’s coronation than the sixteenth anniversary of that miraculous day?’ She hesitated, torn now between her spousal concern and maternal pride. ‘But that’s this month. Less than half a moon

from today! Dasa, all I’m asking is why so soon? It’s barely been a year since he’s been home from the gurukul. Give him a little time to grow, to learn. To marry even. Once the cares and weight of statehood fall upon his shoulders, he will no longer be a boy. Give him a little more time, Dasa.’ Dasaratha did something unexpected. He bent forward and kissed Kausalya’s maang, the tip of the centre parting of her hairline where a husband customarily anointed his wife with blood-red sindhoor powder, symbolic of the blood oath of marriage. He kissed her there, at that symbolic spot, with tenderness. When he drew back, he saw the surprise and pleasure in her eyes. And she saw the tears in his own. ‘There is no more time, Kausalya. I am dying. The vaids and Guru Vashishta agree that my remission is a temporary reprieve before the end. The illness that plagues me has run its course, as I have run mine. Before I die, I will see Rama crowned prince, if it’s the last thing I do.’

FIVE Before Kausalya could respond to Dasaratha’s shocking revelation, the drapes at the entrance to the akasachamber stirred and a small female voice spoke deferentially. Kausalya replied at once, her wits always about her. Dasaratha made out a half-familiar phrase in the queen’s native eastern dialect, Banglar, then the girl left them. Kausalya turned to him. ‘You are needed. Guru Vashishta has sent for you urgently. He waits in your palace.’ Dasaratha frowned. Guru Vashishta would never disturb him in his queen’s private chambers unless it was a matter of great urgency. He hoped it wasn’t another territorial dispute over river waters and dams; he didn’t think he could stand another raging debate in a multitude of local dialects. He tried to conceal his weariness with jocularity. ‘Something to do with the coronation announcement this morning, no doubt. Probably he wishes to add yet another ceremony to the list. You know how Brahmins love ceremonies, my queen. They won’t let anything be done without elaborate never-ending rituals with lots of chanting, agar-incense and bells! Why are they always so fond of bells? I can barely pray with those bells clanging in my ears!’ He rose with an effort, impatiently waving away Kausalya when she attempted to aid him. He was more tired than he realised, but he would have died rather than admit it to her. Still, it had been worth it. He looked at Kausalya’s face, still faintly flushed, crow-black tresses loosened and falling about her shoulders, and felt a twinge of desire despite his condition.

She smiled, as if sensing his thoughts. ‘It would not do to keep Guruji waiting.’ He was tempted to reply with a suggestive retort but said instead, ‘Do me the honour of accompanying me in the official ceremonies.’ Adding with a boyish grin, ‘It will make the bells more bearable.’ Kausalya kissed him on the cheek. He was touched to see tears brimming in her eyes. ‘Do you even have to ask? I will be at your side every minute if you but permit me. And if the devas permit, I would go with you to Lord Yama’s domain as well.’ He looked at her wordlessly. Her comment needed no explanation: only the dead travelled to the underworld domain of Yama, Lord of Death. Kausalya touched his arm gently, urging him to move. ‘Go with grace, Dasaratha.’ He turned to leave, afraid to attempt any response. Even regal restraint had its limitations when it came to emotional borders. ‘Dasa?’ Her voice was small, the voice of a tremulous young bride rather than a queen of the mightiest Arya nation. He stopped at the doorway of the chamber. ‘Yes, my love?’ ‘As always, I respect and shall uphold your decision. Yet do not fault me if I continue to hope that you will yet rule another forty sun-years.’

He replied without turning his head. If he looked at her face now, he would be lost, he knew. His voice was as tender as that of a young groom greeting his new bride for the first time in their marital bed, soothing her inevitable fear of the unknown male whose bed and life she was sworn to share until death undid their holy knot. ‘My beloved, there is nothing more anyone can do. The vaids and the seers have done all that is humanly possible. The matter is beyond the abilities of all Vedic science and Arya knowledge.’ There was a brief pause as if she might have shaken her head slowly or gestured. ‘Then let us appeal to those whose abilities are more than human.’ She stepped up beside him, hands folded in a namaskaram, and bowed to a point directly above his head. He raised his eyes and saw a portrait of the sacred trimurti— Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva—looking down at him, their open palms extended in blessing. The image stayed with him as he hurried through the connecting corridor, the torches flickering in an unexpectedly cool draught of wind. His shadow fled before him, then ran behind each time he passed a torch, playing tricks with his mind. He thought about the events of this morning and wondered if he had been wise to go to Kausalya as he had. In his heart, he had no doubt at all, only a warm glow. Making love to her again had been like nothing else he had ever experienced. And that look in her eyes when he had told her of his decision to step down? Would he see that

expression in Second Queen Kaikeyi’s eyes when he told her the same news? He didn’t think so. And that last gesture, her determination to pray to the gods despite the final analysis of the physicians, that had caused his throat to choke with emotion. How could he have frittered away so many years in the arms of Kaikeyi and not come to Kausalya even once? All those times they had stood, sat or walked side by side at official functions and ceremonies and he had felt a kinship with her that he didn’t feel with any other woman; that feeling had been so right, and he had been so wrong to ignore it. But he had his reasons for that long absence and his only prayer now was that Kausalya would not press him to reveal those reasons. It was that he had dreaded most of all these many years: her questioning. He was grateful to have accomplished this much without being subjected to it. Yet he was filled with conflicting emotions, his guilt over the long absence vying with the lush sensual fulfilment he felt at being rejoined with his first true love. The mixture of regret and joy was still visible on his face as he emerged from the connecting corridor and came face to face with Guru Vashishta. ‘Gurudev, pranaam,’ he said, joining his hands respectfully before the seer. ‘Pranaam, raje,’ the guru replied. ‘I see that you have been binding old wounds and weaving fresh bonds this morning. It is a good beginning to an auspicious day.’ Dasaratha bowed his head silently, not sure what to say to that observation and knowing from long experience that it was best to say nothing rather than blurt

out a foolish remark. The Kshatriya code demanded that even the proudest and fiercest warrior caste must bow before the spiritual superiority of a Brahmin. Yet Dasaratha bowed his head not simply to uphold the code but out of simple respect. Guru Vashishta had mentored fifty kings of the Suryavansha dynasty before Dasaratha, every single one of his ancestors dating back to clanfounder Ikshvaku and even beyond to Manu Lawmaker, the first Arya. For one thousand years, the greatest Suryavansha Kshatriyas had bowed before Vashishta. It was a formidable heritage. The sage turned and began to walk, inviting Dasaratha to accompany him. Dasaratha found he had to strive to keep pace with the agile and slender guru who walked as decisively as he spoke. One thousand years older than me and I’m the one who walks like an ailing old man, he thought ruefully. Yet there was a time, not ten years ago, when he could at least keep up with the seer. For the tenth time that day, he cursed the nameless canker that had brought him to this decrepit state. If the guru noticed his struggle to keep pace, he gave no sign of it. His manner was as businesslike as always when discussing formal matters with the maharaja. ‘Ayodhya-naresh, I am pleased to inform you that an even more auspicious event has occurred this fine first day of spring. A very great and divine personage has chosen to grace us with his presence. I do not yet know what his arrival here means, but certainly it is an auspicious and momentous visitation. Maharaja Dasaratha, count yourself among the few fortunate kings of Ayodhya. For you have none other than the renowned seermage Vishwamitra standing at your

gates. Come with me, and let us receive him with all ceremony.’ It took every ounce of Dasaratha’s will not to stop dead in his tracks.

SIX Lakshman and Shatrugan woke at the exact same instant. They finished their ablutions quickly, dressed and came out of their bedchambers at the same time. Falling into step beside his younger brother—by twenty minutes—Shatrugan slapped him on the back affectionately. ‘No sword today, Luck?’ Lakshman gestured at Shatrugan’s hip. ‘You neither, Shot. Because it’s forbidden by maharaja’s law to carry arms on a feast day. Or did you forget that during your long, rigorous training in the forest at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul?’ Shatrugan mirrored Lakshman’s toothy grin. ‘I don’t know about rigorous, but it surely was long. I was beginning to think we would spend the best years of our lives in that hermitage in the middle of nowhere.’ ‘Well, now you’re back in the lap of luxury.’ Lakshman gestured at the opulence of their surroundings, the princely annexe, a section of the king’s palace. ‘You must feel like you died and went to swarga-loka.’ He corrected himself: ‘Or came back to swarga-loka.’ Shatrugan shrugged. ‘Yes, it is heavenly, isn’t it? But somehow, brother, it doesn’t seem real any more. I mean, I remember it from when we were little. Then it was all we knew, our entire cosmos. But after eight years in the forest, living off the land, sleeping on clay floors, dirt under our fingernails all the time, straw in our hair, all this feels . . . you know . . . ’ ‘Maya. An illusion? Like it could vanish at any time?’ Lakshman snapped his

fingers, the sound echoing in the silent corridors they were walking through. Except for the occasional curtsying serving girl or maid, the vast halls were empty. Each prince had a suite of seven chambers to himself, with several more additional ones. ‘Yes, brother,’ he agreed as they passed the library and then the akhada, where they worked out together with their brothers every morning. ‘That’s the whole point of those eight years of training. To make us realise the illusive seductiveness of luxury and wealth.’ Shatrugan nodded without slowing. ‘That’s one way of putting it. Although I thought we also learned the Vedic sciences and humanities. Everything from Vedic mathematics, physics, geography, ayurveda and the study of human physiognomy, cosmology, astronomy and astrology, military strategy, self-defence and hand-to-hand combat, mastery of weapons, engineering and architecture—’ Lakshman clapped his brother on his muscled shoulder. ‘Enough already! I was there too, you know, right beside you, learning all that you learned.’ ‘I was just trying to point out that after all those years of study and training, it seems so strange to be here again.’ Shatrugan stopped suddenly, turning to Lakshman, a strange expression darkening his features. ‘Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a free-archer?’ Lakshman almost choked on his surprised laughter. ‘What? You mean a mercenary? Like a wandering bow-forhire?’ ‘Or a sword-for-hire,’ Shatrugan mused

thoughtfully. He looked up at the ornately carved ceiling painted with a fresco depicting the deva of storms, Indra. ‘Sometimes I feel like maybe I was born in the wrong age. Like if I was born a thousand years earlier, I would have been out there battling asuras, slaying rakshasas by the hundreds.’ He looked down at his empty hands, turning them over. They were veined and taut from daily weight and weapons training. Nobody, perhaps not even Rama, trained and exercised as hard as Shatrugan did. It was starting to show. ‘I feel as if I was made for something more than just governing a kingdom and touching silken robes.’

instant. And became two perfect profiles of the same face.

Lakshman stared at him. He wasn’t sure what to make of this extraordinary admission. At a loss for words, he turned the revelation into a joke. ‘What did you eat for dinner last night, brother? Because I fear you’ve been stricken with food poisoning!’

Shatrugan’s smile deepened. ‘All right then,’ he said slowly, building up momentum with his deliberate pauses, playing a game they had played every day since they had first learned to walk and talk—the very same moment, it had been, in fact. He yelled suddenly, as Lakshman had known he would: ‘Last one to the stables is a camel’s rear end!’

Shatrugan’s hand flashed out faster than Lakshman could dodge, grabbing his younger twin’s shoulder in an iron-vice grip. The strange expression was still on his angular features. Despite their identical appearance, there was a sense of hardness about Shatrugan that was curiously absent in Lakshman. It was as if an artist had drawn them each in turn, aiming for identical similarity, but had been in a different mood each time. The same features that came across as hard and grim in Shatrugan appeared gentle and light-hearted in Lakshman. It was a subtle contrast visible only to those who looked closely enough, yet once you were keen enough to see it, it was unmistakable. Only when they smiled did the differences vanish. They smiled now, at the exact same

‘Speaking of dinner, brother,’ Shatrugan said in a deceptively casual tone, ‘are you planning to gorge yourself full to bursting on Susama-daiimaa’s sumptuous morning naashta savouries, or did you have other more pressing plans?’ Lakshman shrugged, the weight of Shatrugan’s hand still on his left shoulder. ‘Actually, I thought I’d skip naashta and make for the mango groves. Rama and I fixed up to meet there at sunrise and it’s almost time.’

Even before he finished, he let go of Lakshman and ran down the corridor, not towards the bhojanshalya where they had been heading, but towards the rear stairway which led to the stables and eastern gates. His ploy to surprise and delay his brother was no more successful than usual: Lakshman’s lighter, less thickly muscled form gave him the edge, carrying him easily ahead of the bulkier akhada-built physique of his brother. Even before they reached the head of the stairwell, the outcome of the race was a foregone conclusion. The eastern sky was suffused with luminous soft light, turning the enormous white-marble fountain in the centre of the circular driveway into

quietly gleaming bronze. The first strands of light of the rising sun—barely peeking its head over the crags of the distant Gharwal Hills—caught the polished edges of the effigy of Surya, sun god and the progenitor of the eponymous Suryavansha dynasty, standing at his chariot, one hand gripping the twin reins of his magnificent Kambhoja stallions, the other holding his Suryachakra, the magical golden disc. The twins slowed to a walk, Lakshman two whole lengths ahead, laughing and slapping one another on the back as they circled the courtyard and rounded the enormous lotus pool containing the fountain. The sculpture itself rose a good seventy feet in the air, towering above the entire courtyard and driveway, casting a shadow that seemed to point proudly at the palace. The brothers turned right towards the chariot-stables where their grooms were waiting, ready and alert. The princes were all early risers and their charioteers knew well enough to keep their raths ready and waiting. The raths, elegantly designed two-horse Arya chariots built for speed and manoeuvrability, gleamed in the earlymorning sunshine, their gold-plated iron armour polished to a mirrored sheen. Shatrugan dismissed his driver with a curt gesture, leaped up on to the platform of his rath, and was off instantly. He called out to Lakshman as he manoeuvred the rath smartly in a ninety-degree turn. ‘See you at the games, brother. When I win the shield in the archery contest!’ ‘You mean when Rama wins the shield!’ Lakshman shouted back.

Shatrugan waved as he rode off, his rath taking the curve of the fountain easily. Lakshman watched him pass through the rear gates and turn right on to Aja Marg, heading for the royal games field. Their older brother Bharat—older by two weeks— would be there already, waiting for him. Twins they might be, but from infancy, Shatrugan had veered towards Bharat’s company, and Lakshman had sought out Rama’s companionship. The bonds of these pairings had only been strengthened during their eight years away from home. Lakshman turned back to the stables. He spent a moment speaking affectionately to his horses. He loved animals and they seemed to know this at once. It was one of the many qualities he shared with his elder brother Rama— elder by four weeks, and eldest of all four of them. Shatrugan, on the other hand, neither liked nor disliked animals. Lakshman returned the respectful namaskar of his charioteer. ‘Ayushmaanbhav, Samar. How long ago did Rama leave?’ The charioteer grinned. ‘Long life to you as well, my prince. Rajkumar Rama left very early, just before dawn. We were only just starting to groom the horses. I knew you would ask after him, so I spoke to his charioteer and Samin says he rode out in the direction of the river.’ Lakshman frowned. If Rama’s charioteer was still here, then that meant . . . ‘He rode his rath himself then?’ ‘Nay, Rajkumar Lakshman, he declined to take his rath.’ ‘Horseback then?’

‘Yes, my prince. He said that the rath horses should be fresh and rested before the Holi parade, so he took an old battlehorse from the king’s stables.’ ‘That must be Airavata,’ Lakshman said at once. His driver grinned again. In the dim early light his teeth flashed brilliantly white against his dark face. ‘Right as ever, my rajkumar. You and Rajkumar Shatrugan are womb-brothers, yet your kinship with Rajkumar Rama is no less a bond. You are twins in all but appearance.’ Lakshman smiled back. ‘So I have been told.’ He thanked his charioteer for the information. Samar and Samin, like the charioteers of Bharat and Shatrugan’s raths, were not just excellent rath-drivers and warriors, they were also fellowshishyas from Guru Vashishta’s gurukul. In the reign of Dasaratha, it was mandatory for all Kshatriyas to acquire the gifts of Saraswati, devi of knowledge. Samar was as much a peer and a friend as he was Lakshman’s rath-driver. Lakshman took Marut, another old battlehorse that had seen better days and greater challenges. Sometimes while astride the ancient destrier he felt as if he was riding back through time itself, into the ancient days Shatrugan had spoken of, a time when war was a simple fact of daily existence and a Kshatriya was a warrior not just by birth and name, but in his daily actions. To defend the Arya nations and die defending them, that was all a Kshatriya was expected to do. It was his dharma, just as the Brahmins or priest-class must maintain the sanctity of Arya dharmic rituals and traditions, the vaisyas maintain the trade and commerce that were essential for Arya economy, and the sudras perform the less desirable

yet necessary duties of cleaning, foraging, hunting, and otherwise ensuring the health and maintenance of the community. In those days, caste divisions had been a vital part of survival. Today, even a sudra could rise to Kshatriya status through diligent effort and application. In the age of Dasaratha, being a Kshatriya was no less honourable, yet it was much less exciting than the days that Shatrugan found so attractive. But Lakshman wasn’t Shatrugan. He didn’t fear war, yet he didn’t desire it either. He could do without battling asuras and slaughtering rakshasas, all his life if need be. To do one’s duty as a Kshatriya was inevitable and desirable, yes, but this was fine too, to live in a time of peace and calm. ‘We’re bred for war, you and I, old Kshatriya,’ he said, leaning to nuzzle and pat Marut’s neck as he rode down the empty marg. ‘But what else do we fight wars for, if not to win peace? Let’s hope we get to enjoy this well-deserved peace for another thousand years, right, brave one?’ The battlehorse flicked his head and whinnied, his powerful strides belying his age as he found his wind. As he turned his head briefly, Lakshman caught a glimpse of Marut’s forehead, still marked with the grisly scar of an axe-wound that would have felled lesser horses. He understood the gesture: even the old battlehorse would take peace over war any day.

SEVEN Sumantra had arranged the arghya items Guru Vashishta had ordered and was waiting at the palace steps. The sky had turned crimson and saffron in the east and the deep midnight blue Dasaratha had seen from the akasa-chamber had turned to a lighter blue, the exact shade of the white-and-blue china vase he had been gifted by the Greek envoy just last week. It was an auspicious blue, the blue of Brahman, and Dasaratha felt a stirring in his heart as he walked with his mahaguru and pradhan-mantri towards the gates of his palace. Vashishta continued speaking softly as they walked, his voice audible only to Dasaratha’s ears. They often adopted this method to get Dasaratha through the rigorous rituals of official ceremonies. Dasaratha had long since accepted the impossibility of remembering every minute detail of the intricate chain of actions and words that were strictly required by Vedic tradition. Yet he wondered how Vashishta could recall these hundreds of thousands of details with such flawless ease. This was only one of the many reasons that Kshatriyas gratefully and gladly accepted the spiritual guidance of the Brahmins. This way a Kshatriya was free to concentrate on his real duties rather than clutter his precious time and mindspace with countless details. Yet sometimes even Dasaratha wondered if that wasn’t precisely the reason why Brahmins made these rituals so intricate and complex! Still, after a lifetime of listening unobtrusively, he was comfortable with receiving the guru’s constant flow of instructions and advice. It was not a matter of who was in command, as some

foolish clan-chieftains made it out to be, but simply who possessed the best knowledge on a specific matter. Besides, even the palace guards saluting them as they walked in the pleasant dawn breeze were not aware of the guru speaking in Dasaratha’s ear. It was as if, Dasaratha often mused, the guru could telepathically transmit his words directly into Dasaratha’s brain. ‘And lastly, even by error, do not mention my old association with him, back when he was a king, before he became a spiritual man. Since his reformation and his subsequent elevation to brahmarishi stature, Vishwamitra does not like to be reminded of his former life.’ Dasaratha jotted a mental note to look up Vishwamitra’s ‘former life’ in the royal library later. All he knew of the legendary seer-mage was that he had been ordained some fourteen hundred years ago by the great god Shiva himself. Before that, he had been a king, Dasaratha knew. Not a maharaja of united clans but a maharaja of some princely clan housed far to the northwest. Guru Vashishta’s cryptic reference—‘his reformation’— suggested he had led an interesting life back then. Certainly more interesting than spending two hundred and fortytwo years meditating in the deep forest. The gates of the palace were wide open as always. These were peaceful times and Ayodhya took pride in the fact that its houses were never barred or locked, not even the king’s palace. In his entire reign, Dasaratha had never needed to lock them against anything or anybody. Even the palace guard, highly trained and alert though they were, were completely decorative. They were compelled to hold

weekly athletic games to keep in shape and had developed a complicated choreographed ritual for the change of watch that had become a tourist attraction. The quad of four guards at the guardhouse by the gates had been joined by an entire platoon as was customary when the king emerged from the palace. Moving in perfect unison now, they performed an impressive variation of the changing-ofguards ritual, flipping their short spears and passing them from one hand to the other before setting them back on to their shoulders and saluting their king smartly as he approached.

legendary Brahman power of seers with healthy scientific scepticism, the guru possessed not just telepathy but complete mental control. He had ‘heard’ the maharaja’s distracted thoughts about his decaying physique. Just as he could now ‘hear’ Dasaratha’s thoughts straying back to the morning’s dalliance with his first queen . . . It would not do to have the maharaja’s distraction lead to an error in protocol or a misspoken word. This was no ordinary visitor they were receiving. Vashishta put the weight of his considerable personality into one final command. ‘Focus.’

Dasaratha saluted back as best as he could manage, his chest and shoulder muscles protesting. He was the commander of all armed forces after all, the supreme senapati. He felt painfully ashamed of his overweight, decrepit body. Once, he would have been able to take on four armed Kshatriyas barehanded, disarming them all in a matter of minutes. Now, he could only recall those martial asanas with deep regret and thank the devas he could still walk about and stand erect. ‘Focus, Dasaratha,’ Guru Vashishta’s sub-audible voice said in his ear. Again that sense that the guru’s instructions were within his head rather than in his ear. The calm, iron-steady voice forced the maharaja to shed all his needless emotions and thoughts and concentrate solely on the task at hand. It was harder than it used to be. ‘Focus.’ The guru’s voice was firmer this time, a coiled reprimand. Unknown to Dasaratha, who regarded tales of the

Dasaratha focussed. Forcing his mind to clear itself and direct its attention outwards. The figure standing just outside the palace gates was like a painting come alive. The striking twice-as-large-as-lifesized one hanging in the palace foyer, perhaps. That work of art had been painted over four centuries earlier by a king of the Suryavansha dynasty, Dasaratha’s illustrious ancestor Dilipa. The official chronicles of the Suryavansha clan, to which historical record Dasaratha himself had contributed from time to time, noted in its entry that the noble Dilipa had painted this portrait entirely from memory. Dilipa had returned from a chance visit to the ashram of the great sage Vishwamitra, greatly impressed by the sage’s insightful advice. That encounter had changed his life and fortunes, and the future of the Suryavansha dynasty itself, and as a tribute Dilipa had poured every gram of his considerable artistic talent into rendering the magnificent portrait. Since

the great sage Vishwamitra had never actually set foot in the city of Ayodhya, that painting had stood as his representative likeness for these past four hundred years, becoming the basis for several lesser imitations, and even a statue in Seers’ Square. But today, at long last, Dilipa’s descendant Maharaja Dasaratha could vouch with pride and a strange swelling emotion that the painting’s accuracy was amazing. Perfect, down to the last detail, Great Dilipa. Absolutely perfect.

Sumantra’s heels gasped and muttered an exclamation of disbelief in Awadhi commonspeak. The startled servant, obviously shocked at the sight of a legend from history books come alive, clattered the arghya bowl and basin together and the sound rang out on the still clear air. There was no traffic on the vast expanse of Raghuvamsha Avenue this early on a feast day and the sound was as grating as a cartwheel cracking.

The figure before him looked as if he had just this minute stepped out of that enormous canvas.

He turned, holding his hefty staff easily in one powerfully muscled hand. Dasaratha felt a tremor of anticipation. A sense of history in the making. He would be the first king of Ayodhya to be graced with the visit of this legendary seer-mage. And on a most auspicious day. Despite his resolve to keep his thoughts clear, it occurred to him suddenly that if he could convince the great sage to stay until the coronation, a fortnight from today, it would lay the ultimate seal of approval on his last act as king. His first-born, Rama, would go down in Arya history as the first prince of Ayodhya to be blessed at his coronation by not one but two of the greatest seer-mages and brahmarishis ever, Vashishta and Vishwamitra. Now that would be an epoch-making coronation!

He was clad in the simple garb of an ascetic: a coarse red-ochre dhoti handwoven from beaten jute, battered wooden toe-grip slippers, matted unkempt hair swirling around his craggy face, a long straggly white beard, redbeaded rudraksh mala around his neck. At a glance he could have passed for any of the dozens of tapasvi sadhus that emerged from the Southwoods each spring, gaunt and wasted from their rigorous abstinence and penance. Yet he possessed that same striking air of great inner strength and power that Dilipa had captured in that historic portrait. The appearance of a seer-mage who had once been a great Kshatriya and maharaja. The unmistakable arrogance and dignity of Arya royalty. He was facing away from them when Dasaratha, Vashishta and Sumantra approached. Staring out at the high slopes of the northern hills, the sloping ridges that eventually rose to become the foothills of the Himalayas. His long beard and weathered garments flapped in the wind. The attendant following on

It attracted the attention of the visitor.

He opened his parched lips to speak the appropriate greeting, lowering himself to his knees to prostrate himself before the great Brahmin. But before he could say a single word, the living legend spoke first, breaking protocol and surprising Dasaratha. ‘Maharaja Dasaratha, in keeping with the ancient tradition of guru-dakshina between Kshatriya and Brahmin, I have

come to ask a boon of you. As is the custom, I exhort you to agree without hesitation or pause to grant me my heart’s desire, regardless of what I ask for. Honour your caste, your clan and yourself, and agree without delay. I, Vishwamitra, sage of sages, command it.’

EIGHT The doe leaped out of Rama’s arms. He had enfolded her in a gentle embrace, careful not to grip her too hard, and when he sensed her muscles tensing for the leap, he made no attempt to stop her. She jumped upwards and away, bounding across the grassy knoll in the direction of the river. Reaching the rim of the knoll, she paused and turned her head. Her ears flicked as she looked back with wide alarmed eyes. He smiled and rose to his feet, speaking softly, his voice barely audible below the sound of the river. ‘Did I scare you? That was not my intention, little beauty. I was only eager to be your friend. Will you not come back and speak to me again?’ The doe watched him from the edge of the precipice, her body still turned towards the path that led down to the river, only her head twisted back towards him. She made no move to return, yet she did not flee immediately. Rama took a step towards her, then another. She did not run. He took several steps more, but when he was within twenty paces or so, her flank rippled and her ears flickered at a faster rate. So he stopped again. He called to her. She stayed where she was, watching him. For a long moment, they stayed that way, the boy and the doe, watching each other, the river rushing along, the sun breasting the top of the northern hills to shine down in its full glory. In the distance, the city caught the light of the new day and sent back a thousand glittering reflections. Towers and spires, windows and arches, domes and

columns, glass and brass, silver and gold, copper and bronze, crystal and shell, bead and stone, all were illuminated at once, and Ayodhya blazed like a beacon of gold fire, filling the valley with a luminous glow. In the light of this glorious new day, it was easy to dismiss the nightmare as just that, a bad dream. And yet . . . he could still hear the screams, see the awful wounds, the gaping— Stop! He straightened and stared at the city, the deer forgotten, the mango he had been about to pick before he saw the doe abandoned. It took a moment of steady pranayam breathing to restore him to the sense of calm he had experienced when stalking and catching the deer. He focussed on the sight before him. His beloved Ayodhya resplendent in the sunlight of a new day, a new season, a new harvest year. He walked forward, eyes fixed on the blazing city. Before they had grown old enough to be sent to gurukul, he and his brothers had spent any number of days here in the shade of this mango grove. Playing, fighting, racing, all the things that young boys and young princes alike were wont to do. He had come here today hoping these nostalgically familiar environs would cleanse his mind of the nightmare that had broken his sleep. So far he hadn’t been entirely successful. His feet found the edge of the knoll and he stopped, poised ten yards or more above the raging river. It was the point where the Sarayu roared around a bend in the valley, tumbling over rocks and boulders with the haste and energy of a river still in the first stage of its lengthy

course. The sound was thunder sustained. He spread his arms, raised his face to the warm golden sunlight, and laughed. Droplets of spray drifted up slowly, catching his hair and simple white dhoti, like diamonds glittering in the sunlight. When he returned to the grove, the ache at the back of his neck was lessened considerably. He thought he could manage some naashta now. Not the lavish buffet that Susama-daiimaa laid out each morning, enough to feed an army garrison, but just a fruit. His eyes sought out the large green kairee he had been about to pluck off a low-hanging branch when he had spied the deer. Found it, plucked it and smiled as a few loosened leaves fluttered down around his head like a bridegroom’s welcome. Ah, now there was a question that could easily be answered. How did a raw green mango taste on the first day of spring? A question worthy of one of his Uncle Maharaja Janak’s famous philosophical councils at Mithila court. He would solve the mystery in a moment. He nursed the kairee in his palm. It was heavy, firm, filled with the thick juice of the king of fruits. But this was not truly a king yet. Not even a crown prince. Simply a prince in waiting. And yet, a kairee was more than a mango. For you had not truly lived until you had tasted the unspeakably teeth-keening sourness of a kairee, bitten into the mustardyellow flesh, green skin and all, tearing bits with the edges of your teeth, teasing the fruit, sucking on the succulent sourness within. He patted his waist, checking that the small packet of salt was still there. He drew it out and opened it carefully, seating himself cross-legged on the dry grassy earth. Kairee and salt. He was ready to discover heaven on earth

once more. He licked the kairee’s tip, wetting the skin. Then dipped it into the salt. Grains of brownish-white namak stuck to the parrot-green fruit. The tart aroma of the kairee mingled with the earthy smell of the rock salt now. He raised it to his mouth, shutting his eyes in anticipation of the sourness that would explode on his palate in a moment. The small downy hairs on the backs of his arms—he had his mother’s smooth near-hairlessness rather than his father’s hirsuteness—prickled in anticipation. The fruit was almost at his mouth when he heard the high, keening cry. Followed by laughter and hoarse yells. And, even above the roar of the river and the cacophony of birds singing in the thickly growing trees of the mango grove, the unmistakable sound of a bow-string twanging. He frowned and listened. The hand holding the kairee froze. The other hand, poised above the salt, ready to dip the kairee the moment his teeth had broken the skin, scooping up more salt to cut the sourness, hovered. A moment later, he heard it again, the distinct quaver of a tautly strung bow speaking to the wind. And this time there was an answering voice, as familiar as the first: a dull thwacking sound. A metal-headed wooden arrow striking flesh. And the squeal of a beast in pain. Rama shot to his feet with a swiftness that the doe would have envied. The unbitten kairee was tossed aside, the salt packet overturned. An instant later, he was speeding up the knoll. He stopped at

the rise, leaning out with the easy confidence of a fifteen-year-old in perfect command of his bodily reflexes. The scene below couldn’t have been clearer had a gypsy nautanki troupe been performing it with puppets for toddlers. The doe lay by the edge of the river, within reach of the grass. In a few seconds it would have been in the grass and virtually invisible. The arrow had struck it high on the foreleg, stunning it. There was a lot of blood but Rama thought the wound wasn’t fatal. Most deer died of shock at the moment of impact, slow blood loss or infected wounds. His fists clenched as he saw the doe struggle to rise again, bleating with pain then flopping back on the glistening stones of the river bank. The perpetrators of the crime—he thought of it as nothing less—were a group of at least a dozen burly, fairskinned northerners. They were clad in the wolf-pelts and bear-pelts of the Garhwal tribes, a loosely related clan of mountain people who lived on the lower slopes of the Garhwal Himalayas, some yojanas north and west of Ayodhya, outside Kosala borders. They came a few times a year to trade at the melas. They were probably here for the Holi celebration; Ayodhya’s Holi feast was renowned throughout the Arya nations, and the city had always maintained an open-house policy during festivals and melas. But that didn’t include hunting within sight of the city. From the wineskins they all carried—and kept swigging from—Rama knew they were drunk and seeking good sport. One of them, a young loutish oaf who could barely hold his bow straight, was trying

to finish off the doe. The others were egging him on with yells and sadistic suggestions, speaking the crude pahadi dialect of the mountain tribes. Rama sprinted along the knoll, running down to a point where the overhang doubled back upon itself. He leaped down to the lower path, deftly dodged a cobra sunning itself on a rock—the snake hissed in warning but made no move to attack him—and bounded down the last two yards, landing in the thick, bouncy kusalavya grass. In a moment, he was at the bank of the river. He ran without care for arrows and reached the wounded doe. He knelt by its side, examining it. Above the roar of the river, almost deafening now that he was down here, he heard the surprised shouts of the Garhwalis. The doe turned her head to stare up at him. His heart broke when he saw the fear and confusion in those large terrified eyes. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, to explain her plight, but only a sharp mewling sound emerged. He tore a strip from his kurta, glad he had worn it in expectation of a nippy wind. Wrapping the cloth around her injured leg, he tied it tightly enough to staunch the bleeding until the arrow could be removed. The doe kept turning her head, her teeth baring as she reflexively tried to reach and remove the thing embedded in her flesh. Rama touched the top of her downy head, and whispered softly: ‘I will be back to help you.’ Then he stood and turned to face the men.

NINE Dasaratha looked up at the tall, imposing figure that stood before him at the front gates of his palace. He knew he couldn’t delay his response by even an instant. ‘Mahadev,’ he began, using the universal term of respect that elevated the honoured visitor to the level of a great god. ‘My adherence to tradition is as sincere as any of my illustrious ancestors. You have my unhesitant and joyful agreement to fulfil any desire you name. As is the custom, whatever you wish to ask of me, I shall give it without question, be it my proudest possession.’ The seer’s craggy face, brighter now in the growing daylight, smiled at the king’s words. He brought his heavy staff down hard on the packed earth of the avenue, punctuating his first words with a solid thud. ‘Ayodhya-naresh, hum prasan huye. You have pleased me greatly with your reply, lord of Ayodhya. Now, I exhort you to remember this promise you have made me in the sacred presence of your own mahaguru and marg-darshak Vashishta himself, as well as these other associates.’ Vishwamitra gestured at Sumantra and his attendants, who had been so terrified when the seer began to speak that they had dropped flat on their faces in the dust of the avenue, where they still lay, too scared to even look up at the fabled Brahmin. ‘They shall be my witnesses,’ Vishwamitra added, and struck the ground once more with his staff, underlining the pact with the gesture. Dasaratha wanted desperately to steal a

glance at Guru Vashishta, who hadn’t uttered a word since they had emerged from the gates. But he guessed correctly that this was one situation where his protocol was clear and unambiguous. ‘Mahadev,’ he said, bowing once again with his hands folded. ‘I beg of you, give me the honour of performing the customary arghya and welcoming you into my humble abode.’ The brahmarishi looked up at the palace, towering above all other structures on the vast avenue. ‘Of course,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Of course. But do you not wish to know what boon I am about to ask of you?’ Dasaratha kept his hands joined and his eyes directed downwards at the seermage’s dusty bare feet. ‘Mahadev, I have already sworn to give you whatever your heart desires. It would honour me greatly if you would utter your sacred request within the walls of my abode. It is not seeming of me to keep you, a great and esteemed guest, standing on this public causeway. Please, do me the honour.’ And without further ado, he gestured to the attendants, who were still frozen. After a sharply whispered order from Sumantra, they scurried forward with the arghya bowl and items, almost falling over their own feet in fear. They were so nervous that the attendant holding the heavy jug filled with Ganga-jal, the sacred water of the Ganges, almost spilled it on the maharaja himself. In silent exasperation, Sumantra took the jug from the attendant and bent down himself, indicating to Dasaratha that he was ready to pour.

But before Dasaratha’s fingers could make contact with the visitor’s dustcaked feet, an oddly familiar voice rang out across the silent avenue. ‘Stop, Ayodhya-naresh! Do not debase yourself by touching the feet of this vile creature. Rise to your feet at once!’ ***

Sumitra entering her chambers without announcing herself well in advance, let alone barging in like a roughneck at a cheap tavern. There was no doubt in her mind that this rude invader was Kaikeyi, even before the intruder spoke loudly and harshly. ‘You hussy! I know what you’re up to. You won’t succeed.’

Kausalya was in her pooja room when Kaikeyi burst in. She was absorbed in praying to the Mother Goddess Sri in her avatar as Devi the Provider, patron deity of married women and mothers. The room was dense with the fragrant smoke of agarbattis. The thick agarsticks were delicately scented with jasmine, musk, pinewood, ashwood and lotus, and they mingled to form a heady cocktail of aromas that helped Kausalya empty her mind of everything except the countenance of the devi.

Kausalya put the bell down carefully and bent forward to touch her forehead to the feet of the statue of the devi. She smelled the familiar reassuring aroma of the red clay used to mould the effigy and the scent of the vegetable pigments with which She had been painted in the traditional bright parrot green, peacock blue, red ochre, yellow ochre, seed saffron and lavender.

The room was silent except for the occasional ringing of the bell placed before her on the wooden altar. As she reached the end of a cycle of mantras, she picked up the bell and shook it rhythmically, filling the chamber with its sweet pealing.

It occurred to her at that instant that she was in the perfect posture for a decapitation. But she wasn’t afraid. Kaikeyi’s tongue was sharper than her dagger. Kausalya joined her hands together one final time as she rose to her feet, then turned to face her rude intruder.

She was ringing it when the door—shut but not bolted; there had never been any need to bolt the door—was struck a blow by a hand heavy with bangles. She knew this without turning around. The exact instant that she finished ringing the bell, the intruder entered. Kausalya heard the harsh clattering of heavy gold bangles and knew at once that a woman had entered, and the woman could only be Second Queen Kaikeyi. The bangles were solid gold and Third Queen Sumitra always favoured silver. In any case, Kausalya couldn’t imagine timid

She sent up a silent prayer to the devi, asking for succour and calm.

Kaikeyi was a portrait of feminine rage that would have inspired any Kali worshipper. Except that Kali was never this self-indulgent or luxuriously bedecked. The second queen was overdressed as usual, burdened by heavy gold ornaments and ritual symbols of her regal position as well as her marital status. The large red bindi on her forehead blazed angrily against her flushed pale skin, like the third eye of

Shiva rather than a symbol of bridehood. Kausalya almost expected her to have four arms and a divine weapon poised to strike in each hand. Instead Kaikeyi struck with her tongue. ‘You temptress. Seductress. Like a cheap devdasi you lured my husband away from my chamber and into your clutches. Did you think I wouldn’t know, witch? Did you think I’d give him up without a fight?’ Kausalya stared coldly at her husband’s second wife. She walked towards Kaikeyi, the gold pooja thali in her hands. Kaikeyi started, as if fearing that Kausalya was about to attack her with the thali, and raised a hand protectively. Her heavy gold bangles jangled. Kausalya marvelled that the woman was able to lift her hand at all with that weight. Where did she think she was going decked up like that? To her own marriage? Kausalya walked past Kaikeyi and emerged from the pooja room. She set the thali down on the raised wooden lectern, gently extinguishing the diyas. A coiled satin rope hung by her bedside. She tugged at it thrice in quick succession. Bells rang out faintly somewhere in the bowels of the palace. Then she stood with her back to the doorway from which she had just emerged and waited for the other woman to follow her out. When she heard the jangling of the jewellery, she turned with the speed and intensity of a fevered nagin, a queen cobra, striking without giving Kaikeyi the chance to speak first. ‘How dare you violate the sanctity of my prayer room? You have no right to even

step into my chambers uninvited. And as for calling me those names, well, you probably picked them up from palace gossip over the years, all addressed to your own slinky back. They fit you quite well. You’re the one who tempted my husband from my bed fifteen years ago, binding him with a warrior’s obligation to repay a life-debt. You used your seductive wiles as boldly as any woman from the back streets, luring him to your arms. As if that wasn’t enough, you decided you couldn’t share his affections. You plotted and conspired against me and poor Sumitra, poisoning Dasa’s ears with God alone knows what rot, until he began spending his time only with you. How dare you come in here and accuse me of your own sins? May the devas strike you down as you stand! Now get out of my chambers before I have the guards pick you up and throw you out bodily!’ Kaikeyi stood astonished and speechless, stunned by this unexpected outburst. Even before Kausalya’s words had ended, the clattering of wooden sandals echoed down the corridor leading to the first queen’s bedchamber. An instant later the drapes parted and an entire platoon of female guards, part of the special division of the palace guard that was assigned to the three titled queens and the three hundred and fifty untitled wives of Dasaratha, filed in quickly, taking in the situation at a glance and bearing down on Kaikeyi. At a flick of Kausalya’s finger they surrounded Kaikeyi, their short spears held at a diagonal upward angle, not lowered to attack but in a warning posture. They were Kausalya’s personal guard, handpicked from her own clan back east to ensure unquestioning loyalty. Every one of them was an Amazon among women,

tall and muscular as any Arya man, and as capable of holding her own in battle, sport or mortal combat as any male warrior. Kausalya watched grimly as Kaikeyi looked around with startled eyes at her unexpected response and weighed her next move. She guessed that never before in her pampered life as a crown princess of Kaikeya and then a queen of Kosala had Kaikeyi ever been faced with a hostile guard under her own roof. Except that it wasn’t her roof. These were Kausalya’s private chambers. And Kaikeyi had violated her title, her dignity and her religious feelings with her abusive intrusion. ‘Take her away,’ Kausalya ordered sharply. ‘If she resists, drag her by the hair, and throw her out into the courtyard.’ As Kaikeyi blanched and swallowed silently, still debating her next course of action, Kausalya smiled grimly and asked: ‘Well, Kaikeyi? Are there any other names you’d like to call me? I’m sure my personal guards and kinswomen would love to hear you abuse me in their presence.’ Kaikeyi shot a look of pure hatred at Kausalya. Her red-rimmed eyes blazed in her feverish face. Kausalya checked the temptation to rub the insult in with salt: That’s enough. You’ve already hurt her enough to make her a bloodenemy. End this now. Aloud she said to her guards: ‘The second queen wishes to leave now. Escort her to her own palace.’ As the Amazonian guards reached for

Kaikeyi’s arms, she came alive once more, slapping their wrists furiously, punishing them for her humiliation. ‘Don’t touch me!’ Her voice rode up an octave, shrill and on the verge of hysteria. ‘The first one to lay a finger on me will be executed within the hour!’ She turned to look at Kausalya. Her eyes flashed like twin flames in her fleshy face, her chin quivering with rage. ‘This isn’t over yet, you snake mother. I’ll not give up my husband without a fight. Before nightfall, he’ll be back with me and you’ll be just another unnumbered concubine in the palace of untitled wives!’ And with that threat still echoing off the walls, Kaikeyi turned and walked out of the chamber. The guards followed close behind, but Kausalya knew they were redundant now. The second queen wouldn’t be back. She had achieved what she had come for, to threaten and intimidate Kausalya. The sequel to this scene would be played out in circumstances of Kaikeyi’s choosing, and Kausalya had a feeling she would be the one facing sharpened steel at that encounter.

TEN Kausalya sank to the bed, releasing an involuntary sigh. She was a strong woman and in her youth she had been trained in warfare and the use of arms, just as Kaikeyi had. But Kaikeyi was a born warrior, a female Kshatriya who had ridden at the head of her father’s army at the age of fourteen and had conquered barbarian hordes. She was already a feared and formidable warrior queen when Dasaratha’s path and hers had crossed those many years ago. It had never been a secret that her very ferocity and Kshatriya prowess had been the source of her attractiveness to Dasaratha’s roving eye. And even now, fifteen years later, it was that same ruthless ability to take life and to slaughter without hesitation that gave her the edge over Kausalya. Despite her own Kshatriya origins, Kausalya’s inclination had always turned more towards artistic pursuits. Whatever her strengths, the willingness to kill to achieve her goals was not one of them. It made the brief, potent encounter with Kaikeyi that much more exhausting. She fought the temptation to lie back on the bed and rest for a while. So much had happened already, but the day itself had barely begun. There was much to be done yet. The Holi parade. The coronation announcement. And that visitor that had compelled Guru Vashishta to send for the maharaja so urgently—surely it must be an important personage for Guruji to have Dasa interrupted during a private audience with his queen. And then there was Rama. She needed to see Rama before the parade. When she heard the tinkling of delicate

silver payals, she smiled. She could identify the approaching visitor by that dainty sound as surely as she had recognised Kaikeyi by the harsh jangling of her heavy gold bracelets. The drapes at the doorway parted for the third time that morning and Sumitra’s small doe-shaped face looked into the chamber cautiously. She saw Kausalya alone and looked relieved. ‘Come in, my sister,’ Kausalya called softly. ‘Don’t be afraid, the myini’s gone.’ She smiled self-consciously at her use of the word for ‘witch’. Speaking roughly didn’t come naturally to Kausalya, even when provoked. Sumitra emitted a small gasp as she scuttled in, her diaphanous choli rustling musically as she sat on the bed beside Kausalya. She was so light, the bed hardly shifted. ‘I heard the commotion and the shouting. My guards told me Kaikeyi was attacking you in your chambers! I came at once. Is it over? Are you hurt? What did she want, the hussy?’ Kausalya smiled. Even after fifteen years of marriage and two grown sons, Sumitra had hardly changed. She was still just an older version of the breathless, girlish young woman who had come nervously to ask Kausalya’s permission to marry her husband and become her sister in bridehood. Kausalya had felt a maternal protectiveness for the young girl that had never completely faded: could this waif be the answer to Dasa’s prayers for an heir? Kausalya had accepted the ancient Arya custom permitting a reigning monarch to take more than one wife into his home in order to ensure progeny. Accepting

Sumitra as her husband’s new wife had been like welcoming a sister home, not a rival. How different it had been when Dasaratha announced that same day that he had brought another bride home as well, and how differently had Kaikeyi glared at her as she descended from her wheelhouse and strode arrogantly up the steps of the palace on that fateful day, seventeen long years ago. Had Kausalya known then that Kaikeyi’s shadow that morning would cast the next decade and a half into virtual darkness, she might have asserted her spousal right under Arya law to disallow her husband’s choice and compel Dasaratha to send Kaikeyi back to her father’s house. But seeing the gentle, childlike Sumitra had disarmed her and she had failed to realise the threat that Kaikeyi posed until it was far too late for lawful redress. She brought her attention back to Sumitra’s question. ‘She’s upset because Dasa came to me this morning. She thinks I manipulated him somehow to do so.’ Sumitra’s large eyes, as dominant in her face as the eyes of a rabbit, widened even more than usual. They seemed to take up half her little heart-shaped face. ‘And did you do that? Manipulate him, I mean?’ She realised what she had said and coloured instantly. ‘I mean, of course you wouldn’t do such a thing! But I mean, did he really? Come to you this morning?’ Kausalya took Sumitra’s hand in her own. Her hand was a half-size larger than Sumitra’s little mitt. How on earth had this waif given birth to two strong and muscular saplings like Shatrugan and Lakshman? ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

Sumitra stared at her uncomprehending for an instant, and then her little mouth opened wide. ‘No! You’re pulling my leg!’ ‘If I was, then you would be flat on your back, my little sister!’ Kausalya laughed, starting to relax after the unexpected anxiety and emotional upheaval of Dasaratha’s visit and the sudden shock of Kaikeyi’s verbal attack. ‘It’s true, my sister. You can see for yourself.’ She gestured at the crumpled bedsheets and mashed petals. Sumitra picked up a handful of petals and stared at them. ‘By the Goddess alive!’ She bounced up and down on the soft downy bed, absorbing the news like the overgrown child she still was. ‘In the name of blessed Lakshmi, wife of divine Vishnu!’ She laughed and hugged Kausalya. To her surprise, Kausalya found herself responding easily, laughing and hugging Sumitra back. How different we three are, she thought. One wants Dasa all to herself, the second is willing to share him with whomever he pleases to be with, and I . . . what do I really want after all? Suddenly, Sumitra detached herself from Kausalya and knelt down by the bedside. Before Kausalya knew what she was doing, she had bent and touched Kausalya’s feet, then touched the tips of her fingers to her own forehead. ‘Bhagyavan Kausalya,’ she said earnestly. Blessed of the devas, Kausalya. ‘Sumitra,’ Kausalya started to protest. Then stopped. She felt a lump in her throat as she embraced her friend—yes,

my dearest friend—affectionately, feeling her emotional warmth, as heartfelt and benevolent as Kaikeyi’s attitude had been malevolent. Sumitra was right. On this auspicious feast day of Holi, Kausalya was bhagyavan, blessed by the devas. Through some inexplicable turn of the wheel of samay, her husband had returned to her after a long and bitter estrangement and her son was about to be crowned prince-heir. Nothing could darken such a day. Let Kaikeyi do her worst now, she resolved fiercely. This time, she’ll have to kill me to get him back. *** There were eleven of them, Rama saw, not quite a dozen. A tall, massively muscled man with a face disfigured by hideous scars appeared to be the leader. They were all looking to him, then back at Rama and the doe, shouting in their pahadi language. The young man they had been egging on still had an arrow in his bow, trained directly at Rama now, and he was grinning as if this was all a big adventure. Three others also had their bows in hand, two of them with arrows ready to be strung. ‘Ayodhya ke aas-paas shikhar karna mana hain,’ Rama said in high Sanskrit first, then repeated the same message twice more, in commonspeak as well as in the pahadi dialect. ‘Hunting is forbidden within sight of Ayodhya city.’ The men looked at each other for one startled moment, then burst out laughing. Only the leader stared impassively, his milky-grey eyes meeting Rama’s across the twenty or more yards that separated them.

Rama pointed at the doe. ‘You men have committed a crime under Kosala law. You must surrender yourselves to the city magistrates. If you are unaware of the laws of our state, some leniency might be shown. But you must put away your weapons at once and hand them over to the guards at the first gate. No weapons are permitted beyond that point.’ Another wave of laughter rose from the group. The youngster with the arrow aimed at Rama laughed too, evidently imitating his older companions rather than because he found Rama’s words funny. His hands were unsteady on the bow, and he almost released the arrow without realising it. Rama called to him. ‘You, young one. Put down that bow and arrow. Right now. All of you do the same with your weapons at once. If you do not obey, this will go badly for you.’ The youngster looked uncertain. The hand holding the fletch of the arrow quivered, then eased. The bow dipped, pointing at the river. He looked around to see the response of his older companions. They looked unimpressed by Rama’s warning. A pair standing off to one side spoke to each other and spat together into the river. They drew knives, large curved hunting knives that had been sharpened so often their blades were honed to fine needle points at the tips. They held the knives in the pahadi fashion, blade under the fist, pointed sideways. A fat man with a head full of blond hair and a beard to match strung an arrow

into his bow. ‘Methinks this will go badly for you, boy! You’re holding up our sport, you are!’ ‘Yes,’ shouted another man, brandishing a khukhri that gleamed dangerously in the bright sunlight. ‘You move out of the way and let us have our sport with the deer. Unless you want to join in its fate, in which case we’d be happy to oblige you!’ The others all shouted similar challenges and comments, some adding abuse and insults against Ayodhyans and their city. Three more men drew bows and strung them with drunken arrogance. Rama counted seven arrows in all now pointed at him. He looked at the leader and addressed him directly. ‘Do you speak for these men?’ One of the men called out: ‘We’re free men, we speak for ourselves.’ But they all glanced up to see their leader’s response. He stared at Rama for a moment, his eyes flicking up and down, taking in every detail. The sun caught his eyes and turned them into two pinpoints of white light, like reflections off quartz stones. He hawked and spat out a lump of phlegm streaked with blood. It travelled a good five yards to the river, and fell in, carried away by the swirling waters. Somehow, that offended Rama far more than the spoken insults and abuses. It was one thing to wash or bathe in the Sarayu, but by spitting in it the pahadi leader was mocking the entire Ikshvaku clan that had originally settled this valley and cared so well for its ecology these past two thousand years. Rama noticed the peculiar slash-shaped scars on the man’s face, the lines of shiny scar tissue

and gouges where the flesh had been damaged too deeply to repair itself, and recognised them as the marks of the great Himalayan brown bear, a giant of a beast that spared nothing and nobody in its path. It was commonly known as rksaa. Looking at the man’s hideous scars, Rama wondered how anyone could have suffered such a mauling and survived. The military training ingrained in his mind concluded that a man who had faced a rksaa and lived to tell the tale would most likely make a dangerous adversary. The other men clearly looked to him as a leader, and addressed him as Bearface. ‘You go find your mother and bring her to us, boy,’ Bearface said in a hoarse rasping voice that meshed with the river’s grinding roar. ‘We’ll find something to keep her busy.’ His eyes flicked to Rama’s lower body. ‘And you as well, pretty one.’ The burst of laughter that greeted this comment was the loudest yet. Rama’s voice was clear and unflecked with emotion, carrying across the laughter and the roar of the river. ‘For hunting the deer and refusing to put down your arms, you will be arrested and tried under Ayodhya law. The most severe punishment applicable will be meted out to each and every one of you.’ He paused and pointed at the one they called Bearface. ‘But for that last comment, pahadi, you are answerable to me.’ The fat blond man yelled exuberantly: ‘You hear that, Bearface? You’re answerable to him now!’ The leader grinned, revealing slits in the

scars down his face where the skin and flesh had been torn through completely, exposing parts of his cartilage and jawbone. ‘I like that. Answerable, hey? Come closer, boy, I’ve got the answer you’re looking for right here in the crotch of my langot.’ He clutched his loincloth with a gesture that left no room for doubt. Rama picked up a stone and hefted it in his hand. It felt just about right. At the movement, the seven men with bows grew alert in a drunken, amused way. Several of them had relaxed enough to begin drinking again from their wineskins, slopping wine down the front of their chests. Rama shook his head regretfully. He had been taught never to fight with men under the influence of liquor; but he wasn’t being given a choice. Still, he tried once more to appeal to their better sense. ‘I ask you one last time,’ he said, his voice as calm and steady as the hand holding the rock. ‘Throw down your weapons and surrender to me and I will not pursue this further.’ This time, the laughter was ragged. The pahadis were tired of talk. One of them loosed an arrow carelessly. It shot a whole yard over Rama’s head, burying itself with a soft sigh in the grassy side of the knoll behind him. Rama ignored it. ‘Pursue that, if you can,’ the man yelled, and reached back to pull another arrow from his quiver. Rama decided that the time for talk was past.

ELEVEN Dasaratha raised his head to stare at the person who had so rudely interrupted him. A man dressed in animal furs was striding up Raghuvamsha Avenue towards the palace gates, a hunting spear clutched threateningly in his hand. His dark skin and body piercings identified him unmistakably as a common hunter, a sudra no less. Dasaratha blinked repeatedly, unable to believe that this low-caste would have the gumption to shout orders at him, maharaja of Kosala. He almost turned to look around, in case he had misheard the stranger’s impudent command. There was no need to: the broad avenue was deserted at this early hour on a feast day, except for the street sentries standing guard at intervals of thirty yards all the way down the long causeway. Raghuvamsha Avenue led nowhere except to the palaces and treasury houses. Even the tradesmen and staff used the rear entrances. In case he had any doubt, the man spoke again, even louder and more forceful in his exhortation this time. ‘Dasaratha! Rise to your feet at once! Do not debase yourself by bowing before this vile filth. Rise, I command you!’ Dasaratha stared at the man in stunned silence for a moment. His upper lip trembled with sudden anger. He rose to his feet, joining his hands together before the seer-mage who still stood awaiting his arghya. ‘Shama, mahadev. Forgive me for pausing in my hospitable duties. But I

must deal with this insolent intruder who so rudely interrupts our ritual.’ Vishwamitra nodded, his eyes seeming to stare distantly at some point above the maharaja’s head. Dasaratha was relieved that the seer hadn’t taken offence at the interruption—not yet. Dasaratha took three steps sideways, to face the rude stranger directly, and pointed at the hunter who was approaching at a steady pace. He was still a good twenty yards away when Dasaratha summoned up his most imperial voice to issue a command. ‘Guards! Stop this man and put him on the ground on his belly. He has interrupted the sacred arghya reception of our noble visitor. By committing this violation of our ancient ritual, he has forfeited his rights as a citizen. Arrest this man at once!’ Even as the words left his lips, the alert palace guards ran forward in perfect unison. In scant seconds, they had fanned out into three main formations: four quads of four men each encircled their king, walling him inside four concentric squares, a formidable defensive wall that would have to be hacked down a man at a time before they would allow any harm to come to their maharaja. A second unit spread across the avenue in a V formation designed to catch the hunter at its lowermost point, wrapping themselves around him in seconds, closing the gap behind him until he was enveloped by hard flesh and sharpened steel. And a third unit, made up of two additional platoons which had been brought up the minute Dasaratha stepped out of the palace gates, blocked

the way to the palace, shutting the gates with quick military efficiency to prevent any risk of intrusion. The trumpeting of elephants and rumbling of chariot wheels grew audible and Dasaratha knew without looking that reinforcements had already been summoned. In moments, a force capable of resisting a small army would take up defensive positions all around the palace, in the event, however unlikely, that this commoner’s challenge might herald a larger threat. For all its open spaces and free access, Ayodhya was nevertheless a formidable fortress designed to withstand any violent assault, large or small. A conch shell sounded behind the barred palace gates, and Dasaratha knew that it was heralding the first alarm. Three miles away, beyond the great games field, the army cantonment would be put on first alert. Ayodhya city itself maintained a standing army of four akshohini. If a second conch sounded, all four divisions would mobilise within the hour: close to half a million foot soldiers, a quarter of a million armoured cavalry, a hundred thousand archers on chariots, and over eighty thousand war elephants. And if Ayodhya were under invasion, the rest of the army would arrive within days, summoned from garrisons at various strategic points across the kingdom. But this was no invasion. There would be no need for a second alarm. Even the first was only sounded as a matter of routine. All because of a lone sudra hunter! Some insolent fool who had drunk too much bhaang too early on a feast day and had some petty grouse against his king. Dasaratha would sort this fellow out in a moment, punish him

for his impudence—after he made sure the man didn’t have any companions as unpatriotic as himself following close behind—and resume the arghya he had been about to perform. Dasaratha looked at the chief of the quadrant immediately surrounding him. The captain standing before him was a pleasant-faced young fellow whose face suggested he was related to an old and illustrious senapati who had led part of Dasaratha’s army in several campaigns. ‘Drishti Kumar—it is Drishti Kumar, isn’t it?—I wish to speak with him for a moment. Please make way.’ The man saluted. If he was pleased at being recognised and acknowledged by his king, he did not waste time showing it now. ‘Maharaj, may I advise that you and your esteemed guest retire to the safety of the royal palace. We shall interrogate the low-caste commoner and bring you full details within minutes.’ Dasaratha shook his head impatiently. ‘Thank you for your concern, captain. But this is just some bhaang-drunk citizen with a grouse. I can deal with him myself. Move aside.’ Reluctantly, the captain issued a secret signal and a corridor appeared before Dasaratha. He walked down the gauntlet of gleaming spears until he found himself within sight of the sudra. The hunter was still encircled by soldiers, but Dasaratha could see him well enough. ‘Citizen, who are you and why do you dare to address your king so insolently?’ The sudra hunter took a step forward,

unmindful of the spears fencing him in. He spoke in a voice that was strangely familiar. Completely unlike the western plains accent that Dasaratha would have expected, based on his appearance and caste marks. ‘Dasaratha, listen very carefully. That man standing over there is an impostor. I am the real Vishwamitra.’ Dasaratha resisted the impulse to laugh aloud in disbelief. Was the man completely insane? He clearly needed some straightening out and quickly. Keenly aware that he was being watched by over a hundred of his personal palace guard, Dasaratha replied in his most formidable baritone. ‘Insolent man! Do you wish to be put to death right here on the street?’ ‘Dasaratha, look at me closely. I changed my bhes-bhav to enter the city without attracting the attention of your enemies. I did not know that this foul demon had already preceded me here by scant moments. If I had not come in time, you would be lying dead right there before your own gates. Even now, I urge you, step away from him!’ At the mention of harm coming to the king, the soldiers guarding the sudra moved forward. Their training demanded they deal with the stranger as a hostile traitor now, and they quickly disarmed him and twisted his arms behind his back. He made no move to resist, as if he had been expecting this action. ‘Maharaj,’ said the captain’s voice from behind Dasaratha. ‘This man is ranting. Let us take him to the dungeons where he will be suitably interrogated. He may be

part of a conspiracy.’ Dasaratha nodded sadly. He felt pity for the man now, not anger. He turned his back on the citizen. ‘Take him away.’ The sudra shouted fiercely, the veins on his neck and upper shoulders standing out with his intensity. ‘You must believe me. That man is an impostor! He is an assassin from Lanka sent to kill you before you have a chance to announce the coronation of your son Rama. Tell your soldiers to unhand me or I will have no choice but to use my powers against them.’ Dasaratha stopped still. For a moment, it seemed as if time itself stopped with him. He had recognised the hunter’s voice the moment he turned his back. It was the voice of Vishwamitra, identical in every respect. It had taken him a moment to place it, having just heard the sage himself speak for the first time a few seconds before this insolent madman had begun yelling. But once he realised the similarity, there was no doubt at all. The hunter spoke in precisely the same cultured and modulated tones as the great seer-mage himself, a former Kshatriya warrior king of a great dynasty, not like a low-caste killer of four-footed animals. What strange magic was abroad here? Dasaratha resisted the urge to turn back and reassess the sudra. He kept walking away. ‘Dasaratha!’ the sudra called out again, his anger clearly audible now. ‘Do not force me to destroy your soldiers. I have

sworn a sacred vow not to take a life until my tapasya is complete. Order them to move away and let me deal with the impostor. Look. Even now, he pretends to be me, the foolish creature, but his disguise is merely excellent, not perfect. Ask Guru Vashishta if you do not believe me. Vashishta! Speak and save lives!’ Dasaratha continued walking back down the corridor of guards. Ahead, he could see the trio of men still arranged in the same tableau. Guru Vashishta standing still as a statue, arms crossed in front of him. The sage Vishwamitra, proud profile limned against the growing light of the rising sun. And off to one side, eyes goggling at this incredible turn of events, Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra. ‘Ayodhya-naresh.’ The seer-mage barely turned his head to look at Dasaratha as he approached. But the tone of hurt pride was unmistakable. ‘Is this how you greet a visiting seer? With insults and abuse from a common citizen? I would turn my powers on the insolent wretch and reduce him to ashes in an instant.’ And then, with a calm that was almost preternatural, Guru Vashishta spoke his first words since emerging from the palace gates. ‘An excellent idea, Vishwamitra. Why don’t you do just that? Use your power of atma-Brahman and punish that wretched mortal over there for insulting you. The code of the seers demands it, as you well know.’ In the sudden deathly silence that followed these words, Dasaratha heard a

peculiar sound from behind. A sound like men grunting and choking. He spun around and saw an amazing sight. The sudra hunter had somehow managed to throw off the two men holding his arms, and they lay on their backs on the street, clutching their throats, gasping for breath. The rest of the guards surrounding the hunter raised their spears and drove them forward without hesitation. Dasaratha saw the foot-long tapered steel blades of the spears strike the sudra’s body—and break off! The snapping spears made a loud and shocking sound. The baffled soldiers, not quite comprehending what had happened, stared down at their broken weapons, then at the sudra. Not a scratch marred his bare upper body. As their unit leader shouted an order in commonspeak, the guards dropped their broken spears and reached over their shoulders for their backsheathed swords. The sudra raised his palms and pushed outwards, like a man shoving at the walls of a narrow corridor. With a burst of blue light, the ring of soldiers surrounding him exploded into the air, rising up and back and falling several yards away in a stunned heap. Their armour clattered noisily on the street, leaving a clear circle around the sudra. He lowered his hands and strode towards the seer standing before the gates. ‘Come on then, impostor. Vashishta speaks wisely. Destroy me. Or be

destroyed yourself. But know this first: you face none other than Brahmarishi Vishwamitra.’ And before Dasaratha’s astonished eyes, the sudra hunter cried out a Sanskrit mantra as fiercely as a general calling out a battle cry, and in a burst of blinding blue light morphed into the spitting image of the seer-mage Vishwamitra.

TWELVE Several things happened simultaneously. Rama pulled back his hand and threw the stone. It flew directly at its destination—the leader—and before Bearface could blink, it struck him squarely in the centre of his forehead with a sound like an axe striking a teak tree. Bearface grunted, his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell bonelessly to the ground.

by the sound of their loosing and the hiss of their metal heads as they flew through the air, barely audible above the roar of the Sarayu. At the same time, he completed the half-turn he had begun, now presenting his back to the men, while bending over backwards, his hands shooting up towards the sky as he did so. He clenched his fists as if grabbing mosquitoes, then straightened up slowly, still with his back to the men.

At the same time, two of the other men loosed arrows directly at Rama, these ones aimed to hit, not miss. Rama’s hand was still at the end of its throw when the arrows left their bows. Moving with the pull of the throw, he turned his body sharply to the right, presenting his slender silhouette rather than his broad front. Both arrows whizzed past him, the rusty iron head of the second one nicking and shredding the seam of his kurta, and buried themselves in the side of the knoll. He had judged their trajectories correctly: both were too high to harm the deer lying helpless behind him on the ground.

Two arrows were clutched in his right fist, one in his left.

Even before the two arrows had struck the knoll, three more were loosed. At the same time, the men not firing realised their leader had been downed and paused, surprised and confused. A few of them could not understand how Bearface had fallen at all; they were too drunk to connect the rock thrown by Rama with the man’s fall.

The other men all looked at their fallen leader, then at Rama. He turned to face them, the arrows still clutched in his fists. He tossed the single one in the air, spinning it around and catching it by the tail. He judged its heft and balance. It was a well-made shortbow arrow, about half a yard long and reasonably well balanced. He tossed it again and caught it by the head this time, raising his arm to aim it at one of the men who had shot at him.

Rama was still poised sideways, presenting his silhouette to the pahadis, when the three arrows left their strings. He had been looking back to see where the first arrows landed, and there was not enough time to turn and judge the trajectories of the new ones. So he did it

The pahadis blinked, astonished. ‘By the shakti of Kali,’ one of them said. Another man dropped his wineskin. Blood-red wine splashed from the open mouth, staining the damp ground of the riverbank. The youngster, his bow still unfired, hiccuped loudly and lost his grip on his arrow. It shot upwards into the air, arced gracefully, and fell into the river.

The man fumbled at his back, his hand seeking his quiver. His eyes were still wide with shock, his drink-addled brain unable to comprehend what he had just

seen. Working by instinct, he found an arrow and pulled it from the quiver. Before the pahadi’s arrow could even reach the string of his bow, Rama tossed his first arrow back at him. Thrown like a dart knife with just the right force and the perfect angle to bring it around the force of the wind blowing downriver, it struck the man in the shoulder.

youngster who had shot the arrow upwards was breathing heavily, as if he had run a yojana non-stop. His panting was punctuated by hiccups at irregular intervals, large lurching hiccups that made his entire body shake. Finally, he fell to his knees and lost the contents of his stomach. The sound of the river grew very loud.

His bow and arrow fell from his hands and he fell with them, clutching at his shoulder, his face contorting in a silent scream. In quick succession, Rama tossed the other two arrows, taking care to aim only at those who had loosed missiles at him, avoiding the ones with blades who had simply swaggered and threatened. Both arrows found their marks—one hitting its target in the ample flesh of his side, away from any internal organs, the other striking a man in his upper thigh. He was standing on a rock a yard high, which accounted for the difference. One foolish Garhwali pahadi, still not comprehending what they were up against, spat a curse and loosed a fresh arrow, aiming directly at Rama’s throat this time. Rama snatched the arrow from the air in a gesture like yanking off a neck-chain, and tossed it back at its owner in one single fluid motion. The arrow took the man in the throat. He sank to his knees, a gurgling liquid noise bubbling from his gashed windpipe, blood pouring down the front of his chest to merge with the winestains on his wolf-pelt. He fell forward on his face and lay still. The nine men still alive and conscious stared at Rama silently. For several moments, none of them spoke. The

Rama spoke to the pahadis, looking them in the eyes one by one. ‘Cast down your weapons and there will be no more bloodshed.’ The clattering of wooden bows and metal blades on the rocky riverbank made an almost musical counterpoint to the river’s sound. *** Lakshman was less than a hundred yards from the grove when he saw the ragged group coming towards him on foot. They looked like pahadis from their pelts but he had never seen pahadis behave in that fashion. The men were walking in a straight line and displayed none of the boisterousness of mountain folk. One of them was supporting a companion who seemed to be ill. Another pair were carrying a makeshift sling between them, in which a man with an obvious arrow wound lay—even from here, Lakshman could see the shaft sticking out. At the end of the line, another pair were carrying what appeared to be a dead companion wrapped in furs. And finally, bringing up the rear was a slender young form in white, walking behind the ragged line like a govinda shepherding his bleating flock home. Except that this particular flock was unusually silent.

Lakshman whispered to his horse, Marut, who immediately responded, slowing to a light canter. They reached the peculiar procession in moments. The pahadis stared sullenly up at Lakshman but offered no greeting or comment. Now he knew something was off here. Pahadis were notorious for their loquaciousness. Even their funeral processions were accompanied by incessant chanting and singing. Only one particularly large pahadi, the one being supported by his companion, glared hotly at Lakshman through a terribly scarred face. Bear slashes, Lakshman thought. During the years in Guru Vashishta’s gurukul, he had seen several examples of the work of the great Himalayan rksaa before, but they had all been the mauled corpses of waylaid pilgrims that he and his fellow shishyas had found on the slopes of the lower Himalayas. This pahadi had the worst scarring he had seen on a man still living. Lakshman reached the end of the line and halted Marut. ‘Well,’ he said to Rama. ‘Looks like you’ve been busy this morning.’ Rama was holding a kairee in his hand, sucking on it with an excruciating expression on his face. He nodded at Lakshman. ‘Pass me some salt.’ Lakshman pulled out the small packet of salt that every Kshatriya carried to fend off dehydration as a matter of habit. He tossed it to Rama, who caught it and opened it one-handed, and then dipped the kairee into it. He sucked on the saltencrusted fruit again, and this time he shook his head with delight. ‘Sundar. Ati sundar.’Beautiful. Truly beautiful. Lakshman smiled as he turned his horse

around. Rama’s fondness for sour kairee was so legendary it had made him the butt of many jokes in the past. Lakshman leaped off Marut, leading the horse by the reins as he walked by his brother. ‘So what did these scoundrels do to deserve their wounds?’ Rama shrugged, still intent on his kairee. ‘They were hunting a deer by the riverbank. I told them to stop. They didn’t listen.’ Lakshman glanced over the sullen group trudging silently towards the first wallgate. ‘Three wounded, no, four. And one dead. And that young badmash there looks like he’s been throwing up more wine than he’s been drinking. And they all look like the nasty kind, the kind who poach on the king’s lands and don’t hesitate to murder wardens over a rabbit snack.’ Rama nodded, eyes shut as he relished his kairee. ‘Good thinking. Have some of the wardens take a look at them. They might find some familiar faces. Repeat offenders. Sumantra did say something about poachers on the king’s lands this past winter.’ ‘So how did you do it?’ Rama grinned up at him, displaying lips and teeth yellowed by the sour fruit. Lakshman sighed and nodded. ‘Ask a stupid question . . .’ Rama pointed down the long raj-marg. The king’s highway wound through the groves and sloping valley road of the north bank of the Sarayu for another full yojana before reaching the city gates. ‘Why don’t you ride to the first gate and have them send an escort for these

wretches? Then maybe we can get to the practice session we’d planned. I bet you Bharat and Shatrugan are hard at it already. They’re determined to top us in archery as well as the chariot race.’ Lakshman snorted. ‘They can dream.’ He took up the slack in Marut’s reins gently. ‘Why don’t you give your flock a rest for a few moments? I’ll be back before you can finish that kairee.’ Rama grinned and patted a bulge in the pocket of his kurta. ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I have more.’

THIRTEEN Dasaratha was seeing the impossible. Two Vishwamitras? One claiming the other was an impostor, an assassin? What was going on? And if the sudra hunter was just an asura in disguise, how did he have the use of Brahman? Dasaratha had seen the sacred force used enough times in his lifetime to recognise that bluish light. The man who said he was the real Vishwamitra stopped a few yards from the first Vishwamitra, the man whose feet Dasaratha had been about to wash with holy Ganges water a few minutes ago. He raised his hand and Dasaratha heard a whooping sound, the sound of heavy wildwood whipping through the air. He turned to see the sudra hunter’s spear, which had been lying on the street beside the stunned guard who had confiscated it, flying through the air towards its owner. As it flew, making that whooping sound, it transformed into a hefty wildwood staff, identical to the one in the hand of the first Vishwamitra. The staff reached its destination and the man who claimed to be the real Vishwamitra raised it in a threatening stance at the amazed soldiers blocking his path. ‘Move aside, Ayodhyans. I have no wish to harm you. My business is with that impostor over there. He is the intruder and a threat to your king and city, not I.’ The soldiers looked at their captain uneasily. Dasaratha knew that scenarios such as this were not part of their training. He himself had never seen anything like it before. To his credit, Captain Drishti Kumar, swallowing his obvious puzzlement, shouted to the men defending the maharaja and the gates to

hold their positions. Then he barked an order to the rest of the platoon to attack the stranger without hesitation or mercy. Dasaratha nodded approvingly. This was the result of his training, his army. A moment later, he lost all faith in his own experience. The challenger, seeing that his warning hadn’t been heeded, calmly sketched two half-circles in the air with his staff. An explosion of blue light filled the avenue, visible for a mile in every direction. The entire contingent of soldiers blocking his path, some forty-odd hefty armed men, were thrown up into the air like a child’s rag dolls. They flew to either side like sods in a field riven by a plough, and fell in a crumpled heap of tangled spears, armour and bruised limbs. Even in this moment of crisis, Dasaratha’s battle-hardened eyes noted that none of them were actually harmed by the sorcerous bolts. But if he could do that to them, he could easily have killed them too. He recalled what the sudra hunter had said about not wanting to break his tapasya by taking a life, and the first seed of real doubt began to sprout. Now, nothing stood between the challenger and the first Vishwamitra. The man whom the sudra hunter had accused of being an impostor had turned to face his accuser. Dasaratha saw that the moment his back was turned, a quartet of soldiers rushed up and escorted Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra aside, out of harm’s way. The prime minister was trembling like a leaf. Dasaratha had seen Sumantra fight like a veteran in the heat of battle, but sorcery of this magnitude was any Kshatriya’s

nightmare come true. Flesh and metal were poor armour against seers’ sorcery. The soldiers did not attempt to lead Guru Vashishta aside. If there was anyone here who could deal with the situation, it was he, Dasaratha knew. Why had he not acted yet? It was this rather than anything else that made Dasaratha himself hold his tongue and wait before giving another order. He needed to hear the guru speak again. Preternaturally sensitive to the maharaja’s mind as always, Guru Vashishta spoke again into the thick silence that followed. He addressed his words to the man who stood before him, the first Vishwamitra. His tone was calm, almost casual, as if he was discussing the weather and harvest with his seer colleague. ‘There seems to be a question of identity, my esteemed friend. This man has challenged your authenticity. Aren’t you going to respond in some way?’ The man whose feet Dasaratha had almost washed with his own hands looked at the guru silently. Then, with a perceptible reluctance, he turned and faced his challenger. ‘I am Vishwamitra. impostor.’

You

are

But then the other Vishwamitra spoke. ‘I cannot perform an aggressive act, impostor. It will negate my entire penance. I have not endured two hundred and forty years of tapasya in the fetid swamps of the Bhayanak-van just to be tricked by a shape-shifting asura such as yourself. As I did with the soldiers, I will only defend myself. Unleash your black sorcery. Do your worst.’ Guru Vashishta nodded and looked pleased, speaking again. ‘Well said, old friend,’ he said approvingly. The guru’s voice turned harsh as he turned back to the first Vishwamitra standing barely a yard before him. ‘It is time to show your true self now, impostor.’ And with a penetrating, bone-chilling cry, he uttered a mantra: ‘Reveal yourself, rakshas!’ With a shock, Dasaratha realised the guru was siding with the second Vishwamitra! Vashishta believed that the insolent sudra hunter was the real seermage! Which meant the other man was the impostor. Dasaratha watched, transfixed, as the drama at the gates took its unexpected new turn.

the

The challenger smiled grimly at those words. ‘You will have to do more than claim now, assassin. Prove it!’ The seer-mage looked at him intently. ‘My word is my proof. Now be gone or be ruined.’ If he was acting, Dasaratha thought, it was one hell of a performance.

Just at that moment, reinforcements arrived. Out of the corner of his eye, Dasaratha could glimpse a senapati shouting orders to a quartet of elephantmounted spearmen, while several chariot-borne archers blocked every ingress and exit. A second squadron of his personal guard began to ring Dasaratha, eager to spirit him away from this incomprehensible but obvious threat. It took two successive orders from the maharaja, spoken quietly but

firmly, before they reluctantly settled for a defensive position around him. Dasaratha twisted and turned to get a better view. The sound of armour rattling and feet running echoed from all around. Whatever the impostor’s goal may have been, he would not get into the royal palace now. Not without killing several thousand of the finest warriors in the Arya nations. Behind the palace gates, Dasaratha saw a crowd of servants and staff being kept back at a safe distance by guards, while at the far end of Raghuvamsha Avenue a growing crowd of citizens had begun to gather and were similarly being kept behind a line of spearmen. Word spread fast in Ayodhya, especially when the army alert was sounded. By now, the entire city would know that a crisis had arisen at the palace gates—a crisis involving their king himself. The man who was the centre of all this attention, the first Vishwamitra, slowly raised his staff. For a moment Dasaratha thought he was about to sketch a mantra in the air, blasting the other Vishwamitra to ashes, proving his own authenticity. But with a tired sigh, the man simply threw the staff lightly up into the air and caught it. It was the gesture of a court juggler and it had the same effect. For an instant, every pair of eyes followed the rise and fall of the staff, shifting away from its owner. In that instant he changed back to his true form.

FOURTEEN A medley of gasps and exclamations rose from the massed soldiers surrounding the avenue. Dasaratha heard his own voice uttering a hasty invocation to Lord Indra, patron deity of warriors, general of the army of the gods. The thing standing before Guru Vashishta was no longer a man, let alone a legendary seer-mage. It was a rakshas. A demon from the netherworld, the third and lowest plane of existence, of which Lanka was the capital city and gateway. Its blackish-red skin, garments made of human skin, necklace of human infant skulls, wild snake-mouthed hair and blood-red eyes left no doubt at all. No seer would assume this form, even in jest. This was a born rakshas, and from the size of its horns, two-yard-long antlers formidable enough to match the headgear of a Himalayan black stag, he could see that it was a very aged and powerful rakshas. It towered at least thrice as high as Guru Vashishta, and the guru himself was over six feet tall. The rakshas laughed, revealing a mouthful of splintered black fangs. The sound it emitted was nothing like human laughter. Dasaratha’s hair curled and his teeth keened at the sound. Somewhere beside him, a soldier moaned and uttered a brief prayer. Dasaratha added his own, but silently. Guru Vashishta was the only person on the avenue who seemed unperturbed by the apparition that had appeared before him. The fact that the creature was barely a hand’s reach away didn’t seem

to bother him in the least. He spoke, cutting sharply through the demon’s laughter. ‘Kala-Nemi, it’s been a while since we last met.’ The rakshas turned to look at Vashishta. His antlered head was too heavy even for his bulky muscular body, and the action was slow and deliberate. Dasaratha realised with a surge of disgust that the rakshas’s skin was alive, a crawling carpet of living tissue that bulged and boiled and seethed like the surface of a volcanic mass rather than an epidermal covering. And there were things living inside the beast’s body, he saw, their blind white worm-like forms snaking into and out of his flesh, his form undulating as they writhed. Vashisht. Still alive, old fool? The rakshas’s voice was like the sound of gravel grinding with glass. It hurt the ears physically. Vishwamitra addressed Vashishta. ‘You know this beast, old friend?’ Vashishta replied without taking his eyes off the rakshas, who kept turning his antlered head slowly to look at each of the seers as they spoke. ‘He and I have had . . . encounters over the millennia. He comes from a very illustrious line of asuras. I’m sure you know him by his family name at least. Pulastya.’ Vishwamitra snorted. ‘You must be joking. This stinking

foulness is descended from the sage Pulastya?’ ‘Yes. Through his son, Visravas. This handsome fellow is Visravas’s brother, in fact.’ ‘How interesting. So that would make him . . . uncle of Ravana, the selfproclaimed king of the rakshas clans?’ At the mention of Ravana, the rakshas raised his antlered head and opened his mouth wide. A slimy, maggot-infested serpent with snapping jaws emerged a foot out of his open mouth and emitted a high-pitched scream that jarred Dasaratha’s ears. The serpent retreated as quickly as it had come, dropping one wriggling greenish-white maggot on to the dust of the avenue. Dasaratha saw the ground boil with a frenzy like soup bubbling, and the maggot dissolved into a tiny puddle of steaming fluid, unable to survive outside the fetid environment of its natural habitat. I am Kala-Nemi, king of rakshasas. Ravana is merely my nephew. I roamed the three worlds long before he was even a mote in my sister’s eye. An elephant reared in fright, startled by the unnatural sound of the rakshas’s voice. An old veteran, Dasaratha thought, just like me, hearing and seeing things it has tried desperately to forget for many years. Suddenly, he wanted a sword in his hand. The sight of the rakshas sickened him to the belly. He had almost washed this thing’s feet! Bent his head before its vile presence like a goat bowing before a butcher. Close enough to be struck down with one treacherous blow. At the

gates of his own palace, in the heart of the most impregnable Arya city ever built. Unbelievable. He turned to Drishti Kumar and asked him for a sword. The captain responded without a word, eyes fixed on the tableau unfolding before the palace gates. Dasaratha clutched the sword in his fist, and strode forward, trailing his squadron of guards. He wanted to confront this stranger who had dared to humiliate him on his own turf. But as he moved forward, Vishwamitra and Vashishta exchanged a glance, and Vishwamitra gestured in the maharaja’s direction. To his chagrin, Dasaratha found himself locked into a bubble of immobility, unable to speak or move. The guru inclined his head marginally in the maharaja’s direction, his tone apologetic. ‘This matter cannot be settled with swords, Dasaratha. Allow us to deal with this intruder in the manner that best befits his race.’ He gestured at the rest of the army contingent gathered all around them. ‘I have done the same to all your brave soldiers as well, with your royal permission.’ For a moment, Dasaratha felt an irrational surge of anger at the guru. But he realised at once that Vashishta was right. He had fought enough rakshasas to know that to bring down one such beast could cost a dozen or more Kshatriya lives. And he had never faced a rakshasa as formidable as this KalaNemi before. As his anger subsided, he felt a brief pulse of gratitude to the guru for yet again helping him save face, and saving his life as well. It is my dharma, my king, came the unspoken reply in Dasaratha’s brain, reminding him for the umpteenth time

that if Vashishta’s actions and words sometimes seemed curt and brusque, it was because the sage bore the weight of great responsibility. The responsibility of being the world’s oldest living seer, one of only three of the original seven seers who had been present at the dawn of civilisation, and by extension, the oldest living repository of the unwritten Vedas, the cumulative knowledge of the Arya peoples since the beginning of their race.

sage, seer or seer-mage has an aura of Brahman around his form, you asuras have a stench of evil around you. I smelt it a mile away.’

Aloud, Vashishta continued calmly, as if he was accustomed to having conversations with rakshasas at the palace gates, surrounded by Ayodhya’s army and the watching populace. ‘So, Kala-Nemi. You believe yourself to be the true leader of the rakshas clans, do you? And yet, I would wager my seven thousand years of knowledge that it was on your nephew Ravana’s orders that you came here on this foolish mission.’

He extended a large clawed hand and made a slashing motion barely inches from Vashishta’s face.

It was my idea. I go where I please, do as I please. If I choose to let Ravana sit on the throne of Lanka, it is because I prefer to roam free and ravage the cities of you mortals. He likes to enjoy the company of his stolen queens and toys. It pleases me to leave him to manage my kingdom while I strike terror and cause ruin among your kind.

Kala-Nemi grunted. Dasaratha thought he heard disgust in that alien sound. Although it might have been just an acid belch.

Vishwamitra commented scornfully, ‘Is that what you intended to do here? You don’t seem to have been very successful.’ ‘If your canny colleague had not exposed me when he did, I would have been within the walls of your palace wreaking havoc even at this moment. You were fortunate to have been spared my wrath this time.’ Both sages laughed together. ‘Foolish creature,’ Vashishta went on. ‘Did you really believe you had fooled me? I saw through your disguise the moment I laid eyes on you. Just as a true

The rakshas roared again in frustration, spitting maggots into the air. You lie! If you saw through my disguise you would never have let me come so close to Maharaja Dasaratha!

I could have slit his throat just by flexing my arm! The guru looked unperturbed by the threatening gesture. ‘But then you would never have come close to your real target. And your mission would have been a failure.’

If you know who I intended to kill, then know this also, old seer. I will accomplish my mission, sooner or later. And a day will come not far from now when this gaudy eyesore of a city will lie in smouldering ruins. Even as we speak, the greatest army of asuras ever assembled is preparing to march north. Ayodhya will fall. And after it, all of the proud Arya nations. We masters of the netherworld will possess the world of Middle-Earth that you call Prithvi. We will crush you like the pathetic bags of meat-and-water you are, mortals! And when we have rid all Prithvi of every last one of your kind, we shall rise to overpower the plane of swarga-lok as well, land of the devas. No power in the three worlds of hell, earth and heaven can stop us! Vashishta glanced at his fellow seermage grimly. ‘I think we have bantered enough with

this pretty boy, Vishwamitra. Time to show him how we mortals deal with skulking assassins and rude rakshasas who threaten us with genocide.’ Vishwamitra nodded, and both seermages raised their arms high, chanting a mantra that Dasaratha had never heard before. Blue streaks of light shot from the tips of their fingers, coiling together to form a thick rope of Brahman. They lowered their hands, and the rakshas was entwined in the rope of mystic energy. He screamed with rage, twisting in the grip of their power. Do your worst, fools. I will be back. And you will learn as countless mortals before you have learned the painful way, that it’s not for nothing He is named Ravan-a. He Who Makes The Universe Scream! ‘But for now,’ Vishwamitra said softly, ‘you are the one who will scream.’ Together both mages raised their hands. Lifting the rakshas on the thick, coiling beam of blue light, they elevated him a dozen yards above the avenue. Dasaratha heard gasps of wonder from the crowd assembled at the far end of the avenue as well as muttered exclamations and invocations from the soldiers. ‘In the name of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva,’ cried the mages together in a single voice that seemed to boom like thunder from the clear skies, ‘consign this demon to the lowest level of the netherworld, to everlasting agony!’ One last mantra. And with an explosion like a volcano erupting, the blue beam shot the rakshas downwards into the ground. He struck it like an arrow piercing water, and a hole appeared.

Dasaratha felt a sucking force drawing himself and everything around him, the very air itself, into the hole. Darkness swirled like a vortex into infinity. The blue light blazed blinding bright, forcing everyone to cover their eyes; a deafening thunderclap sounded, and suddenly the rakshas was gone, the hole had disappeared, and the world was normal once more. A giant roar of applause and cheers exploded from the watching hordes, soldiers and citizens alike. Elephants trumpeted, echoing their mahouts’ joy. Guards clattered their swords against their shields. Dasaratha found he too was free to move once again. The spell binding them all had been released the instant the rakshas was dispatched. He pushed his way past the soldiers encircling him and ran to the seers. They stood together speaking softly, their faces looking more lined and anxious than when they had been fighting the rakshas. ‘Mahadev,’ Dasaratha blurted, bending to touch the tips of his fingers to Vishwamitra’s dusty feet. ‘Forgive me for not recognising you at first, and for treating you so rudely. You have saved my life and done all of Kosala a great, great service. My debt to you can never be repaid. But if there is any way I can show my gratitude, then you have but to ask.’ Vishwamitra touched Dasaratha’s forehead, blessing him, then raised him to his feet gently. ‘That natural error is not even worth mentioning, Ayodhyanaresh. As for being in my debt, don’t be too quick to offer me gratitude. I am about to ask you

to give me possession.’

your

most

precious

Dasaratha smiled, joining his hands in pranaam. ‘Great One, whatever you ask for, it is yours. I swear this in the presence of my mahaguru Vashishta, by the honour of the Arya nations, the Suryavansha dynasty and Ikshvaku clan, the kingdom of Kosala and its capital city of Ayodhya. Today, you have ensured the survival of all these great lineages. Name your dakshina and I shall grant it without hesitation.’ Vishwamitra glanced at Guru Vashishta. The older seer looked troubled but did not speak. Vishwamitra looked at Dasaratha again. ‘Raje, I come to ask for the life of your oldest and most beloved son, Rama. I need him to accompany me on a mission of the greatest danger and importance. A mission that could save Ayodhya itself. Surrender his life to me and you shall be forever blessed for your sacrifice.’

FIFTEEN Lakshman brought Marut to a halt. Rama, riding double-saddle behind his brother, dismounted and ran to the tree where he had tethered Airavata. ‘I couldn’t herd the whole bunch of pahadis up through the grove to get him,’ he explained to Lakshman. ‘It was simpler to walk them straight to the first gate. If I hadn’t met you on the way, I would have just left them with the gatewatch, turned around and come back for him.’ Lakshman nodded, peering over the rise at the riverbank below. ‘Where did you say you left the deer anyway? I don’t see her down there.’ Rama joined him, scanning the rocky bank. ‘Right there. Look. You can see the blood-stains from her wound. She must have been well enough to return to the forest after all.’ ‘Good for her. Now we can go back to the city and play Holi!’ Rama frowned. ‘What about practice?’ Lakshman sighed. ‘What about it? You’re already the best in your class, Rama. Besides, in case you’ve forgotten, today’s a feast day! Everybody’s looking forward to a day of celebration, masthi, bhaang and roast meat! And it’s Holi! Our first Holi in Ayodhya in eight years!’ Rama grinned, wiping a last stain of kairee ras from his chin. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He paused. ‘Luck, do you think we’re too old to play Holi?’ Lakshman chuckled. ‘Too old? Don’t you remember all the stories Father told

us about playing Holi with our mothers and all his other wives as well, all three hundred and fifty of them? Or how the entire cabinet of ministers got drunk on bhaang and danced the bhangra with each other—and these are statesmen who are at each other’s throats at every cabinet meeting! You’re never too old to play Holi, Rama! Holi was created for even the old to act young, just for a day at least.’ ‘That’s good,’ Rama mused. ‘So if we act like little brats today, nobody would mind, right?’ Lakshman grinned. ‘What did you have in mind?’ Rama shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing much. Just thought we might find Bharat and Shatrugan and turn their faces as purple as monkeys!’ Lakshman clapped his hands. ‘Now you’re talking like a true Arya! Let’s do it!’ ‘Okay!’ Rama yelled, rising to a halfcrouch. ‘Come on, kachua. Race you back to the horses!’ Lakshman laughed and raced his brother. As they leaped on their horses, startling the old stalwarts with their suddenness, they sang out together in perfect harmony: ‘Holi hai, Holi hai! Rang-birangi Holi hai!’ *** They had just reached the point where the raj-marg undulated from its curving path and ran straight as an arrow the last halfyojana to the first gate when they saw the dust-cloud approaching.

‘That’s Bharat and Shatrugan,’ Rama said. In a moment, the dust-cloud cleared to reveal two gleaming gold-plated raths, each drawn by two fine Kambhoja stallions. As the chariots neared and slowed, Bharat’s muscular bulk and Shatrugan’s only slightly less developed physique became clearly visible. Bharat’s voice rang out across the dusty highway. ‘Where in the three worlds have you been?’ Rama grinned as his brothers halted their chariots smartly, barely a yard before Airavata and Marut’s noses. The old battlehorses stood their ground calmly. Rama replied, ‘What’s the matter, bhai? Impatient to get your face coloured?’ Bharat grinned back at him. ‘We’ll see who gets his face coloured first. But first we’re needed back in the palace. Father’s orders.’ Rama and Lakshman exchanged glances. ‘Probably heard about your little escapade with the pahadis,’ Lakshman commented under his breath. ‘What pahadis?’ Shatrugan asked as he started to turn his chariot around, clucking encouragingly to his horses. ‘Are the pahadis invading us too?’ ‘Invading? Who said anything about invading?’ Rama asked, his voice suddenly sharp. Lakshman glanced at him, surprised. This time, Bharat exchanged glances.

and

Shatrugan

‘Don’t you know anything?’ Bharat

replied, turning his chariot as well. ‘The city is on full alert. The army was called out.’ Rama’s expression darkened abruptly. Lakshman saw him and thought of a barkha cloud passing across the sun. ‘Tell me what happened.’ Shatrugan chuckled. ‘It was almost funny at first. There were two Vishwamitras, but one was a sudra hunter. It was only when he started throwing whole quads of soldiers around that Father realised he wasn’t a sudra hunter. And then—’ ‘Be quiet, Shot.’ Bharat’s voice was quiet but firm. He had seen the expression on Rama’s face. ‘It’s all under control now, bhai. The seer-mage Vishwamitra arrived to visit Father on an urgent mission. Only a rakshas arrived at the same time, disguising himself as Vishwamitra. There was a lot of confusion. But the real Vishwamitra and Guru Vashishta exposed the rakshas and dispatched him using Brahman sorcery. Father’s called us all back to the palace just in case there are more intruders around. We should go.’ They were all silent, watching Rama closely. Lakshman had never seen his brother grow so serious so suddenly. Rama had nodded distractedly during Bharat’s explanation. It was as if Rama had expected to hear something along those lines. ‘What is it, bhai?’ Lakshman asked gently. Rama glanced at him. He seemed to realise that they were all staring at him and that he might not be behaving quite as might be expected. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. I just . . . Bharat’s right. We

should return to the palace as soon as possible. We should be within the seventh wall at a time like this.’ Lakshman saw Shatrugan frown and look at Bharat questioningly. Bharat shook his head, silencing Shatrugan again. Shatrugan shrugged. They began trotting their horses down the raj-marg. After a moment of tense silence, Rama seemed to shrug off his sudden cloak of tension with a visible effort. He glanced around at his brothers, giving them a smile. Lakshman felt relieved. He had been worried there for a moment. The news from the city was shocking enough, but Rama’s reaction had been even more alarming. It was good to see Rama looking like his brother again. ‘Hey,’ Rama called out in a more cheerful tone. ‘What say we race back to the first gate? Order of arrival decides who gets to colour the others’ faces first, agreed?’ ‘Agreed!’ cried the three of them in happy unison, ululating and crying encouragement to their horses as they began raising a dust-cloud that filled the breadth of the raj-marg. The four brothers shot forward like a single arrow from the same bow, heading home to Ayodhya. *** On the uppermost rise of the mango grove, high above the rajmarg, the doe lowered her head and watched the four mortal boys ride away. The head of the arrow still stuck out from her leg, but the wound had stopped bleeding; Rama’s

hurried tourniquet had been rough but effective. Still reluctant to endure the pain of changing that might well open the wound once more, the doe licked around the edges of her injury, trying to come to terms with what had happened today. She had been sent here to Ayodhya on a mission. That mission itself was simple enough: to accompany her uncle KalaNemi on the long journey north, aid him in infiltrating the great mortal city of Ayodhya, and wait until he accomplished his own assignment, which was to assassinate a certain mortal named Rama Chandra, first-born son of Maharaja Dasaratha. So when Kala-Nemi had assumed the bhes-bhav of the seer-mage Vishwamitra, a brilliant idea suggested by her cousin Lord Ravana during their briefing, she had taken the form of a deer, a favourite disguise that had fooled humans many times before, and waited in the woods outside the city. In the event that Kala-Nemi failed—unlikely but certainly possible, given the presence of that ancient enemy of the asuras, Guru Vashishta—she would take up and execute the same assignment. But something very peculiar had happened as she waited for her uncle’s return. That strange mortal boy had found her unexpectedly. Taken her by surprise. Even her heightened rakshas senses had not warned her of his presence until he had her in his grasp. That itself was so unusual as to be a first in her lifetime. She was young by rakshas standards—barely five hundred years old to her cousin Ravana’s five thousand years— but like all rakshasas, she was preternaturally tuned to any risk or threat. Yet she had sensed nothing, just the pleasant northern wind, the spray from the river, the scents of flowers and

unripened mangoes—and the next instant, the mortal boy had her in his arms, enfolding her like a lover in his warm embrace. It had taken her breath away, shocking her speechless and immobile for several vital seconds. She, Supanakha, who was called the rivertongued by her fellow rakshasas back in Lanka! The only explanation she could conceive of now, coming to terms with that bizarre capture, was that he had posed her no threat or risk, and hence his body odour and aura had been so benign that her finely attuned senses had included him as part of the environment itself. It defied everything she had learned and experienced about mortals, but there it was, the only logical answer. And when he had touched her, had there actually been affection in that embrace? Could a mortal, those brutal, rapacious twolegged beasts, actually feel affection for a four-legged mute animal? But there was more confusion, and other questions too. When those vile intoxicated men—behaving more like normal mortals in her experience—had attacked her without provocation, once again the boy had behaved uncharacteristically. He had saved her life. And dressed her wound. And risked his own life and limb to stop her attackers. Altogether, it was too much for one morning. Now, she licked one last time at her healing gash and prepared herself for the change. Painful as it might be, she must return to her true form. She needed hands rather than hoofs to remove the arrow before it festered. She focussed on the change, using the emotions swirling within her to try and

distract her mind from the inevitable pain. Even so, when it came, it was tortuous. The arrowhead, deeply embedded in her doe form, remained where it was as her living flesh and tissue morphed and transformed around it, cutting and tearing her changing flesh and tissue, causing greater internal bleeding and damage than the original flesh wound. Finally, she could take no more. She screamed. A scream neither wholly deerlike nor Yaksa-like. Simply the scream of a living being in terrible agony. Damn you, damn you mortals all to hell! The change complete, she stood naked at the edge of the forest, tears rolling down her furry anthropomorphic face. Her large curved ears twitched several times as she reached gingerly for the arrow. Her clawed fingers probed cautiously at the edge of the torn skin. The good news was that the arrow hadn’t gone into bone yet, just flesh. If she could just pull it out, the wound would heal naturally. That was one of the benefits of being a Yaksa: she would heal the wound in a day or two and in a week the scar would be barely visible. But right now, that didn’t console her much. She screamed again when the arrowhead tore its way out of her arm. This time, it was less the bleat of a wounded doe and more the shriek of an outraged rakshasi. The birds and creatures of the riverbank sensed the difference and grew silent and still. The cry echoed in the sunlit valley, rippling down to the river and the rajmarg that ran alongside it. By the time it reached Rama, a good chariot-length ahead of his brothers, it had almost

faded to nothingness. Still, he raised his head a fraction, his grin of triumphant concentration fading as he sensed the suffering of another living creature. A moment later, the faint echo was driven out of his mind as he saw what lay ahead, and he held up his hand, calling a halt to the impromptu race.

SIXTEEN Maharaja Dasaratha paused at the entrance of the sabha hall. He had expected the news of the morning’s events to spread like wildfire through the city; already, the captain of the guards had brought word that a substantial crowd was amassing outside the palace gates. But it had barely been half an hour since he and Guru Vashishta had escorted Vishwamitra to the reception hall of the palace. How on earth had all these people collected here so soon? The sabha hall was designed to accommodate two hundred seated official court delegates and a thousand observers. As far as he could tell at a glance, it was filled well over capacity in both respects. The sheer press of the crowd forced him to pause at the entrance to take in this unexpected scenario. The crowded hall buzzed with the chatter of a hundred excited conversations. Dasaratha caught the words ‘rakshas’ and ‘Vishwamitra’ spoken by several different voices with varying degrees of awe and amazement. What was that old Arya saying? ‘Yesterday’s rumour, today’s legend?’ Never truer. Even the court crier, a young stripling with a high-pitched falsetto voice that grated on Dasaratha’s nerves, was distracted enough not to have noticed his maharaja’s arrival; leaning on the court standard, he was whispering energetically to a particularly attractive serving girl bearing a water jug. The crier seemed more interested in looking down the girl’s blouse than in keeping the Suryavansha emblem aloft. In ages past, that lapse alone would have cost the youth his life.

But Dasaratha settled for clearing his throat gruffly. The serving girl gasped at the sight of the king and instantly melted away into the crowd. The crier leaped to attention, blushing bright crimson, as he struck the standard thrice on the wooden floor and sang out the traditional entree. ‘Kosala-narad Ayodhya-naresh Suryavansha Raghuvansha Aja-putra Shrimad Maharaj Dasaratha rajya sabha mein padhaar rahein hain.’ King of Kosala, lord of Ayodhya, heir of House Suryavansha and House Raghuvansha, Son-ofAja, The Honourable Emperor Dasaratha now graces the royal assembly with his esteemed presence. By the time the litany of ancestral lineage and royal titles had ended, the chatter had died away to a whisper which also subsided as Dasaratha strode the fortyyard length of the ceremonial red carpet to the royal podium. As he climbed the seven silver-plated rose-petal-bedecked steps to his raj-gaddi, he was rewarded by a dignified silence: his presence still commanded enough respect to ensure that nobody chattered once he entered a room. His right knee wobbled slightly as he reached the top and he resisted the urge to grip the ornately carved arm of his throne for support. For the first time in his long reign, the enormous goldfiligreed bulk of the Suryavansha throne seemed much too large for his frail and weary body. As he reached the seat of Kosala unaided, he sent up a silent prayer to his ancestors, asking for strength to endure the rest of this startling and difficult day. He turned around to face his court. Sumantra had done the impossible as usual, assembling all the important

officers of the court within the short time it had taken Dasaratha and Guru Vashishta to complete the welcoming formalities to honour their great visitor. Every single one of Ayodhya’s eight cabinet ministers was present in the front row— Drishti, Jayanta, Manthrapala, Vijaya, Siddhartha, Jabali, Arthasadhaka, Ashoka—and Sumantra made nine. It was odd to see them dressed today in uncharacteristically commonplace homewear—spotless white cotton dhotis and kurtas—until he reminded himself that it was Holi and an official holiday. Obviously, they had been preparing to begin the Holi celebrations when summoned to court. No doubt, if Sumantra’s hard-riding chariots had arrived a few moments later, the eight chosen representatives of Ayodhya’s eight major constituencies would have been washed in rainbow hues, faces and clothes stained with the coloured rang powders and tinted waters symbolising the arrival of spring. As it was, they all looked unusually fresh and alive today, clearly infected by the same excitement that was sweeping the entire congregation. Only Jabali, the stern Grekos-influenced rationalist, looked sour-faced. But then Jabali always looked sour-faced. Guru Vashishta and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra had followed Dasaratha on to the podium. As the seer-mages turned to face the sabha together, a collective murmur rose from the sizeable contingent of Brahmins that made up more than half the mass of the crowd. They were witnessing a sight that their forefathers would have given a right arm to view. Dasaratha’s eyes flicked across what seemed to be every last one of the city’s prominent Brahmins and purohits, all clad only in the traditional white dhoti

with the black thread marking their caste criss-crossing their bare chests and bellies. And quite considerable bellies they were, Dasaratha noted wryly. From the expressions of devotional ecstasy on their well-fed faces, he could see that they were struggling to keep from prostrating themselves and kissing the sacred feet of the divinely ordained Vishwamitra. Out of the corner of his eye, Dasaratha caught Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra stealing a sideways glance. The court recorders sitting off to one side, their quills poised over their parchment scrolls, were watching him intently, waiting for his first words. The ministers were waiting, their attendants and secretaries were waiting, the Brahmins were waiting, the courtiers were waiting . . . even the royal guards, present in five times their usual strength, were clearly stiff-necked with anticipation even though their discipline compelled them to stare directly ahead. Dasaratha drew himself up as straight and tall as he could manage. He had rigorously followed every formality of protocol so far, prolonging the inevitable as long as possible. Now, he could dally no longer. It was time. ‘Ayodhya ke vasiyon, sada khush raho,’ he said, uttering the customary prayer for an auspicious beginning to the sabha. Ye all who dwell in Ayodhya, may you live happily here for ever. Sumantra responded with the customary ‘Maharaj ki jai hon!’ ‘Long live the king!’ echoed the assembly lustily. The court crier then introduced their

visitor, adding an extra flourish to his litany: ‘Brahmarishi mahadev saprem swami tapasvi mahantya Vishwamitra atithi satkar ka swagat hai.’ Brahmaanointed great master, supreme lord of penance and wisdom, our honoured guest the sage Vishwamitra now graces us with his esteemed presence. Guru Vashishta now made a formal introduction of their great guest, presenting him to the sabha at large and to the king in particular. Dasaratha knew that this was all for the benefit of the assembled observers and court recorders, but he had never been so glad of the time-taxing formalities of royal protocol. Vishwamitra turned and offered a namaskara to each minister and pundit in turn as Guru Vashishta called out their names. Even Jabali managed to reduce the sourness on his horsey face to about a third of its usual grimacing disapproval as he was presented to the seer-mage. Dasaratha used the time to try to think through all the various options available to him. But the introductions went surprisingly quickly and before he could even concentrate properly, Sumantra was at his side again, whispering to him to commence with the formal agenda of the sabha. With an invocation to his guest to be seated, Dasaratha enthroned himself, resisting the urge to sigh as the massive gold-plated sunwood throne took the oppressive weight of age and indulgence off his weary feet. ‘Khamosh! Sabha jaari hain!’ the crier sang out. Silence, court is in session. With an uncharacteristic absence of sound—no lavish silks to rustle noisily

or elaborate court jewellery to tinkle and clatter today—the occupants of the sabha hall bowed to the maharaja and seated themselves. A fifth of them took the gaddis provided, the rest simply sitting cross-legged on the ground in traditional Arya style. Mahaguru Vashishta spoke in formal Sanskrit highspeech. ‘We are greatly honoured to have with us here such an illustrious and legendary guest. On behalf of this sabha and every citizen of Kosala, I offer Brahmarishi Vishwamitra every courtesy and respect—sampurn atithi satkar—that Ayodhya has to offer. We are your humble servants, mahadev. Please, grace us with your wisdom and tell us how we may serve you.’ Vishwamitra rose, took a small step forward and addressed Dasaratha directly. ‘The blessings of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva be upon you and your lineage, Ayodhya-naresh Dasaratha. I am pleased to be here in the nation of the Suryavanshas. Sadly, my business here is not pleasure, but necessity. As time is of the essence, I will come straight to the point. It is my unfortunate task to inform you all that the greatest crisis in the history of the Arya nations is upon us.’

SEVENTEEN The princes had begun to slow the instant Rama’s hand went up. Bharat’s chariot, barely behind Rama’s lead, came up beside Airavata and Bharat began protesting about Rama unfairly calling a halt. He broke off as he saw what lay ahead of them. All four princes brought their horses and chariots to a halt. ‘The first gate is shut,’ Lakshman said incredulously. ‘That hasn’t happened on a feast day since . . . well, since the Last asura War.’ The gate was indeed shut. Or raised, to be more accurate. The enormous drawbridge of the first gate had been hauled up to wall the only gap in the fifty-yard-high stone abutment that was the city’s first line of defence. The raising of the bridge exposed the twenty-yardwide moat which teemed with magarmach and gharial and deva knew what other water-dwelling predators. The moat walls were ten yards straight down, making it impossible for the deadly beasts to climb out—they had little islands in the moat on which to rest and breed and fight amongst themselves. Lakshman had always wondered what would happen if the moat was neglected during one of those pounding seven-day monsoon downpours and allowed to overflow its banks. But it had never happened in Ayodhya’s history. Ayodhyans took great pride in maintaining their city. Had the moat creatures been able to crawl ashore right now, they would have found considerable prey to feed on. A large crowd of travellers was gathered on the raj-marg, milling about restlessly, chattering to one another. They had quietened and turned at the sound of the

approaching horses and chariots, but none of them seemed fearful. These are people grown in a time of peace, Lakshman thought. They’ve forgotten the horrors of war already, barely twenty-two years after the last invasion. Or perhaps they just want to forget. As the dust cleared, the travellers recognised the crown heirs of Kosala and several of them started forward, calling out anxiously in commonspeak. ‘Rajkumaron! Aap hi kuch kijiye, na. Hummey andar jaane nahi de rahey hain.’ Princes, do something. They’re refusing us entry into the city. The brothers exchanged glances. ‘I guess we should talk to the gatewatch,’ Bharat said, preparing to get off his chariot. Rama stopped him. ‘You and Shot wait here. Lakshman and I will go and talk to them.’ ‘Whatever you say, bade bhaiya,’ Shatrugan said, but grinned to show he didn’t mind. The reference to ‘big brother’ was a long-standing joke on the few weeks’ age difference between Rama and his siblings. They all accepted his evident maturity as far more important than those crucial weeks, but even had they not been so convivial, Arya law left no room for doubt. Firstborn was firstborn. And first-born always led. Bharat, the second-oldest by two weeks, had long ago got over any childish sibling envy at this fact and come to accept Rama’s seniority. Rama and Lakshman dismounted and tossed their reins to their brothers, who caught them deftly and tied them loosely

to their chariots. Then they turned to make their way through the crowd, a task not as easy as it seemed. Besides the desperate pleas of the commoners to grant them access into the city, they were hampered by the surprising amount of luggage and cartage that blocked the rajmarg. ‘Looks like these Holi revellers came to spend more than just a feast-day in our fine city,’ Lakshman said as they manoeuvred through the carts, buggies and mounts—and the foot-travellers sitting cross-legged on the road. ‘The Holi celebrations last seven days. It takes most people twice that long to recover from all that carousing and feasting.’ Rama’s voice sounded distant and distracted. Lakshman shot him a glance, waving away a Tamil who was trying to show him his pedlar’s licence. The man was dressed in a lungi and had a coconutcutter’s scythe tucked into his waistband. Lakshman wondered how the flimsy waist-cloth managed to stay up and hold the weight of the knife. ‘Are you all right, bhai?’ Lakshman asked quietly. ‘You looked like you’d seen a rakshas yourself when Bharat and Shatrugan told us about the happenings in the city.’ Rama glanced at Lakshman. His eyes contained a faraway, lost expression, not their usual alert sharpness. ‘I had a dream something like this would happen.’ He seemed about to say more but was silent. ‘Something like this? You mean a rakshas invading Ayodhya? That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? When did you

dream this dream? Maybe if you tell Guruji, he can interpret it properly. After all, seers can see visions of things to come. Maybe your dream was a prophecy.’ ‘I’m no seer.’ Rama’s voice was cold. ‘It was just a stupid dream. I don’t want to talk about it.’ Lakshman was surprised. ‘Why are you so touchy about it? I was only suggesting—In the name of Shiva!’ Lakshman was face to face with the rear end of a mithun, a buffalo-bison crossbreed from the north-eastern hills. The mithun was all of seven feet tall, even at the flank, and as Lakshman stared at the unexpected apparition that had seemed to appear in his path out of thin air, the mithun’s shaggy tail rose suddenly. Rama laughed as his brother side-stepped quickly to avoid whatever might follow that ominous action. In his haste, Lakshman swerved around a pair of red-faced children struggling to move a stubborn, braying donkey and came face to face with a bare-waisted man juggling half a dozen knives. He dodged the lethal display and almost stepped into a small cook-fire on which a darkskinned Malayali couple were roasting rice dosa pancakes. The southerners glared up at him as he backed away, apologising. He bumped into a stark-naked long-bearded fakir and recoiled, doing a respectful namaskar as the holy man continued playing his wooden bow, drawing a piercing monotonous tone from the singlestringed instrument as he rolled his eyes back into his skull, lost in his ecstatic bhakti. Still grinning, Rama pointed up ahead at

the relatively clear grassy shoulder of the raj-marg. Lakshman nodded with relief and left the king’s highway for a few yards before joining with Rama up ahead. Lakshman shook his head in bemusement. ‘This bunch doesn’t need to enter the city. They’ve got their own Holi mela right here!’ They reached the gate without further adventure or discussion. Here the crowd on the raj-marg had overflowed on to the grassy shoulders on either side for several dozen yards in both directions. Lakshman noticed a stick-thin goatbearded man perched quite comfortably on the crook of a shepherd’s short-stick, surrounded by a shaggy mountain horse, several northern-featured women and an astonishing number of children playing around them all. Gandaharis, he noted, from the northernmost Arya nation. An ageing senapati stood at the head of the platoon of armed soldiers before the first gate. While his men were dressed in the traditional white and red of the gatewatch, he wore a distinctive saffron-andblack uniform with the Sanskrit letters corresponding to P and F stitched on his shoulders in decorative gold embroidery. Lakshman recognised him at once. ‘Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, General of the Purana Wafadars, our battalion of veterans of the last asura war.’ The senapati saluted his princes smartly, his movements belying his age. ‘Rajkumars. Quads of soldiers are already out seeking you and your brothers. I have orders.’ ‘Senapati Dheeraj Kumar,’ Rama said, using the general’s name out of genuine familiarity: the youngest of the senapati’s

sons had attended Guru Vashishta’s gurukul in the same batch as the four princes. ‘Why are these people not being allowed into the city?’ The grey-haired veteran shrugged unhappily. ‘What can I say, my prince? Never before has Ayodhya turned away its own brothers and sisters. But this is a strange day. And I have my orders. I am to escort you directly to your father’s palace, under my guard.’ ‘But what about these people? When will they be allowed in? They’re not rakshasas and asuras, they’re just ordinary commoners wanting to attend the maharaja’s Holi feast.’ Lakshman saw that the motley band clustered on the rajmarg were watching the discussion eagerly. Several had picked up their belongings or boarded their mounts and vehicles, expecting that the rajkumars would secure entry for them into the city. The senapati pursed his lips. ‘Rajkumar Rama, what you say is true. But the beast that entered earlier was able to change his bhes-bhav to resemble the great Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. His devilish deception fooled almost everyone, including the gate-watch and the maharaja’s guard, and even the maharaja himself.’ He gestured at the crowd gathered along the highway, now occupying almost a quarter of a mile of the road and still absorbing newcomers who were arriving with increasing regularity as the sun rose higher. ‘How are we to know that one of them isn’t an asura in disguise too? Or all of them?’ Rama smiled wryly. ‘In that case,

senapati, how do you know we aren’t asuras too, my brothers and me?’ Dheeraj Kumar’s jaw slackened. Then he regained control of his dignity and nodded with a sharp smile. ‘Well spoken, rajkumar. But I have my orders. Please.’ Rama sighed. There was no point arguing further. The senapati was only doing his job. Still, Lakshman felt his brother’s embarrassment. Several moments later, when the gatewatch soldiers cleared the raj-marg of commoners to allow the rajkumars’ chariots and horses to pass through, Lakshman felt even more acutely embarrassed. Every pair of eyes was on the four princes as they rode with their armed escort. And as the commoners were kept at bay at spearpoint while he and his brothers rode across the lower drawbridge, he felt like dying of shame. Yet, he noted, not one of those poor folk spoke a single word against the rajkumars. Instead, they cheered and blessed their princes with long life, fruitful marriages and all the usual Arya blessings. It is that damn rakshas’s fault, he reminded himself as they rode through the seven gates, passing similar crowds of commoners who had been caught between gates when the full alert had been called. Not our fault or Father’s fault. The fault of that rakshas, damn his soul to hell.

EIGHTEEN Raising his hands to subdue the shocked murmurs that had met his announcement, the seer-mage Vishwamitra continued in a level tone. ‘Pray, hear me out fully. As some of you may be aware . . .’ his eyes met those of Guru Vashishta, ‘for a while now, I have been absorbed in tapasya, a brief penance with a single goal.’ As if on cue, Guru Vashishta spoke up. ‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra,’ he said, ‘your dedicated lifelong pursuit of spiritual prowess is a model taught in every gurukul and ashram from the western borders of this great continent to the eastern extremities. It was through such rigorous tapasya—penance,’ he conceded for those who did not follow Sanskrit highspeak, ‘that you achieved your great deva-given prowess in the mastery of Brahman. Pray, tell us then, what is this necessity which compelled you to interrupt your sacred meditation?’ Vishwamitra responded in the same idiom, using Sanskrit as pure as Dasaratha had ever heard. ‘Many thanks for your gracious words, Guru Vashishta. Coming from you, those words are high praise indeed. For your prowess as a seer far exceeds my own humble achievements. It was you who was responsible for my conversion from a ruling Kshatriya raja into a spiritual seeker, a rishi, then a maharishi, and eventually a brahmarishi. Yet my entire life spans barely three thousand years, while your own illustrious light has shone for fully seven thousand. I trust that the citizens of this kingdom of Kosala appreciate the gift of your wisdom, as well as the great sacrifice you made when you chose to devote your

services as a guru to guiding the dynasty of Suryavansha in matters spiritual and moral rather than pursue further spiritual ascension.’ Vishwamitra paused and looked around at the assembled Aryas, all of whom were listening with rapt attention. ‘For had he chosen to continue that path of ascension, your Guru Vashishta would be no less than a deva himself by now, I warrant.’ ‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra lavishes profuse praise on my simple piety.’ The guru’s voice was gruff. So he is capable of feeling embarrassment, Dasaratha noted with amusement. ‘But enough about me. All of us are eager to hear you explain your alarming comment, my friend. What is this crisis that faces us?’ Vishwamitra nodded. ‘To know that, you need only understand the motive of my present tapasya.’ He turned once more to address the sabha. ‘It was to ask that the reign of the demonlord of Lanka be ended and that he and his minions be flung back for all eternity to the lower world whence they came.’ A collective murmur of approval rippled through the audience. ‘I see from your reaction, good citizens of Kosala, that you have knowledge of the one of whom I speak.’ Guru Vashishta responded instantly. ‘Sadly, old friend, word of that dark villain’s evildoing has travelled as far as blessed Ayodhya. We have some hearsay of the Lord of Lanka’s excesses.’ ‘Be thankful then,’ Vishwamitra cried, his voice ringing through the packed sabha hall, ‘that you have only had word and hearsay of his doings. For if he has his way, that vile creature would invade

your city and overrun your proud nation!’ A storm of consternation exploded in the assembly. Several pundits and Brahmins called out anxious questions to the seermage. ‘Maharaja Dasaratha has already witnessed first-hand what the Lord of Lanka is capable of doing. The rakshas Kala-Nemi sought to impersonate me in order to get within the walls of the royal palace. Once inside, he would have embarked on a spree of murder and destruction like nothing ever seen before in Arya history.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘If a single rakshas is capable of infiltrating the most sacrosanct city in all the Arya nations, imagine what an entire army of rakshasas could accomplish.’ ‘And rakshasas are only one of the several vile species at the command of the Lord of Lanka,’ Guru Vashishta added smoothly. ‘Some of our brave veterans may recall the horrors of martial combat against those terrible legions in the last asura war.’ He inclined his head respectfully towards the throne. ‘Our noble maharaja himself fought at the helm of the united Arya armies in those last terrible conflicts. In fact, it was his extraordinary valour that stemmed the invasion and enabled mortal forces to drive back the asura legions.’ Time. Dasaratha spoke with as much calm and regal dignity as he could muster. ‘Guruji rewards me with rich praise for merely performing my duties.’ He performed a formal namaskara of sincere gratitude. ‘But since those terrible times, our intelligence has maintained a careful

watch on the activities of Lanka.’ A gesture at Sumantra, who nodded in agreement. ‘It was my understanding that while Ravana continues to control Lanka and the gateway to the netherworld, he has not dared to attempt another ingress on mortal territories.’ Vishwamitra held his staff casually, the way a warrior might hold his battleaxe between clashes. ‘You speak truly, raje. The asura forces have not dared to encroach on mortal territories since you drove them back across the ocean to their island hell.’ Dasaratha wondered why Vishwamitra sounded as if he disagreed even when he was clearly conceding Dasaratha’s point. ‘Yes, that is what I just said. Ravana and his forces were pushed back to Lanka, and have not dared to cross the ocean and land on the shores of Prithvi again.’ He added with deliberate casualness, not wanting to alarm those present who had little knowledge of such martial matters—it had been almost two decades since such matters had been discussed in open assembly, outside of the annual war council of the Arya nations—‘Except of course for the occasional stray rakshas, Naga, Uraga, Pisaca or other renegade asuras who ventured into the inhospitable peninsula below the Southwoods. And of course, the Yaksa tribes have always been free of Ravana’s command. Likewise the other species of creature that inhabits the jungles of Kiskindakhand and outlying areas.’ ‘Indeed. Your knowledge is admirable, great son of the Suryavanshas. Yet despite all your precautions, the hated asuras have gained a foothold on the

continent of Patal. A sizaeble one at that.’ Dasaratha leaned forward, his thick brows beetling. ‘I hesitate to question your wisdom, mahadev. Parantu, what you suggest is quite impossible. As I said, our outposts and spies maintain a steady watch on all outlying regions.’ Vishwamitra sighed theatrically. ‘And I say once again, the asura races have made deep and wide inroads into the uncharted peninsula. How, you ask. In the same way that a new religion or creed spreads through a continent, raje. Not a pure, God-praising creed like the Vedic Hindu faith, but the way a vile cancerous consumption creeps across the land. Or like a mist over the mangrove marshes of the eastern lands of Banglar.’ A mist? Cancerous consumption? New religions? What was the seer-mage talking about? Dasaratha was about to speak again when Vishwamitra raised a hand. ‘Allow me to explain, raje. All these years while the Arya nations have enjoyed peace and prosperity, while your armies have grown soft and gentle with inactivity, while the pursuits of culture and civilisation have occupied you rather than the bloody arts of warfare and mayhem, your enemies have been marshalling their forces. Today, the Lord of Lanka has an army twenty times greater than the combined forces of all the Arya nations.’ A wave of unease rippled across the sabha hall. Even Dasaratha caught his breath. Twenty times? He couldn’t fathom such figures, let alone visualise them. He shook his head. ‘Mahadev, even if what you say is true—and I do

not presume to debate your great wisdom—even so, the asuras would not dare step on mortal lands again. Our outposts would instantly relay the word of any impending invasion well in advance and we would choke off their approach even before they broach the rebellious oceans. However vast their armies, they would never be allowed to land on the blessed soil of Prithvi, let alone advance a foot of the five thousand yojanas to the gates of Ayodhya.’ Vishwamitra nodded sagely. ‘True, raje. Your knowledge of matters military is renowned through the seven nations.’ Dasaratha continued, emboldened by the unexpected praise. ‘Nowhere near your own formidable store of Kshatriya vidya, mahadev.’ Vishwamitra’s legendary prowess as a warrior-king as well as a fighting seer in the armies of the devas was the stuff of legend. ‘To continue: this asura army you speak of. It is still in Lanka, am I right?’ ‘Indeed, raje.’ Dasaratha smiled. ‘Then we have nothing to fear.’ He extended his relief to the sabha. ‘Even the largest ships existing today can carry no more than a thousand men. To carry an army that size, the asuras would require a naval fleet of . . .’ he glanced over at Sumantra, who was ready with the answer even before asked, ‘two million ships? Yes, two million large ships!’ He allowed himself a scornful laugh. ‘There are probably not trees enough on Lanka to provide the makings of such a large fleet!’ Nervous laughter rumbled like distant thunder, but most eyes had stayed on

Vishwamitra, awaiting his response. The seer-mage nodded calmly. ‘Dasaratha, you are indeed a great general. But even the greatest senapati cannot be in possession of all the facts. That is why I am here today, to bring to your notice first-hand these new developments and to show you the flaw in your perception.’ Dasaratha shifted in his seat. ‘A flaw?’ ‘True, the construction of such a fleet would take decades.’ Vishwamitra gestured. ‘That is why the Lord of Lanka issued orders for work to be started the day he returned after his ignominious defeat at your hands, twenty-two years ago.’ He allowed that to sink in before continuing: ‘Today, close to a million ships are ready and are moored in Lanka as well as at sea. It was on one such vessel that KalaNemi, the rakshas we faced down at your gate today, travelled to the western shores of Kutchha, whence he came on foot. If Ravana chooses, he can invade our world tomorrow, landing his forces all across the continent, sweeping like a wave of blackness across the Arya nations.’ The seer-mage looked around at the stunned sabha. ‘And invasion is his intention.’

NINETEEN They reached the palace gates without incident. The avenue was packed from end to end with people. Ordinary citizens and titled gentry alike thronged the large square before the palace gates. Both Raghuvamsa Avenue and Harishchandra Avenue, the perpendicular concourses that met precisely at the palace gates, were milling with citizenry. More people kept arriving by foot, by horse or on muleback; a tangle of chariots bearing the banners of aristocratic families blocked Harishchandra West. The usual festive mood was understandably dampened by the awareness of the morning’s intrusion. A quad of four soldiers stood around a roughly circular spot where the gravelled floor of the avenue was blackened and scorched. From the excited conversations of the crowd, the princes made out that the spot was where the two seer-mages had consigned the rakshas. The excited crowd cheered raggedly as the princes approached, some belatedly recognising them and reacting with a flurry of excitement. Several began calling out the names of their favourite princes. There was no question whose name was called most frequently. Rama’s brothers exchanged knowing glances: most of the callers were young women of marriageable age, encouraged by their mothers! A town crier began calling out a news update as they approached the main palace gates. ‘Maharaj Raghuvansha Ajaputra Ikshvaku Suryavansha Dasaratha ki jai!’ he cried. Praise be to Maharaja Raghu-descended Aja’s son Ikshvaku-clan Suryadynasty-heir Dasaratha. ‘The royal sabha is still in attendance. The maharaja sends word to all of you to bear with him for a few more moments.

He will join you the instant the sabha ends. He has good news to impart to you on this auspicious Holi day. The venerated sage Brahmarishi Vishwamitra will accompany him and grace our Holi celebrations today!’ The crowd’s cheer was more enthusiastic this time, filling the large avenues with a boisterous roar. The princes exchanged quick smiles: there was no sound more reassuring than a few thousand Ayodhyans in one place together. Senapati Dheeraj Kumar reined in his horse and had a word with the palace gate guards. He turned back to the princes while a pair of guards disappeared at a fast sprint, heading towards the palace. ‘My son Drishti Kumar is in charge of the palace watch today. He was required to ensure the security of the sabha hall where the maharaja and sabha are in conference at this minute with the visiting sage. He has left word not to let anyone in without his personal accession. He will arrive in a moment. Please excuse the additional delay.’ Rama spoke for them all again. ‘We understand, Senapati. These are part of the standard security procedures during a full alert. If you like, you may return to your post at the first gate.’ ‘If you please, rajkumar, I shall stay until you are within the gates.’ ‘Very well,’ Rama replied. After a pause he added: ‘I hope to speak to my father at the earliest and request him to give you leave to open the gates.’ The senapati hesitated. ‘As you wish, rajkumar. However, I would advise against it.’

Rama looked at him curiously. ‘Do you really fear that some of those commoners may be asuras in disguise?’ ‘I wish that were all I feared.’ The ageing warrior’s steel-blue eyes went to the scorched spot marking the disappearance of the rakshas intruder. ‘Nay, I suspect these occurrences happen not in isolation. I was a wrestler once as you mayhap recall and among wrestlers we have a game. In some parts of the kingdom it is called kho, in others kabbadi. You rajkumars have probably played it yourselves a thousand times.’ They nodded. Dheeraj Kumar was being politely modest. He had been both wrestling and kabbadi champion in the seven Arya nations, holding the titles virtually unbroken for over twenty years until his recent retirement. Even at his current age, some seventy-plus years, he was still a robust and towering specimen of akhada vidya, the ancient Arya regime of physical exercise based on natural training. The senapati went on: ‘In kabbadi, each team stays within its square and sends a single warrior into the enemy’s square. The envoy has to continually chant “kabbadi-kabbadi-kabbadi” over and over without taking in fresh breath, and attempt to touch the farthest border of the enemy square. If he succeeds in touching it, the game is won by his team. If he cannot touch the border, he attempts to touch one or more of the enemy players, thereby removing them from the game. The enemy team’s job is to grab hold of him at once and pin him to the ground until he is forced to take fresh breath, without letting him drag himself back to his own team’s square.’

Rama noticed a small knot of darkly garbed men at the far end of the avenue. They seemed unusually agitated. Probably Holi revellers impatient for the celebration to begin. He tried to concentrate on the general’s words but his eyes stayed on that growing knot of black. The senapati looked around at the rajkumars to see if they had understood the significance of his description. Bharat nodded first: ‘You feel the rakshas Kala-Nemi was the first player sent by the enemy team to seek out our weaknesses and strengths, to see how far he could get before he was stopped, or even if he could go all the way and touch the goal-line of our chaukat.’ Bharat indicated the towering spires of the palace. ‘Perhaps take out some of our key players in the process. That is your analogy, is it not, Senapati?’ ‘Indeed, Rajkumar Bharat,’ the veteran replied. ‘And it’s credit to our team for having safely ousted their first intruder without a single casualty on our side. But do you know what we must do next to follow their play?’ Shatrugan replied: ‘Our turn. We send one of ours into their chaukat. Same strategy. Seek out strengths and weaknesses. Show them we’re willing and able to fight back. Ideally, do more harm to them than they did to us. Otherwise, they’ll just keep coming back.’ The senapati nodded. ‘You have the lay of it, Rajkumar Shatrugan. I have watched you play with my grandsons in the akhada. You have great promise.’ At the unexpected praise, Shatrugan’s face coloured rapidly. He managed to

nod briefly and utter a short ‘With your grace, sir.’ A voice called out from the far side of the gate. ‘Enter and be welcome, princes of Ayodhya. Enter in the name of your father, Maharaja Dasaratha.’ The princes turned to see Captain Drishti Kumar supervising the opening of the gates. They rode in and dismounted, handing their horses and chariots to their grooms who had been waiting since before they had arrived back, watching eagerly and anxiously for their return. Senapati Dheeraj Kumar saluted Captain Drishti Kumar smartly, giving no indication that the man he was addressing was his own son and heir. ‘Captain, I hand over the four rajkumars Rama, Bharat, Shatrugan and Lakshman to your possession. Guard them with your life and honour. I bid you leave. Aagya.’ ‘Aagya,’ responded the captain. The senapati shot one last glance at the rajkumars as he rode out through the gates, straight-backed and as proud as any young Kshatriya in his prime. Bharat nodded in admiration as he watched the general leave. ‘Now that is a Kshatriya.’ ‘Rajkumars.’ Drishti Kumar’s handsome features were flushed and heated although his voice betrayed no emotion. ‘My orders are to escort you directly into the palace and keep you within the protection of the palace guard until your father sends for you.’ Lakshman started to ask him what was being discussed in the sabha hall—it was

obvious from the captain’s face that something startling was going on up there—but before he could finish, a loud shout was raised by one of the gatewatch, followed by several more yells of alarm. They all turned to see what was going on. To their surprise, Rama was sprinting out of the gates. He slipped through a fraction of a second before the heavy wrought-iron monstrosities swung fully shut with a resounding clanging echo. The surprised gate-watch and gate-closers—it took eight men just to open or close the gates—yelled warnings in vain. The gates were shut and Rama was out on the crowded avenue, thronged now by thousands of people. In another second, he was lost in the crowd and had vanished from Lakshman’s sight.

TWENTY This time it was Dasaratha who held up his hand to invoke silence. The outcries of alarm and fear died down at once. Whatever their agitation, his people loved and respected him. Dasaratha was angry now with the seermage although he fought hard not to show it. His entire world view was being questioned. ‘Even if this is indeed as you describe, great one, Ravana would not dare invade without provocation. Mortals have been at peace with the asura races for twenty-two years. They would not dare take the first step towards their own annihilation.’ Vishwamitra permitted himself a smile. The sight of that unexpected expression on the legendary seer-mage’s lined and scarred face was more infuriating than any show of anger. He responded grimly: ‘Maharaja Dasaratha, you make the ancient mistake of judging the asuras by human standards. Remember: They are not human! That is why they are asuras!’ Dasaratha sat back, stung. Vishwamitra went on relentlessly, gathering momentum and force now. The smile vanished from his face, leaving a craggy expression that promised fireworks. ‘Let me say this without euphemisms or circumvention. Whether twenty days or twenty years from now, the asuras will invade. It is the only goal of their existence. Every breath they take is dedicated to this purpose and this purpose alone. And they will not rest either until they have invaded the proud cities of the Arya nations and razed them to the ground, or until every last one of them is killed in violent combat. Their goal is total and

uncompromising genocide. Either asuras or mortals will remain to walk the earth, but both species will no longer co-exist.’ The silence that met this announcement was more frightening than any chaotic outburst. Dasaratha forced himself to speak again, realising that the seer-mage had cleverly drawn him into a debate that could only have one end. ‘Mahadev, I do not presume to question your sources of information, but my outposts and spies—’ ‘Your spies are sold! Your outposts are taken!’ Vishwamitra’s words struck Dasaratha’s ailing heart like a pair of hammer blows. He gripped the armrests of his throne, struggling for composure. ‘Hear me, raje,’ the seer-mage went on sternly but respectfully. ‘Hear me and know this for fact. The Lord of Lanka has corrupted your spies and every ally south of Ayodhya. None of them will ever bring you word of your enemies. This is why you have not heard anything to alarm you until this day. This is why Kala-Nemi was able to travel this far and enter Ayodhya undetected so easily.’ In a flash, Dasaratha knew the seer-mage was right and he was wrong. His heart fluttered now, and he suddenly felt the sabha hall grow dark around him. He clutched the armrests of his sunwood throne fiercely, his palms slippery with sweat. Still, instinct forced him to argue on. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied stubbornly. ‘But it’s one thing for a single rakshas in mortal guise to infiltrate our defences, and a completely different matter when you

speak of tens of millions of asuras crossing the oceans and invading the entire Arya nations. Even Ravana’s black sorcery cannot cloak an army that large. We would be forewarned months before the first forces arrived. And,’ he went on, asserting his convictions in the face of those devastating revelations, ‘and even if this great host were to make the journey to Ayodhya unchallenged, then we shall not merely open our gates to them and say, “Come, bull, gore me”.’ The aphorism, an old colloquial one, brought nods of agreement from the more militant members of the sabha. ‘It is not for nothing that Ayodhya is called Ayodhya the Unconquerable. Ayodhya Anashya! And as long as Ayodhya stands, the Arya nations will not yield, I tell you.’ Vishwamitra struck his staff on the ground. A small explosive sound issued, startling those closest to the seer-mage. A tiny cloud of purple smoke emerged from the top of the staff, spreading its tentacles across the heads of the nervous assembly. ‘Behold, raje. Even as a cheap jadugar, a street magician, uses smoke and hypnosis to beguile his innocent audience, so has the Lord of Lanka used his god-granted powers to deceive and cloak your great mind.’ Dasaratha wondered if he had heard correctly. ‘Mahadev?’ Vishwamitra raised his staff. The purplish smoke rose to the high vaulted ceilings of the sabha hall, a thousand heads craning upwards to watch it. The smoke curled and spread surprisingly quickly, stretching long tendrils and tentacles in every direction. In moments the purple fingers covered the entire ceiling of the large hall.

Vishwamitra’s voice continued as the awed assembly watched this unexpected display of his powers. ‘Remember, raje. This is no ordinary rakshas king we speak of; this is Ravana himself. He whose thousand-year-long tapasya compelled mighty Brahma himself to grant him everlasting life and immunity from all destruction.’ ‘Still,’ Dasaratha protested, hearing the uncertainty in his own voice, ‘we have defeated him before. We shall do so again, if need be.’ His eyes continued to follow the purple smoke as it spread across the white plaster ceiling. Vishwamitra shook his head sadly. ‘Even now, you protest, raje? Then I must reveal unto you and your court what I was reluctant to speak of until now. Know this, great citizens of Ayodhya, defenders of the Kosala kingdom and guardians of the southernmost borders of the Arya nations. Ravana’s power is spreading amongst you even now, just as that purple mist is creeping through this assembly. He is here, in this very sabha hall, and is watching us even as we debate amongst ourselves.’ Dasaratha started to rise to his feet. This was beyond debate now; the mahaguru was clearly misinformed in this assumption. Spies in the court of Ayodhya? Impossible! Before he could say another word, the purple mist fell on to the assembled courtiers with the suddenness of a clutch of hawks swooping on their prey. Ropes of purple smoke broke off from the main emission and sought out specific targets among the massed crowd. Dasaratha sank back and watched, amazed, as a moustached courtier far to the right of the sabha hall cried out. The

purple smoke encircled him in the form of ropes, binding him fast. The courtier struggled as the ropes entwined themselves tightly around his flabby body, holding him as effectively as hemp cords. Similar cries rose from across the hall. Dasaratha scanned the crowd of startled Ayodhyans. People were turning everywhere, pointing to one or another of their neighbours as the purple tendrils embraced and captured him. In moments, close to a dozen such courtiers were securely bound by the sorcerous smoke. Dasaratha recognised all of them by face, and several by name as well. One of them was court secretary to Jabali, minister of administration. Jabali’s perennially sour face had assumed an expression of disgust that would have made any portrait painter swear off his art for ever. He leaned as far back in his seat as he could, clearly unwilling to let himself be touched by the smoke binding his associate. ‘Mahadev,’ Dasaratha demanded. ‘What is the meaning of this? What do you hope to prove by this demonstration?’ ‘Forgive me for resorting to this theatrical device, maharaj,’ Vishwamitra replied calmly. ‘It was necessary to demonstrate the extent to which the Lord of Lanka has corrupted the proud population of the Arya nations. The smoke you see is in fact the power of Brahman made visible for your benefit. The mantra I spoke instructed it to seek out and expose those corrupted by the Lord of Lanka. These eleven mortals captured in its divine grasp are nothing more than acolytes and minions of Ravana himself.’ Dasaratha rose to his feet, the colour

draining from his face. ‘Impossible! These are old and trusted courtiers! I sit with these men every day and discuss matters of state and defence!’ ‘Do not blame yourself, raje,’ Vishwamitra said in a voice tinged with sadness and anger. ‘There was no way for you to know. This is the vile power of Ravana’s sorcery. He has eyes and ears within your very court. His spies live beneath the same roof that you inhabit, in the very heart of Ayodhya. And for every one you see here, there are a thousand others throughout your proud kingdom. This is how Ravana has struck back at you for defeating him in the Last asura Wars. He has corrupted your own people and converted them to his evil cause.’

TWENTY-ONE Rama darted through the crowd like a swallow through a thicket. The crowd was dense and growing denser by the second, but there was still enough space between them to allow a slender youth to slip through if he was quick and agile. Rama heard the yells of dismay from the gate-watch behind him, followed by his brothers calling out to him, and sympathised with their concern, but he continued down the avenue. All through Senapati Dheeraj Kumar’s kabbadi analogy, his attention had been diverted by that knot of black-clad figures at the far end of the lane, where Harishchandra Avenue was met by Jagganath Marg, the road leading to the sudra quarter of the city. As the senapati had continued speaking, Rama had watched that knot grow, more and more black-clad figures appearing from the Jagganath Marg turnoff until finally the knot had become an arrowhead. And then he had seen the unmistakable glint of sunlight reflecting off bright shiny objects. Weapons in use. He had known then that something was amiss down there, some aberration that was not a scheduled part of the Holi festivities. And because he had been preternaturally alert to precisely such signs as this, he had acted before speaking or thinking. The gates were about to slam shut. Getting Captain Drishti Kumar to reopen them would take precious minutes, perhaps longer if the captain was adamant about following the maharaja’s orders. So Rama had done the only thing he could do at once: slipped out before the gates shut, like a silvery mahseer slipping through a gap in a Banglar fisherman’s net. Now, he ran like his life depended on it. The crowds of bustling, excited people

were too entranced with discussing the events of that morning to pay him any attention. Those that did glance his way saw merely a handsomely constructed young man in a hurry. He was on foot, running like a maniac, and carried no weapons or obvious marks of his princehood, just the simple whites he had worn that morning. Nobody recognised him instantly, and those that had a flutter of a doubt were unable to take a second look to check. He ran like lives depended on it. In moments, he had crossed that swirling river of humanity that the avenue had become. Reaching the end of the concourse, he slowed, seeing the familiar glint of raised spears up ahead. A roadblock. The ever-watchful PFs had already cordoned off the trouble and contained it at the bottom of the avenue. The people down at this end were largely commoners more interested in moving up-avenue to goggle at the rich architecture of the palace rather than paying attention to the disturbance behind them. Rama made his way through a group of excited young vaisya girls, all clutching hands together and laughing excitedly, led by a trio of hefty daiimaas. Then he was at the cordon. He looked over the interlinked V of two PF spears to see a curious lack of activity at the end of the avenue. The turn-off where he had seen the black-clad figures accumulating was deserted now. But several black turbans lay unfurled on the ground, along with a PF scarf or two. And an entire regiment of PFs was forming under the orders of a lieutenant, preparing to march up Jagganath Marg. Rama spoke to the PF closest to him, a wizened veteran with a small hole where his left ear had once been and a rash of shiny scars on the left side of his neck.

‘What happened here?’ The PF spoke without turning back. ‘On your way, citizen. The savoury stalls are up ahead and to the right, along Sarayu Marg, on the way to the parade grounds. This is PF business.’ Rama raised his right hand, formed a fist, and rapped his prince’s seal-ring on the blade of the man’s spear. It made a metallic sound that drew the man’s attention. He swung around at once, spear lowering into a defensive stance. His partner, who had heard Rama as well, did likewise. Rama already had his hands raised, showing them he was unarmed. ‘At ease, veterans. I only wish to know what happened. Do you recognise me?’ Both PFs glanced at each other and swallowed. ‘Aye. You’re Rajkumar Rama. Or a shockingly good imitation.’ Rama smiled. ‘I’m Rama. Captain Drishti Kumar and my brothers are following after me. They’ll confirm it. Now tell me quickly, what happened here?’ The younger man, a hefty fellow with no visible facial scars, looked suspiciously at Rama. But the older man said slowly: ‘Some tantrics went berserk. Said one of the maharaja’s queens had assassinated one of their number. They wanted to take a petition to the maharaja to protest the man’s murder and demand he institute an inquiry at once.’ ‘And?’ The veteran shrugged. ‘What’s to say? The city’s on full alert. Our orders are to

let nobody through to the palace and to arrest any potential troublemakers. The lieutenant told them to put their protest through official channels. They became surly about it. Turned ugly fast.’ The old man gestured at the platoon marching down Jagganath Marg even as he spoke. ‘That’s the clean-up now. While they were scuffling with our men, some Brahmins came up and began screaming something about the tantrics stealing little boys from some orphanage, for sacrifices and suchlike. I don’t know any more. We were only called in a moment ago to keep rubberneckers away from this end of the avenue.’ Rama nodded. ‘Much appreciate the information, soldier . . . ?’ The veteran shrugged. ‘Pai. S.T. Pai. I fought with your uncle Janak’s regiment in the Mithila Brigade.’ ‘Thank you, Sipahi Pai. You’ll have to let me through now.’ The PFs looked uncertain. Then the old one said, almost as if he was embarrassed, ‘You’d know the names of Maharaja Janak’s daughters then, of course. You being Rajkumar Rama, after all.’ Rama smiled. ‘Of course. We played together as children before my brothers and I left for the gurukul.’ He realised that the younger PF was watching him intently, as if alert to signs of horns sprouting or fangs popping out at any second. He said in a normal tone: ‘Sita, Urmila, Mandavi and Kirti.’ He added, ‘My brother Lakshman has a soft spot for Urmila, most people do. But I’ve always thought Sita was the beauty of the lot.’

The old PF sighed and lowered his spear, gesturing to his companion to do the same. ‘Aye, that she is. Forgive me, my rajkumar. This is a strange day.’ Rama patted the old man on his shoulder by way of gratitude as well as to show he didn’t have any hard feelings. He passed through the cordon just as the regiment of PFs were given the order to march forward up Jagganath Marg. He reached the turn-off and looked up the side road, barely a third as wide as Harishchandra Avenue but still broad enough to let the regiment march sixteen abreast easily. Further up the road, he could see the black robes of the tantric cultists intermingled with the saffron and green of the PFs. Several black-clad bodies lay sprawled on the marg, PF spears sticking out of them. A few saffron-and-green-clad bodies also lay beside them, trishuls embedded in them. There was also a white-clad tonsured Brahmin body or two in there. Rama guessed the PFs had succeeded in moving the Brahmins away and out of the riot. It seemed to be much harder to persuade the tantrics: after all, their faith was predicated on doom and the surrendering of all life to meet the coming apocalypse. The regiment marching down the road was preparing to mount a fresh assault on the tantrics. The cultists looked sullen and whiteeyed. Several of them were banging their trishuls, wickedly sharp three-pronged tridents, on tiny breast-shields engraved with the image of Kali, the dark devi who governed vengeance and the tantric cults. As Rama watched, the officer commanding the regiment gave the

order to prepare to charge. A bloodbath was about to take place. Rama darted forward, sprinting around the PF line—there was room at either end of the marg—and into the noman’sland between the two opposing groups. He raised his hands. ‘In the name of Maharaja Dasaratha, your king and ruler, I, Rajkumar Rama Chandra, command you all to lay down your arms at once.’ *** It took Captain Drishti Kumar several precious moments to get the gates reopened. That delay itself helped Lakshman understand Rama’s unexpected action. ‘He saw something happening and didn’t want to get delayed waiting for the gates to open again,’ he told his brothers. ‘That’s why he slipped through before they closed.’ ‘But what did he see happening?’ Bharat grumbled. ‘Irresponsible of him to just run off like that.’ Shatrugan clenched his empty fists in frustration. ‘I wish I had time to go get my mace. I feel naked without a weapon.’ ‘No bearing weapons on feast days, Shatrugan. You know the law.’ ‘Come on, Lakshman. That rakshas didn’t follow the law, did he? Whatever Rama saw happening, it wasn’t any lover’s fall-out, I can bet you that. He saw trouble. That’s why he ran like that. And the best way to face trouble is with sharp steel.’

Lakshman shook his head. ‘You’re the limit, Shatrugan. Not every problem can be solved with violence.’ ‘Well, when you meet your first rakshas, you try kissing and cajoling, all right? Me, I’ll settle for a good Gandahari mace any day.’ ‘I hear that, bhai,’ Bharat replied, agreeing strongly. The gates opened and they sprinted out, Captain Drishti Kumar leading the way. He had already given orders to his men outside, and twin lines of soldiers had formed a long clear corridor down the entire length of the avenue. They were all fast runners, and in moments they had reached the turn-off where Harishchandra Avenue met Jagganath Marg. The captain ordered the PFs to open the cordon and they passed through. Lakshman caught a glimpse of an old PF veteran with a scarred neck and a missing ear staring at him curiously, then he was at the turn-off and staring at a frightening sight. Rama was standing between two opposing groups of armed men. On the far side was a mob of black-clad tantrics who looked as if they had nothing less than civil riot on their minds, while on the near side, backs to the approaching princes, were a force of PFs arranged into an attack phalanx, ready to charge. ‘Rama,’ he began. Then bit back the cry. He was afraid of setting off either group. Both looked hostile and ready to fight to the death. Lakshman couldn’t see the faces of the PFs, but the tantrics looked white-eyed and wild, as if they were all intoxicated on ganja.

His brothers exclaimed beside him as they took in the situation. He knew what they were thinking; he was thinking the exact same thing: What’s Rama got himself into now? And how’s he going to get out of it? Then Rama began to sing.

TWENTY-TWO As the last stragglers left the sabha hall, Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra hurried to his maharaja’s side. Dasaratha sat bowed on his throne, his face buried in his hands, elbows leaning on the armrests of his throne. ‘Maharaj?’ Sumantra’s voice was soft and concerned. ‘Are you well?’ ‘Aye.’ Dasaratha raised his head with an effort that tugged at Sumantra’s heart. ‘I have no choice. I must be well to see our people through this great crisis.’ He struggled to his feet, waving Sumantra away when he tried to offer his hand. ‘What did we do wrong, old friend? I governed wisely and justly, did I not? I built on the works of my ancestors, raising Ayodhya and Kosala to new heights of prosperity and peaceful harmony, did I not? Then why am I plagued by these disasters in the twilight of my reign?’ ‘Maharaj, you are the greatest king of your line, the greatest to sit on the sunwood throne. Never before have the Arya peoples enjoyed this long a period of peace and security. Your works shall be remembered for millennia to come. Do not blame yourself for the evil wrought by asuras.’ Dasaratha walked slowly across the empty sabha hall, nodding his head. ‘Perhaps you are right, Sumantra. Yet I cannot stand to leave this legacy to my sons. What else do we fight for in our youth and prime if not the future? And this is not the future I envisioned.’ ‘Maharaj,’ Sumantra said, walking beside his king. ‘The future may not be as bleak as you fear. Never before in the history

of the Arya nations have we been so strong, so rich, so powerful. At the end of the last asura war, when you led that fateful foray against the Dark Lord of Lanka, all seemed lost. We were outnumbered and outmatched, exhausted and decrepit. Yet we won. And won triumphantly. Today, we are not only far stronger than then, we have the vidya gained from those martial encounters, our military strategists have had decades to study the strengths and weaknesses of the asura races. Our population is almost twice as large as it was then. And you see how auspiciously things have begun for us. Instead of drawing first blood as they hoped, the asuras have lost their chief spy and infiltrator—no ordinary rakshas but the dread Kala-Nemi himself, blood-kin of Ravana! Their spies in the royal court have been outed. Even now, they are being interrogated in the dungeons below the city jail. Soon, we shall root out every traitor and asura sympathiser in the kingdom. Word has been dispatched to the other Arya nations to do the same. After this cleansing, the war council will convene in days here in Ayodhya. Take hope and courage, my beloved raje. We shall not only prevail, we shall triumph. And yours shall be the foot that descends to crush each one of Ravana’s ten skulls.’ It was a long speech, from one who was not accustomed to speaking much, and Dasaratha knew it. He had paused before the sabha hall doors to look at his old gurukul partner, erstwhile charioteer, trusted adviser, then minister, and now prime minister. He laid a weary but still powerful hand on Sumantra’s shoulder. ‘The devas grant that it shall come to pass exactly as you say.’ Sumantra gripped his maharaja’s wrist.

‘It shall. I am willing to give my last breath to see it does. And so is every Arya citizen. Be not fearful, raje. Be proud. You have built a great nation, and now you shall see the fruits of your labour.’ Dasaratha nodded. ‘I shall take a little rest now before speaking with Brahmarishi Vishwamitra on the other reason for his visit. He wishes to do so privately. Are my sons safely back in the palace?’ Sumantra frowned. ‘They ought to be, your highness. Captain Drishti Kumar went to secure their entry into the palace gates several moments ago.’ Dasaratha caught the unsaid message in his tone. ‘But?’ Sumantra shook his head slowly. ‘The captain has not returned yet.’ He managed a reassuring smile. ‘I shall look into it myself, maharaj. As long as the rajkumars reached the palace gates, they will surely be safe. But I shall check personally. Depend on me.’ ‘I do, Sumantra. But do check. This is a strange day. And I expect stranger things yet. Make sure my sons are well and safe.’ *** It took Lakshman a moment to realise what he was hearing. At first he thought it was the death chant of the Kali cult. It was usually chanted by conscripts who were sent into a battle from which they would not return alive. To the tantrics, of course, it was an anthem of their dark faith that hinged on the belief that the coming Kali-Yuga would mark the end of human civilisation. He realised that the Kali chant was being sung by some of the cultists in the mob across the

road. Then he heard the dholdrum of the PFs, the steady four-beat they marched and fought to, based on the traditional four-by-four beat to which all Arya rituals were conducted by Vedic custom. He had failed to catch these two disparate rhythms, drowned out as they were by the cacophony from the crowded avenue behind. But when Rama began to sing, Lakshman heard and understood what he was trying to achieve. Unable to appeal to the two clashing groups with logic and commands, Rama was resorting to patriotic emotion. After all, this was Holi feast-day. A day when all Aryas embraced their fellows and celebrated the completion of yet another year of their proud civilisation, while inaugurating the onset of yet another harvest year. Each Arya nation had its own special day, but Holi and Deepavali were special to all the Arya nations. Rama was singing the traditional Arya farming song, ‘Dharti Maa’. Literally, ‘Earth Mother’. When he began, the rhythms of the PF martial beat and the tantrics’ Kali chant had mingled to form a toll as deathlike as a funeral march, an ominous duet of doom. Above this dark symphony, there now rose the melodious anthem of ‘Dharti Maa’. Rama’s voice was a clear tenor with perfect pitch and just enough bass to lend it depth. As he sang the opening sloka, Lakshman instantly felt the change in the atmosphere. The ancient anthem had great power, believed by some to turn desert lands fertile and calm the most ferocious predators of the wild. Even if those were exaggerations, the power of the anthem on Arya ears was undeniable. Lakshman could feel the

hackles on his hands and neck rise as Rama sang the beautiful, stirring words that praised the mighty subcontinent that housed the seven nations of the Arya clans, addressing the land that nourished and provided for them, their mother, their devi. Without stopping to think, Lakshman stepped out into Jagganath Marg, walking around the startled PF regiment and their commanding officer, and stood beside Rama, raising his own voice to join Rama’s song. He didn’t have to look behind to know that Bharat and Shatrugan were following as well. He ignored the prickle of fear that came when he found himself hemmed in by the trishul-wielding tantrics and spearholding PFs, taking courage from his brother’s lead. If it was Rama’s fate to die here on a side street of his own capital city, killed by the hands of his own people, then Lakshman would die the same death. As they approached the second verse Lakshman felt something strange and wonderful happen. It was as if a giant cloud had been pressing down on the whole concourse all this time, making everyone uneasy and restless, and some violent and agitated. With the singing of the anthem, Lakshman felt the cloud begin to lift. And then he felt an even more wonderful thing. Others were singing too. Stray soldiers in the PF ranks. Voices rising uncertainly from the tantric mob. And further away, around the corner and up the avenue, past the cordon of PF veterans, the citizens were picking up the song too. Like all anthems, this one had a way of touching your heart no matter who you were,

where you were, or what you were doing at the time. For those few moments that the ode to Mother Earth lasted, every Arya, young or old, male or female, highcaste or low, noble or impoverished, was united in a bond as ancient and undeniable as their mutual dependence on the gifts of food and life that the earth deity provided. The anthem came to an end. Lakshman’s voice died away, as did his brothers’. There was a brief moment of deafening emptiness. And then, it was all over.

TWENTY-THREE Manthara cried out with rage and threw the sacrificial trishul into the yagna fire, obliterating the image that had appeared there, an image of the happenings on the turn-off to Jagganath Marg. The trishul, identical to those carried by the tantrics in the scene she had just witnessed with the help of her asura witchcraft, clattered into the chaukat, the sacred ceremonial square used for Vedic rites, and was lost in the billowing flames of the fire. She screamed at once and leaped forward to try to retrieve it. Throwing the trishul might be interpreted as disrespectful, and she had taken too much care with the whole elaborate ritual to spoil everything now. She bent over the energetic flames, fuelled by prodigious amounts of ghee and the remains of the Brahmin boy that she had sacrificed earlier. There. Between an almost denuded thigh bone and the skull with its contents still bubbling. She reached into the fire, burning her hands and losing her eyelashes and eyebrows as well, and retrieved the trishul. It was flaming hot. She clutched it firmly, enduring the unbelievable pain, and tried to understand what had gone wrong. She had thought it such a clever plan, to use the tantric’s murder to incite a civil riot. Or at the very least a stampede. With several hundred thousand men, women, children and animals thronging the avenues, ringed in by armed and nervously alert soldiers, starting a riot had seemed easy enough. And things had been going so well. The tantrics and Brahmins had fallen for the bait just as she’d known they would. And the PFs

had done their job as usual. With the malevolent mantras she’d released into the avenue earlier, the minute the maharaja and those two seers had been cloistered away in the sabha hall, their minds should have been clouded by confusion and senseless rage long enough for them to engage in violence that would perpetuate its own cycle of retribution. It had been a brilliant plan. A major civil riot would have broken out over a tiny, irrelevant non-issue. And at the right time, she would have sent out a mantra to inflame the horses of the PFs on Raghuvamsa Avenue and cause a panicked stampede. A bloodbath should have resulted. ‘Rama!’ Yes. Rama had come into the picture. And had spoiled everything. She still didn’t understand how he had done it. By singing an anthem? That was ridiculous! How could people be moved by a stupid patriotic song? What was a country anyway? Just a land occupied by different people. What was there to get so emotional about? Yet he had done it. Had broken her mantra’s power. Dispelled the dark fugue she had tried to cast over the minds of the groups involved. Turned her plans to dust as easily as wiping out a sloka written in sand. True, her powers were still nascent, still growing. But she had tried so hard. And sacrificed so much. Just to have kept her worship of the Dark Lord of Lanka, Ravana, secret for so many years: that itself was a great feat in this holy deva-worshipping city of Ayodhya. Surrounded by an ocean of self-righteous Aryas, she had kept the tiny black flame of asura faith alive here single-handed. Even Kaikeyi, her erstwhile ward and queen of this mighty

kingdom, did not know the truth behind her power and influence. What it had cost Manthara to elevate her to this position. But all this was to change, starting today. And nobody, let alone a stripling of a boy, should have had the ability to thwart her dark designs. ‘Rama!’ she cried out again, waving the trident in a hand blackened by deep oozing burns. Foolish hag! The voice that boomed forth from the heart of the fire was as fiery as glacial ice applied directly to an exposed heart. It blazed with cold, nihilistic rage against her, enveloping her in black flames. She gasped and struggled to bow her head, touching her forehead to the ground. ‘My lord! I did not sense your arrival!’ How dare you speak that name in my sacred space? Have I not forbidden you before? She searched her mind desperately, ignoring the agony of torture the flames inflicted on every inch of her being. It was like being whipped with fire and ice both at once. ‘My lord? You mean, Rama?’ Do not speak it! Foolish creature! ‘My lord, I . . .’ She bowed again, repeatedly, striking her forehead on the floor until the skin broke and blood began to flow, bubbling instantly as it encountered the flames that enveloped her. ‘Shama! Mercy, my lord. Shama!’ You would be wise not to underestimate that one. He is a creature of dharma, and they are not easily dissuaded from their path.

‘My lord, never again. I beg your forgiveness.’ For your blasphemy, and for your failure this day, I should excommunicate you at once. This is how I ensure perfect discipline in my ranks. The soldier that falters, dies. You have done more than falter, Manthara. You have failed me today. You were given tasks to perform; none were successful. You know how I deal with such failures. Manthara cried out in naked terror: ‘No, my lord! I beg you! Do not abandon me! I shall do penance to atone for my error. I shall never utter that filthy word again. I beg you!’ The fire raged around her still, as if relishing the taste of her fear. She was in a state beyond agony now. Her entire being was seared through with liquid heat, unbearable and inescapable. Finally, the fist of fire released her, returning to the chaukat. Only because I have need of you, wretched one. But make that error once more and excommunication will be the least of your fates. Manthara trembled silently. Her head was bowed low enough that her forehead touched the rim of the chaukat itself. She could smell the stench of her hair burning. And somewhere through the mist of pain and mutilation she knew she had soiled herself in both ways. Still she abased and abused her tortured self. The Dark Lord was a greedy deity and it was better to give more than less. Finally, she felt his anger abate slightly. I will withhold your penalty for the time being. But remember, it is only in abeyance, not erased. Now, pay attention, hag, for it is vital that we do not let this setback affect our greater plans. ‘My lord,’ she begged, her voice

quivering with terror. ‘Whatever you say, it will be done. I will not fail thee again.’

power is—’

Manthara raised her head slowly. Her eyes were bright red, blazing coals in her dark face. ‘My lord, if you will it, I can go into that sabha hall and use my powers to destroy them all. In one act of terror, we will be rid of all the ruling heads of Ayodhya. The princes will have joined their father by now, and—’

The flame blazed one last time, shooting out in all directions, filling every square inch of the secret prayer room, enfolding Manthara in a sorcerous shroud that blazed without burning. She screamed with ecstasy and delight throwing out her repaired limbs to the unholy fire, embracing it with every fibre of her being. It was cold, like a cloak of ice rather than fire. As she knew her lord’s naked body might feel against her own bare skin. She savoured the unholy ashirwaad of her dark deity.

Stupid, stupid woman. You would destroy yourself, use your shakti to explode like a human bomb, would you? That is not an act of courage, you twisted crone. It’s utter idiocy. We want that sabha to end peacefully. We want Maharaja Dasaratha to agree to the seer-mage’s demand. That is our plan. Do you understand now? Or do I have to scourge you again to get it into your thick head?

As suddenly as it had blazed out, the fire withdrew, sucking itself back into the chaukat, then extinguishing itself in one last whump of flame. The chaukat was cold and empty, the last bones of the dead Brahmin boy gone, the chamber dark and silent.

Manthara’s mouth hung open, trailing a line of thick saliva. ‘My lord . . .’ She swallowed. ‘Truly, you are magnificent.’

With a great sigh, Manthara got to her feet and went to fulfil her master’s command. She looked exactly as she had done when she had entered the secret room; not a hair was out of place.

Even as we speak, both those old Brahmins are working their insidious charm on Dasaratha. Soon, he will concede to Vishwamitra’s demand.

Enough. I tire of this discussion. When I have need of you again, I will call upon you. The Day is at hand. The flame caressed her gently, insinuating itself into the sockets of her eyes, making the fluids bubble and stream down her face. Manthara quivered in ecstasy. And when Ayodhya is in my clasp, you will be rewarded. Here is a token of my appreciation. Manthara gasped and raised her head, staring at her arms, her body, feeling herself all over, unable to believe the power and ease of her master’s sorcery. ‘My injuries, my burns, they’re all gone! Oh, master, you are magnificent and munificent beyond all measure! Your

TWENTY-FOUR They were almost at the royal bhojanshalya when a rather too shapely form emerged, sighing and belching at the same time, rubbing her bare midriff, looking like a cat that had eaten far too much fish and now regretted her gluttony. Lakshman and Shatrugan’s playful banter stopped instantly, Shatrugan cutting himself short before the punchline of a particularly mischievous play on the Sanskrit and commonspeak words for ‘nubile young girl’. Bharat’s face lost its smile and he slowed his pace. Kaikeyi turned and saw them approaching. She uttered a noise of exasperation. ‘Where have you been?’ Her voice was shrill and grating, flecks of paan visible between her teeth, the blood-red tobacco juice spraying out as she spoke. ‘First you disappear all morning—and what a morning!—and then Manthara vanishes without telling me where she’s going. And your father—let’s not even start on him, I don’t know what’s got into him today. Nobody seems to care a damn about me in this palace any more.’

better, he might have thought she was nursing a hangover: but Second Queen Kaikeyi always made it a point to announce proudly in public that she never touched alcohol as it was so unladylike. It was an odd boast, since neither his and Shatrugan’s mother Third Queen Sumitra, nor First Queen Kausalya had ever touched alcohol in their lives, and never thought it necessary to remind the world of this fact. But then Kaikeyi did love to sing her own praises, even when nobody else seemed interested in singing along. Bharat went with his mother, who was haranguing him about how nobody in the palace seemed to care about royal protocol any more, and how shortstaffed she was, and how her seamstresses had utterly botched up her choli for the Holi parade, and how tiring such festivities were for a queen but nobody seemed to care, and so on. He glanced back briefly, giving his brothers a look of despair that Lakshman had seen often. ‘Did you see that?’ Shatrugan said. ‘When she gets like that, it makes me so mad, I’d like to grab her fleshy shoulders and shake her until she just shuts up!’

Lakshman and Shatrugan proffered the expected bows, their outstretched fingers barely brushing the hem of Kaikeyi’s sari. She gestured vaguely, her ashirwaad—if she issued any—obscured by her mouthful of paan. Her lips were bright from the tobacco juice, a gory contrast to her pale northern complexion.

Lakshman looked at his brother. Again he wondered at the cosmic irony that had bonded Shatrugan and Bharat so closely while he had formed an identical bond with Rama.

Lakshman observed that her eyes seemed bloodshot and wilder than usual, and the snappishness in her manner a bit more pronounced. If he didn’t know

Shatrugan looked at his brother, surprised. Then he saw the twinkle in Lakshman’s eyes and let his scowl turn into a smile. ‘Yeah, she is, isn’t she? If

‘You take one shoulder, I’ll take the other,’ he said aloud. ‘She’s too tough for you alone!’

only she’d use some of that Kshatriya strength to fight rakshasas instead of taking it out on poor Bharat.’ Lakshman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe Bharat shouldn’t be such a victim too. I mean, he could stand up to her once in a while. He’s not a milk-drooling babe any more.’ ‘She’s his mother, Lakshman. And never mind him, do you think either of us could raise our voice to her?’ Lakshman shook his head, acknowledging Shatrugan’s point. The very thought of addressing an elder aggressively was anathema to any decent Arya. And though some parents could and did relax behaviour norms— Maharaja Janak of Mithila gave his daughters more freedom than most kings gave their sons, for instance— Ayodhya walked a line closer to rigid traditional formality than liberal individualism. ‘Anyway, at least he’s learned to deal with it. He doesn’t let her feed him like a stuffed boar like when he was a kid.’ Shatrugan conceded that point. Before they had left for Guru Vashishta’s forest academy, Bharat used to be the first one in the bhojanshalya and the last to leave, supervised closely by either Kaikeyi-maa or Manthara-daiimaa. Now, he was more watchful about his diet, more aware of his physical appearance. ‘And thank God our maa isn’t like that,’ Lakshman added. ‘Speaking of her,’ Shatrugan said, ‘shouldn’t we see her first before having naashta?’ Lakshman caught a whiff of some fried savoury: samosas, he guessed. He adored

samosas and jalebis. ‘I guess we should,’ he agreed reluctantly. They turned away from the bhojanshalya with an effort and made their way to the third queen’s palace through a connecting corridor. A chorus of cries went up as their mother’s serving girls saw them coming and conveyed the news with the speed of sparrows chittering at the arrival of sunrise. Their mother was waiting for them, the aarti thali beside her, ready for the Holi morning ritual. ‘There you are,’ she said, beaming up at them. Both her sons had at least a head of height on her. Confronted with them, her small, roundish face still youthful and childishly winsome, she looked like a younger sister rather than their mother. ‘You boys must be hungry. Let’s finish your aarti and you can have your naashta.’ She sighed briefly as she hefted the thali on her little hands. ‘I had to spend half the morning keeping Kaikeyi-maa company while she ate her breakfast. My stomach’s grumbling too.’ ‘You mean Kaikeyi-maa’s already eaten?’ Lakshman frowned. ‘But isn’t she supposed to wait and do Bharat’s aarti first?’ Sumitra gave her son a look that spoke volumes. ‘Yes, she is. But you know Kaikeyi-maa.’ She shook her head in bafflement. ‘I don’t understand that woman. Does she drink a cup of bile every night before sleeping? She’s always so full of bitterness for everything and everybody. You won’t believe the scene she made in Kausalya-maa’s chambers this morning. I thought the rakshasas had invaded the palace! Anyway, let’s not

talk about such ashubh things before pooja. We all have a long day ahead.’ Lakshman and Shatrugan exchanged a last glance before bowing to touch their mother’s feet. It was a glance of mutual relief that they weren’t Kaikeyi-maa’s sons.

TWENTY-FIVE The moment Rama’s face came into view, framed between two bougainvilleatwined marble arches, Kausalya was struck by a great urge to run and sweep her son into her arms, hugging him madly, the way she had done a year ago when he returned from Guru Vashishta’s ashram. That day she had been standing ready from dawn on the steps of the palace, anxiously awaiting his return after a gap of seven unbearably long years. When she saw the slender young man walking up the avenue, she was startled at first: this can’t be my Rama. Then she had recognised his delicately carved features, chiselled more finely than ever in adolescent masculinity. As he came closer, still absorbed in banter with his three brothers, she began to delineate the unmistakable silhouette of her father’s aquiline profile in his face as well as reflections of her own nose, jawline and chin, mingled to form a strikingly handsome face and personality that was entirely his own—unlike Bharat walking beside him, a smaller and much less bulky but otherwise identical clay-cast model of Dasaratha— and Kausalya was struck with a shock of delicious realisation that her son had left as a boy and come back a man. Then he had glanced up while smiling at some comment by Shatrugan or Lakshman and met her astonished gaze, and she had seen the startled look of recognition in his own eyes. She had let all protocol fall by the wayside as she ran down the steps, past the surprised night-watch, and swept him up in her embrace, her tears leaving streaky trails down his dustlimned shoulder. He was fourteen, almost fifteen, then. A

whole year had passed since that emotional reunion. A year in which they had grown closer than ever despite the long separation, or perhaps because of it, and now not a day passed without Kausalya spending an hour or several in her son’s company, making up for those lost years. But now, as she watched him enter the courtyard of her palace and walk through the arched entranceway, she felt a tearing at her heart and eyes that was as wrenching as the anticipation she had felt that day. Then, it had been the realisation that her little boy had returned a man. Today, it was the knowledge that he was about to become crown prince of Ayodhya. Crown prince! Even the sadness that lay in her breast like a hard, cold lump, the awful certainty that his ascension would be as a result of his father’s untimely demise, even that sad fact couldn’t lessen the joy of this moment. Earlier this morning, in the akasa-chamber, Dasaratha had reproached her for thinking like a wife rather than a mother. And so she had. But now that she had had a little time to absorb the unexpected news, to accept the inevitability of Dasaratha’s mortality, she had begun to think like a mother again. And now, flushed with the pride and exhilaration of her thrilling secret, it took every ounce of her self-control to remain standing as she was in the proper dignified posture, and not to shout out Rama’s name, run laughing to him, trumpet her message to the skies. She must behave immaculately. There would be eyes everywhere from now on, watching him as well as her. For if he was to become king, she would be queen mother, and there was a protocol to be followed.

And jealous eyes would be watching constantly. All this passed through her mind in the space of the moment it took Rama to step through the marble archway. His face softened in a shy smile as he caught sight of her across the twenty-metre length of the square aangan. He raised his arm in greeting and was about to sprint to her when he saw the entourage of serving girls surrounding her and the pooja thali in her hands. He slowed his pace and strode in measured steps across the aangan, past the sacred tulsi that he had helped Kausalya plant when he was seven, past the greedily admiring doe eyes of the first queen’s entirely female palace staff, each one admiring every nuance of his lithe, muscled frame with the avariciousness of a johari testing the purity of gold— although even a jeweller would not dwell as shamelessly on the intimate anatomical details of a piece of jewellery as did the palace nubiles admiring Rama’s body. And after the announcement today, not just nubiles but every woman of the court would give her life for a single night in his embrace. Kausalya had no fear that Rama would give in to their temptations—she had brought him up too well for that, she knew—but she took some small pleasure from his popularity. It was a fine thing to be desired, as long as one never succumbed to desire. To his credit, without even throwing a flirtatious glance in anyone’s direction— he was his mother’s darling after all, she told herself with a brief flash of pride— he climbed the seven steps to the threshold where Kausalya stood. As he had passed the tulsi plant, a trio of little

butterflies twirling playfully in the air attached themselves to him, roiling and fluttering around his head. As he reached the seventh step, they hovered before his face, attracting his attention for an instant—he laughed delightedly, turning cross-eyed as he tried to look at the bold admirers—then danced away in the wind. Prajapati, she thought. Butterflies were an embodiment of the One God that had created all living creatures large and small. The other six million gods— including the holy trinity that were in fact varying aspects of the One God— were all avatars of Prajapati, and the butterflies gracing Rama at such a moment were nothing less than a supreme blessing. She sent up a silent prayer and vowed to offer a special yagna to Prajapati before the season was over. ‘Maa, pranaam,’ he said, bowing low to touch her feet. Greetings, mother. ‘Ayushmaanbhav, Aryaputra,’ she responded formally. Live long, son of Arya. Touching his forehead with the tips of his mother-blessed fingers, he accepted her ashirwaad and straightened up. The maids beside Kausalya stepped up with the phool-mala and other tokens of the aarti, and she performed the simple ritual that every Arya mother and wife dutifully executed every day, praying for the long life, health, wealth and happiness of her husband and children. Traditionally, a wife performed the daily aarti for her husband before he left for his day’s duties, be they farming or kingship. This morning, she had already performed it for Dasaratha, but through these many years of marital estrangement, she had satisfied herself by blessing her son every day. And so it was this little ritual that made her feel as though her day was

now truly begun. The aarti done, her oldest maid, Susamadaiimaa, the same midwife who had presided over Rama’s birth, rang the brass bell that hung over the threshold. In response, the assembled serving girls and women sounded their little silver hand-bells, signalling the end of the aarti. As the last tinkling of the pooja bells filled the aangan, rising into the clear morning air with the twining smoke and sweet odour of agar, an identical tinkling rose from other aangans within hearing distance—the Second Queen’s Palace, Third Queen’s Palace, and the Palace of Concubines. Across the capital city, identical sounds and fragrances were rising from a hundred thousand aangans as mothers blessed their husbands and first-borns and prayed for an auspicious start to the sowing season. ‘What a day this has been, maa,’ Rama said as they seated themselves in her reception chamber. They had a few minutes before the royal parade began. He briskly recounted the events of that morning, from his encounter with the deer and the poachers to the near-riot on Jagganath Marg. Kausalya listened patiently, though her heart was filled to bursting with her own news. She was surprised and a little disturbed to hear of the near-escapes from violence he had experienced. She had long since made her peace with the fact that violence would always be a part and parcel of Rama’s existence. She consoled herself with the knowledge that she had trained him well to seek peaceful solutions whenever possible. But it alarmed her that he had taken on both

challenges unarmed. At times like this, she almost wished that Rama could be less truthful than he was, but immediately admonished herself for thinking such a thing. Serving girls bustled to and fro excitedly, bringing refreshments for them. Freed from the formality of the religious rite, the nubile young girls couldn’t take their eyes off Rama, and more than one brushed intimately against him as she bent to offer a platter of fruit or a cup of rose-water, offering him easy glimpses of her cleavage or ‘accidentally’ caressing his face or arms. After the second or third time, Rama cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Kausalya. She smiled wryly and clapped her hands, ordering the maids out of the room. They left reluctantly, and watched discreetly from the windows and doorways. ‘Maybe later,’ Rama said when she offered him food. He accepted only a clay cup of rose-flavoured water, sipping it slowly. Kausalya abjured eating too. There would be a feast later, and formality would require her to partake of some of that rich, heavy banquet. Rama had taken after her in his frugal eating habits, a stark contrast to his brother Bharat, whose appetites promised some day to rival even his father’s legendary voluptuousness. Kausalya remembered the time Rama had sat by his father’s side, sipping rosewater as Dasaratha guzzled goblets of wine, looking up adoringly at his father from time to time and trying so fetchingly to imitate Dasaratha’s peculiar habit of holding the goblet by the rim rather than the stem—until the cup slipped from his little fingers and

shattered on the floor of the king’s bhojanshalya. The look of sadness that came on his little face as he looked down at the broken cup and the shards of painted clay was not for the spilled rosewater, he told Kausalya in a soft voice later that night, but for the broken cup, which he had crafted with his own hands at a potter’s wheel behind the palace. At the memory, Kausalya was struck by an impulse of motherly love so strong that it made her heart ache. Rama glanced up at her, sensing her eyes on him, and smiled his familiar distracted half-smile. Even now, he was as patient, as calm as he had been as a boy. The stillness of steel, Guru Vashishta had once commented. Kausalya leaned forward, resisting the urge to clasp him to her breast and hug him until he laughed and ran away to hide among her silks— rolling in their fragrant folds while she pretended to search half the palace before ‘luckily’ happening to find him— and finally spoke the words that had been waiting for release. ‘Your father came to me this morning.’ He lowered the clay cup. It was an identical replica of the one he had made as a child, but far more perfectly finished and shaped—he had made this one too. He waited for her to go on. ‘He has decided that you are to be king on his passing. He wishes to crown you prince-heir on your sixteenth birthday this very month.’ She waited for him to respond. But there was no response from Rama.

TWENTY-SIX Rama remained silent, his eyes, fixed now on the granite-tiled floor, as dark and unfathomable as her own at such times. Like a well in the late afternoon, the water glinting far below in reflected sunlight, yet not directly visible no matter how hard you looked. Deep waters. She had been exactly the same in her youth, staying so silent that the elder women of her father’s palace had offered critical opinions of a possible lack of intelligence. ‘He wishes to make the announcement today,’ she added. ‘To prepare the kingdom for your coronation with great pomp and ceremony. He is very proud of you.’ Still Rama said nothing. Only listened, the clay cup now set on the floor between them, leaning forward, elbows resting on his crossed legs. From somewhere in the city, the sound of conch shells announced the formal start of the Holi festivities. A new flurry of excitement rippled through Kausalya’s maids. They would be waiting impatiently for she and Rama to finish their refreshments and join the rest of the royal family. Kausalya briefly flashed on the memories of the many Holi festivals over the years that she had spent without Rama by her side, without the attentions of Dasaratha, feeling like a third wheel on a chariot that had long outlived its usefulness. She firmly put aside those painful images. This was a new beginning, time to create new memories and record happy images. She focussed on conveying to Rama the importance of her message. ‘It is your birthright, as you know. You are next in line to the throne. It is your

place to be king after he is . . . gone.’ He raised his head. The change that had come over his features was small but frightful. She had some notion of how formidable he must have seemed to those trespassing poachers. So much rage in such a serene youthful face was terrifying to see. His voice was soft as molten steel, the words smouldering with fury. ‘And what of you? What of your place, the place you were denied? The humiliations you bore silently? The betrayal and the infidelity? The negligence? Will those be restored to you as well? Will his passing magically make everything all right?’ His eyes were filled now with an inner light that was a reflection of the threat lurking in those deep waters. There was a gharial beneath that deceptively calm surface. An ancient reptilian creature whose ferocity and ruthlessness belied the apparent calm. She guessed that even the encounters with the poachers and the rioting mob would not have awoken this sleeping beast; those were problems his Kshatriya upbringing and training had more than prepared him to deal with, while this was something he had no defence against, no solution for, no means of dealing with. She had seen this same emotion surface in Rama once before, when he was very small, the first time he understood that despite her status as first queen, his mother was treated as an unwanted mistress while her usurper Kaikeyi reigned supreme with the king’s assent. That was the day the gharial had been born; now, it was an almost fully grown creature, matured by his realisation on his return from the ashram that nothing had changed: his

mother still lived with the daily humiliation of being a cast-aside wife in her own palace. She paused, choosing her words carefully. She was not among those women who nursed their hurt and humiliation within their breasts and passed it to their children like sour milk, to curdle their stomachs and turn their hearts against their fathers. ‘He is ailing, Rama,’ she said gently. ‘He does not have long to live. He wishes . . . to make amends. He has already . . . reconciled with me, and I have accepted.’ ‘Accepted?’ Softly spoken though it was, the word sprang from his lips like an arrow shot at her heart. Her head throbbed with sudden anxiety. She feared she would not be able to convince him, to make him forgive his father’s past errors, to accept his legacy and wear the crown that had touched Dasaratha’s scalp. ‘What do you mean, accepted, Mother? How could you accept him back in the space of a single morning when his negligence has spanned a decade and a half?’ ‘He is still my husband,’ she replied, keeping her voice level and as calm as she could manage. ‘And I am still his wife. We walked seven pheras around the sacred fire. Nothing can undo that.’ He was silent, staring in rage at her for a moment. Then he saw something in her face that explained more than her words. He looked away, angry and ashamed, and she felt a flush burn her face. He had understood just how intimate the reconciliation had been.

‘And where do you stand on this . . . this royal change of heart?’ He said it without looking at her. ‘I stand as his wife and your mother.’ She tried to appeal to his softer side, to retreat to their unblemished bond as mother and son, free of the emotional baggage of her damaged relationship with his father. ‘I want this for you, Rama. I want to see you crowned king. It’s my life’s greatest wish. Nothing would make me happier. Try to understand.’ ‘Don’t say that.’ His voice was hoarse with anguish. ‘I understand everything. I understand that you’re willing to forget all and forgive him for the sake of my future, to put aside your long, silent suffering just so that I can sit on the throne of Ayodhya.’ ‘No, Rama. That isn’t entirely true. I am done with the anger and the suffering. I’m ready to put it behind me. I want to go forward now, to make a new beginning. I want to celebrate Holi today with my son and my husband, and begin a new season of happiness. I want to enjoy this blessing that God has given me once again, and be content with it for as long as it lasts. And we both know that nothing lasts for ever. Heed my words, son. Put aside your anger. I believe your father is sincere and genuinely repentant. Forget his past mistakes. Accept his ashirwaad, and the crown of Ayodhya.’ Rama made a gesture as scornful as flicking a bug off his shoulder. ‘I don’t want a crown as a consolation prize.’ She was shocked at his sarcasm. It was not usually his way to use verbal barbs.

He was too good a boy for that. But she had underestimated his banked anger all these years. Perhaps she had passed on some curdled milk after all, without her knowledge. Perhaps simply being her son had soured the good milk in his belly. Like her, he kept his gharial caged so deep that by the time it emerged it was too late to prepare for its ferocity.

crucial first step on to the bridge of forgiveness. This was a test of everything she had taught him, things that were harder to learn than sword-art and archery. Lessons that must be learned so deeply that they became part of one’s personality. Please, Sri, she prayed to her patron goddess, let him see right and do right.

But she had banked emotions of her own. And this was one fight she had to fight, not against him, but for his sake.

She placed her palm on his cheek. His skin was hot. ‘Listen to me,’ she said in a tone that she might have used when he was a gurgling baby in her lap fifteen years ago. ‘Put the past away. Make a new beginning today, Rama. This is no accidental reconciliation. It was meant to be. Whatever is done, is done. It no longer matters. The only thing that matters is what lies ahead. Face it with an open and free mind. Accept it. Accept your dharma.’

‘Be careful now, son,’ she warned. ‘Don’t let your anger with your father cloud your judgement. You are a Suryavansha prince, the rightful heir to the throne. Accept your place in the dynasty. Ascend the throne you were born to occupy. This is beyond any personal feelings. This is a matter of history and destiny.’ ‘History can be rewritten. Destiny can be changed.’ He almost snarled the next words: ‘If queens can be replaced at will, so can crown princes. Who knows what plans his other wife has in store for us in future?’ ‘Rama Chandra!’ She spoke his full birth name for the first time in years. Not since he had left the palace for the ashram had she used his entire name aloud to his face. ‘You go too far. Remember who you are. As your mother, I forbid you from speaking another word against your father.’ He looked at her. The fire in his eyes burned low and deep. But there was something else now. An awareness that she had changed. And bonded as he was to her, she prayed that he would understand and change with her. That he would cross over from the scorched lands of hate and bitterness and take that

The glint in his eyes seemed to soften at that last word, grow less hostile. She pressed her advantage. ‘It is your dharma to fulfil your father’s wishes, to take his place on the throne of Ayodhya, to rule your people justly and wisely. These things you must do without doubt or question. These have nothing to do with his negligence of me, or our long estrangement. Those are insignificant in the larger context. Yes, I have forgiven and forgotten all lapses, just in the space of one morning. Yet I do not demand or even request that you do the same. It is your decision to make. What I do demand is that you honour your parents and ancestors and heritage. Your dharma calls out to you. Answer it wisely.’ A maid came to the door, looked in and started to speak. Kausalya dismissed her with a silent gesture. When she turned

back to Rama, his face was still scarred with sorrow, but the rage was gone, she was relieved to see. The gharial had sunk beneath the surface again, descending into the depths. ‘My dharma.’ The words were soft, unaccented by anger. Yet Kausalya read an entire childhood of pain in them, the pain of a son who had seen his mother pining secretly in private while a younger woman took her place in public by her husband’s side. There was nothing she could do to chase away that pain. All she could do was to give him a positive goal to look forward to, a target on which to focus his energies. And pray for the best.

Yet she knew that Rama understood everything she felt. He always had. Even despite the barrier of protocol that prevented a Hindu mother from speaking to her son about his father’s faults and lapses, Rama understood without being told. And in the end, he would do the right thing; he always did. The sound of conch shells was everywhere now, an orchestra of celebration as overwhelming as a herd of elephants trumpeting on one’s doorstep. The maids were beside themselves with excitement, running to and fro, fetching their rang and implements in anticipation of their mistress’s permission to start playing.

‘Your dharma,’ she agreed. He was silent for another long moment. Conch shells were sounding all across the city now. After a morning of surprises, Ayodhya had finally officially begun the celebration of the most rambunctious festival of the year. In moments, coloured rang powder would fly from a hundred thousand fists, painting the city in rainbow hues. But the mood in this chamber was still grey, the celebration outside kept at bay by a decision that could change the course of Arya history itself. For several moments, as Kausalya waited for Rama’s final choice, she thought that he would surely deny his father’s desire. That despite his princely training and upbringing, Rama the son of Kausalya would prevail over Rama the prince and heir of Dasaratha. Then she realised that she must not even think of such a possibility, that the mere fact of her thinking it might be communicated to Rama.

After another moment of tense anticipation, Kausalya sensed that Rama had reached a decision. But instead of speaking, he rose directly to his feet, taking Kausalya by surprise. He bowed and touched her feet, the tips of his fingers brushing her gold-ringed toes. Straightening up, he joined his palms in a respectful and affectionate pranaam. His face had lost all trace of anger or pique and was composed in its normal expression of peaceful serenity once more. Looking into his eyes, she saw that the wave of resentment had passed. He had somehow come to terms with this difficult and unexpected shock and was coping with it. He even managed a tiny smile of tenderness as he said to her gently: ‘It will be as you wish, Maa.’ Kausalya was weak with relief.

The female guard who entered the room was one of her oldest and most loyal. ‘Rani, shama.’ Excuse me, my queen. ‘The king wishes to see Prince Rama in the sabha hall at once.’

TWENTY-SEVEN As the towering doors of the sabha hall were unbarred and opened to admit the four princes, Rama heard the sound of loud booming voices from within. They were a faint counterpoint to the distant sounds of revelry and music that reverberated from the rest of the palace and the city. Celebrations without, solemnity within. Truly, this was a strange festival day. He entered first as protocol demanded, forcing himself to walk not run. The voices faded as soon as he entered, and he was uncertain whether he had heard or imagined them. Behind him, the sound of the doors being shut and bolted was very loud in the empty stillness of the enormous chamber. He began to walk down the long aisle to the royal dais at the far end, the sound of his brothers’ sandalled feet following close behind. Coming here brought back memories of the few formal occasions when the princes had been permitted to attend court. There had been many voices in those days, raised in incessant conflict. Why do maharajas always have to argue with people? Rama had asked his mother once. Why can’t they just be nice to everyone? She had smiled and hugged him to her breast and told him that when he was king he could be as nice as he liked. Whatever argument had been raging a moment ago, it seemed to have ended. The four princes walked up the long central aisle to the royal dais in absolute silence now, unusual in a place built for debates. Rama noted that his father looked older and wearier than usual; he looked soul-sick, his thickened jowls drooping, eyes ringed with dark circles of exhaustion, complexion pale from the cancerous attacks of his mystery ailment.

He was seated on the throne but leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, like a man exhausted from thinking. The three other men standing before him on the dais formed a triangular tableau of conflict and disagreement: PradhanMantri Sumantra stood by the king’s right hand, facing the two Brahmins, while Guru Vashishta was shoulder to shoulder with the visitor, who had his back to the princes as they approached. Yet even with his back turned, he was an imposing sight, a picture of radiant strength and virility contrasting sharply with Dasaratha’s sickly exhaustion. It was difficult not to see the irony in the contrast. He must be all of seven feet tall, if he’s an inch, Rama thought. And look at that musculature, and those scars. He still looks like a king even today. Rama reached the end of the crimson carpet and bent his knee. ‘Pranaam, Ayodhya-naresh, pranaam pujya pitaaji.’ His brothers mirrored his gesture and salutation. Greetings, lord of Ayodhya; greetings, respected father. ‘My sons.’ Dasaratha sounded strained. ‘Come to me.’ The princes stepped on to the saffron carpeting of the royal dais and joined their father. As Rama approached, he kept his hands clasped together to greet the others in the correct order that protocol demanded. First, the honoured visitor. ‘Pranaam, respected guest. You honour

us with your visit. I pray, if you find this humble Kshatriya worthy, grant me your ashirwaad. I shall be eternally blessed.’ Vishwamitra took a step sideways and turned slightly to offer more of his foreside to Rama, while taking care not to turn his back on the king. ‘Greetings, Prince Rama.’ As Rama bent to touch the seer-mage’s feet in the traditional greeting to a respected elder, Vishwamitra simply said, ‘Ayushmaanbhav, rajkumar.’ Live long, prince. The response was delivered without embellishment, and so curtly that Rama almost looked up at the seer’s face before rising. He sensed Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra’s eyes blinking briefly before returning to their contemplation of a spot in the middle distance. The maharaja said nothing. Rama stepped back to allow his brothers to repeat the showing of respect and granting of ashirwaad, taking care not to meet anyone’s gaze directly. The tension on the dais was palpable. Rama guessed that the argument had reached a stalemate, not an end.

princes was less curt, and by the time he touched Lakshman’s head, there was almost a trace of warmth in the deep voice. The four princes stood in a row to the left of the throne. Now the tableau resembled an upturned V, with the maharaja at the conjunction of the two lines. ‘My sons,’ Dasaratha said, sounding tired and on edge. ‘It is a strange and disturbing day in our history. The arrival of our exalted guest on the auspicious day of Holi Purnima would be an occasion to celebrate with twice the customary pomp, yet other events have occurred to cast a shadow over our great city.’ Dasaratha gestured to Sumantra. The prime minister quickly brought the princes up to speed on the events of that morning, from the arrival of the impostor to his exposure and dismissal by the two seers, right up to the discussion in the sabha hall and the unmasking of the spies.

As his brothers bent to touch the visitor’s feet, Rama sensed someone staring intently at him. It was the piercing gaze of a large and powerful animal in the deep forest, like a tiger watching him from a mangrove tree. The penetrating study of a fellow predator. But when he glanced cursorily around, both Guru Vashishta and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra were looking elsewhere. Still the sense of being watched persisted.

‘They are now in the city jail, being interrogated by Mantri Jabali, who has some expertise in these matters.’ Sumantra gestured at the deserted expanse of the sabha hall. ‘At the maharaja’s order, the sabha was dismissed and a state of emergency declared in the city. It’s believed that an entire network of asura-sponsored spies exists throughout the kingdom, perhaps even throughout the Arya nations, and an emergency plenary session of the war council will be held a week from today to discuss how best to attack and destroy this network.’

The visitor’s ashirwaad to the other

Sumantra’s voice and face betrayed his

own disbelief at the things he was describing. Bharat and Shatrugan exchanged glances with each other before looking at Rama. This was far worse than any of them had thought. Rama spoke up. ‘Something strange happened to us a few minutes ago.’ He briefly sketched the near-riot on the streets outside the palace gates. His brothers, clearly dissatisfied with his lack of detail, chipped in several times. Finally, Bharat took over the telling, praising Rama’s swiftness of thought and action, and his ingenuity. ‘If not for Rama,’ he finished, ‘the streets would be washed with innocent blood today.’ Sumantra and Dasaratha exchanged glances. Sumantra looked even more troubled than he had been before. ‘Captain Drishti Kumar told us that something strange had happened but nobody seems to be sure exactly what it was.’

the kingdom. ‘And last month there was a courier from Mithila who delivered a message from Maharaja Janak and left here safely but never reached Mithila.’ Rama spoke his mind. ‘There is a conspiracy afoot, Father,’ he said. ‘And Ayodhya is the target. We have not seen the last of these unnatural events.’ Before Dasaratha could reply, the visitor spoke. ‘Well said, Prince Rama. It is just as you say. The Lord of Lanka has spread his net far and wide all these years. Now, he begins to pull it in one patch at a time. If we do not act swiftly and decisively, we will live to see a reign of terror such as no Arya nation has ever witnessed.’ ‘What can we do to prevent this from happening?’ Rama asked. ‘Can’t we attempt to parley with Lanka?’

‘There was sorcery at work,’ Lakshman said. ‘It was like a mist had descended to cloud everyone’s mind.’ He added proudly: ‘Only Brother Rama was unaffected.’

Vishwamitra’s craggy face was softened by an unexpected smile. ‘Would that it were possible. Sadly, young prince, asuras do not parley. This war has too long and bloody a history for peace to be an option any longer.’

Rama shifted uneasily as his father congratulated him with as much energy as he could muster.

Rama looked at Dasaratha. ‘My father taught me that peace is always an option.’

He saw the two seer-mages exchange a look, but couldn’t see Vishwamitra’s face clearly as he was being embraced by his father.

Vishwamitra raised his eyebrows, exchanging a look with Dasaratha. ‘And he taught you well. But this is no ordinary adversary. These are asuras, eternal enemies of the devas. And as long as we worship the devas as our gods, we can never be at peace with the asuras.’

Sumantra added uncomfortably: ‘We have been hearing strange rumours from the rakshaks for a while now.’ He was speaking of the sub-caste of Kshatriyas who were entrusted with the task of guarding the bridges and causeways of

Bharat was about to speak up, but Rama went on, persisting: ‘But there was a

cessation of hostilities once. Before we mortals were created. The devas and asuras came to an understanding and put down their weapons to negotiate peacefully.’ Vishwamitra nodded at his fellow seermage. ‘And Guru Vashishta too has taught you well. You know your history. You speak of the Amrit Manthan. And so you must also know the outcome of those peaceful negotiations?’ Rama realised his mistake at once. ‘The devas churned the ocean to produce the nectar of immortality. But when the time came to give an equal portion to the asuras, the devas tried to cheat them because they feared that once the asuras became immortal too, they would be unstoppable.’ ‘And so the war resumed, fiercer than ever.’ Vishwamitra gave Rama the benefit of a smile. ‘Still, it is good to find a Kshatriya prince who speaks of peace, young Rama Chandra. If only there was a way to end this war without violence.’ He sighed. ‘Sadly, there isn’t.’ Rama noticed that his father was favouring one leg slightly; Dasaratha had an old war injury on his left thigh that troubled him in times of illness and weakness. He looked at Guru Vashishta to see if he had noticed. Vashishta looked sorrowful and compassionate. His father’s condition was worsening but nothing could be done about it.

respectfully, his taut expression betraying his inability to control his anger any longer, ‘respected father, great Guru Vashishta, we must root out this evil at once. Let me lead the hunt for these treacherous rats. I will wash the gutters of the city with their black blood and cleanse our great capital of this evil intrusion.’ Guru Vashishta raised his palm. ‘Shantam, my prince. Control your emotions. Angry haste is not the way to deal with this problem.’ He gestured fluidly at Vishwamitra. ‘Our illustrious visitor has interrupted his two-hundredand-forty-year penance for the precise purpose of aiding us in this new war.’ Rama happened to be looking in his father’s direction when the guru said the word ‘war’. He saw Dasaratha blanch visibly. Rama’s heart went out to his father. Maharaja Dasaratha had never recovered wholly from that final campaign. His most fervent prayer had always been that his sons would never have to experience similar horrors. ‘I wish it were not so,’ Rama said, speaking for his father. ‘Better that this conflict had never begun.’ Vishwamitra looked at Rama. Their eyes met for a moment, and Rama could feel that it was the great seer-mage who had been scrutinising him moments ago, using his supernatural power of secret observation.

Vishwamitra went on: ‘Ever since I entered Ayodhya, I have sensed spirals and wisps of kala jaadu in the ether. It saddens me to see the presence of evil in the heart of such a noble city.’

‘Well spoken once again, young prince. Nevertheless, this conflict was begun, though not by your hand or ours. All that is within our power is the chance to end it.’

‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra,’ Bharat said

‘End it?’ Dasaratha said suddenly.

‘Impossible! Even the gods could not end the asura wars. And not for want of trying. You have just said so yourself, great one. How can we mere mortals do what the gods cannot?’

tents and go to battle against the asuras. If you honour me, then respect and uphold that vow.’

‘Nevertheless, Dasaratha, we cannot stop trying. Even the impossible must be attempted, if only in the hope of eventual success.’ He chanted a Sanskrit sloka: ‘Karmanye swahikaaraste mahaphaleshua.’ Perform your dharmic duty and do not think of the fruits of your labour. Bharat spoke up again, his anger still evident.

‘These demons are demons. They will act as demons. We can still act as humans.’

‘Then as Kshatriyas and defenders of the Arya peoples, we must act. That is our dharmic duty, is it not, mahadev?’ He seemed to regard the question as rhetorical because he went on without waiting for a response. ‘Besides, we have no choice in the matter. The asuras made the first move. They violated the truce and infiltrated our city. We can’t just stand by and wait for them to invade and destroy our kingdom. We must go to war now.’ ‘NO!’ Dasaratha’s voice was cracked and hoarse, but there was power in it. Power which surely cost him much vital energy. Rama’s earlier anger at his father’s past mistakes had given way to a deep concern. He worried now about the toll this debate was taking on Dasaratha’s dangerously weakened constitution. ‘There will be no talk of war in my lifetime.’ The maharaja’s hand shook as he raised it to point at Kaikeyi’s son. ‘Bharat, my son, you know the price we paid—nay, are still paying—for the Last War. I swore a vow then that that was the last time we would pitch our war

‘But Father, these demons—’

‘But these intrusions. The rakshas who infiltrated the city—’ Dasaratha rose to his feet, face red with anger. ‘Enough! No more argument from you. There will be no talk of war here today or any day from this day onwards.’ Bharat fell sullenly silent. Shatrugan and Lakshman kept their eyes on the ground, knowing that there was no point in arguing with their father at such times. Only Rama kept his eyes on the maharaja, watching his father for any signs of an imminent collapse. Had Vishwamitra not been present, Rama would have asked Dasaratha to call an end to these discussions. But it would be insulting to tell his father to lie down and rest before a venerated guest. Dasaratha resumed his seat, sinking heavily into the cushioned throne. He spoke hoarsely but passionately. ‘I will not see those dark ages return to this land, not as long as there is still breath in my body.’ He curled his hand into a fist, which he brought down heavily on the arm of his throne. ‘I have said this to you a hundred times already, sage. Why do you not relent?’ Vishwamitra spoke into the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘Maharaja, you have made your views

clear. Yet my dharma is as clearly defined as your own. As much as I dislike war and the horrors that attend its passing, I must repeat my request.’ ‘And I must deny it yet again!’ The seer’s voice softened. ‘Dasaratha, be reasonable. What I offer is an antidote to war. An end to the endless cycle of karmic violence and bloodshed that has plagued us since the beginning of time. A permanent peace in the three worlds of patal, prithvi and swarga-lok.’ Dasaratha uttered a sound that was half a laugh and half a cry. ‘Your antidote is worse than the venom it seeks to cure, mahadev. I have told you already, it is unthinkable to give you what you demand. Ask anything else of me and you shall have it.’ ‘Ayodhya-naresh, your decision is not a wise one. I ask you yet again, reconsider. Or else you will commit the mortal sin of violating the sacred law of dharma!’

TWENTY-EIGHT Dasaratha coughed harshly, hacking into his fist. He tried to speak, but choked on another fit of coughing. Sumantra quickly provided a spittoon for his use, then offered Dasaratha a goblet to sip on. The maharaja used both before replying in a voice hoarser than before. Beside him, Rama sensed his brothers exchanging worried glances—none of them had any illusions about their father’s state of health, but none of them knew how to alleviate the current stress that he was under. As fascinating as the debate was, Rama felt anxious that it end for his father’s sake. Dasaratha’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight. ‘Honoured one, even another hundred years—were I blessed enough to live that long, which I doubt—would not make me reconsider my decision. What I said before is final and binding.’ Vishwamitra was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was deathly quiet. ‘It is not in the nature of seers, let alone a brahmarishi, to repeat oneself. Nor should you deny your clanoaths and defy the code of the Kshatriya. But because the Suryavansha dynasty and the Ikshvaku clan whence you spring are so renowned for their service to the seers, I repeat my request one more time for the benefit of your sons, these fine and proud young princes of Ayodhya.’ He turned slightly, pitching his words slightly louder for the benefit of Rama and his brothers. ‘Hear me, O Lord and Ruler of Ayodhya, seat of mighty Kosala, greatest of the Arya nations of the world. Grant me the dakshina I demand by right. And we may yet pull out the thorn before the bush grows beyond our

reach.’ Dasaratha’s head bowed wearily. ‘Sage, I cannot sacrifice the life of my son at the altar of your faith.’ ‘You would rather sacrifice the lives of your people instead?’ Vishwamitra’s voice was sharp. ‘If such be the will of the gods, so be it.’ Dasaratha’s voice was cantankerous, edgy with fatigue and brain-weariness. Rama knew that in the next instant, both men would be trading insults and then the fat would really hit the fire. If Brahmarishi Vishwamitra took offence at Dasaratha’s comments, this debate would end with a curse rather than a decision. ‘Father, mahaguru, shama.’ Both Dasaratha and the visitor stared in surprise at Rama as he stepped forward, kneeling before the throne while simultaneously bending his neck before the seer. The seer acknowledged Rama’s apology for the interruption. Rama rose to his feet and looked up at his father, who was frowning down at him. ‘Father, forgive my naivety. But may I ask what exactly is this dakshina that Brahmarishi Vishwamitra desires? And why do you break the code of the Kshatriya by refusing to grant him his dakshina?’ Although his brothers didn’t say a word, Rama felt their solidarity with him. What exactly was at stake here? Maharaja Dasaratha bowed his head again, shutting his red-rimmed eyes. Sumantra stepped forward, peering at him anxiously, but Dasaratha waved him

away weakly. After a moment, he opened his eyes once more, speaking hoarsely but clearly. ‘He wishes to conduct a great yagna. This is the culmination of his two hundred and forty years of penance. But each time his purohits prepare the sacred altar for the yagna, rakshasas defile its sanctity and disrupt the preparations. Even as we speak, the propitious time for the completion of the yagna is wasting. He must complete the ritual within the next seven days in order to achieve his spiritual goal. To this end, he interrupted his penance and came to Ayodhya today to request protection against the rakshasas.’ Rama was baffled. ‘But Father, this is the essence of the Kshatriya code: to protect those who cannot, will not, or must not fight. We are sworn to protect the seers and Brahmin classes with our lives, just as they are sworn to teach us all knowledge and guide us spiritually. Why do you refuse such a request?’ Dasaratha shook his head. ‘You do not understand, Rama. I have already offered him the services of my best warriors, my Purana Wafadar battalion; my entire army is at his disposal if he desires its services . . . I can do no less, for as you say, it is our sacred duty to protect and to serve the holy men. Yet the brahmarishi rejects all my offers and insists on his own choice of protector.’ Dasaratha shook his head in despair. ‘He insists on having you, my son, even though he knows full well that even my mighty army was once routed by this king of demons. Indeed, I would not be sitting here before you today were it not for the intervention of your clan-mother Kaikeyi, who saved my life not once but twice on that same battlefield. This

Ravana is no ordinary rakshas, Rama, as my own wounds testify.’ Second Queen Kaikeyi, then Princess Kaikeyi of the western kingdom of Kaikeya, had ridden in her father’s stead at the head of his host, accompanied by Maharaja Dasaratha, Kaikeya’s closest ally during the asura wars. Dasaratha had faced Ravana himself in single combat, sustaining a wound that would have been mortal had Kaikeyi not intervened and spirited Dasaratha away to safety in her own chariot. Later, at the close of the battle, Dasaratha’s chariot was destroyed by the Lord of Lanka. Kaikeyi put her own chariot between them and held out long enough for Sumantra to come to their rescue with reinforcements. Eventually the combined armies of Kosala and Kaikeya had pushed the asuras back, and Dasaratha had always claimed that had Kaikeyi not saved his life twice, who knew what the outcome might have been. Before Rama could speak aloud, Bharat stepped forward with his customary eagerness. ‘Let me go then, Father. I shall protect the brahmarishi and see his yagna completed successfully. Offer him my sword and service.’ Dasaratha smiled indulgently at his second oldest. ‘You are brave and bold as your namesake, Bharat. Well did I name you after the founder of the Arya nations, great Bharata himself. But alas, this is not acceptable to the brahmarishi either. He wants Rama, and Rama alone, to accompany him back to the forest.’ Rama felt everybody turn to look at him as he spoke. ‘Then let me go with him. I will be blessed to perform such a great

service.’ Vishwamitra wheeled around, his piercing eyes finding Rama and pinning him with an expression of ferocious pleasure. ‘You see, Dasaratha? Even he is willing to go with me. Now, you have no argument left to oppose me!’ Dasaratha rose to his feet, his fist trembling. ‘He does not understand, sage! He is young and inexperienced. You are one of the Seven Seers. The asuras can no more harm you than they can harm the flow of Brahman itself. You are virtually immortal and invulnerable, shielded by mandalas, mantras and dev-astras, divine weapons and shields given to you by the devas themselves. But my Rama is merely a mortal boy. He is no match for asuras sent by the Lord of Lanka. He does not even have the full measure of these demons!’ Vishwamitra replied calmly: ‘And they do not have his measure.’ ‘What can a fifteen-year-old boy do against such creatures? Rakshasas, no less! Rama is fresh from the gurukul, barely of marriageable age. He should be out right now playing Holi with his brothers and friends, enjoying the prime of his youth, celebrating the spring of his life. Not listening to this weary debate. He is too young for such matters. He is no more fit to fight Ravana’s two strongest demons than I am to fight Ravana himself at my age and in this condition!’ ‘He may surprise you yet, raje. After all, he is your son.’ Dasaratha shook his head vehemently. ‘Do not persist in this exorbitant

demand, mahadev. I beg of you! Today, at the spring feast, I am to announce his succession. In less than one fortnight, on his sixteenth naming day, he will be crowned heir to the throne of Ayodhya. Have a care for his future if not for his youth.’ ‘I care a great deal about his future, Ayodhya-naresh. That is why I promised you that I would bring him back safe and sound before the date of the coronation. You have my word on it, the word of one of the Seven Seers.’ Dasaratha seemed on the verge of crying out. He controlled himself with an effort and said in a voice that was only one level above a broken-down sob: ‘Shama, mahadev. Ask of me anything other than this. I cannot give you my first-born. Take anything you will from me, but not my Rama.’ This time the brahmarishi’s response was a long time coming. Rama saw that the seer had reached the end of his patience. Vishwamitra’s features had hardened into a mask of grim anger. At that moment, he looked more like the king he once was than a man of God. He took a step towards the dais and raised his staff. ‘So be it then, Dasaratha. I have no more business here. I take my leave. Good day.’ Vishwamitra turned, carrying his raised staff, and proceeded up the hall with long, decisive strides. Nobody else moved or spoke. They all seemed frozen. He’s leaving, Rama thought, without his guru-dakshina. It was a violation of everything he had been taught since childhood. Rama’s brothers looked at each other nervously. Sumantra set down

the goblet and spittoon he was holding, and fell to his knees, praying. Even without hearing the words, Rama knew that the pradhan-mantri was invoking the Holy Trinity to protect them all from the krodh of the great seer-mage. Entire nations had been wiped out by the holy curse of brahmarishis for less cause than Dasaratha had just given. Guru Vashishta stepped forward, his eyes blazing at Dasaratha, before turning to call out to Vishwamitra. The departing seer-mage was almost at the doors when the guru spoke. ‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra,’ he called. ‘I entreat you, stay a moment. This matter is not done yet. There are still words left to be spoken.’ Vishwamitra paused, but didn’t set his staff on the ground. Without turning around fully, he said over his shoulder: ‘I have heard all the words that matter. Nothing more remains to be said.’ ‘In the name of our shared status as brahmarishis, I request you earnestly, come back to the dais. Give us but a moment to confer. To leave thus would be a great insult to the honour of the house Suryavansha and the clan Ikshvaku.’ ‘Any insult here was given by your maharaja. It was my honour that was sullied. Now he must live with the consequences of his decision.’ Vishwamitra took another step towards the doors, but the guru’s voice made him pause again. ‘Then pray, give me but a moment to repair those insults and undo this mistake. For it is a mistake, I assure you. The house of Suryavansha is known for

its munificence. Dasaratha’s own ancestor Maharaja Harishchandra gave away his entire wealth as guru-dakshina. And noble Raghu had already bankrupted his royal treasury by gifting all he owned to one rishi when he was called upon by another to deliver a fabulous sum as guru-dakshina. Raghu obtained the amount from Kuber, Lord of Wealth, and fulfilled his sacred obligation for the second time. The seat of Ayodhya has ever been known for its adherence to dharma.’ Vishwamitra partly turned his body, his eyes diamond-bright in the shadow of an ornate marbled pillar. ‘Your words contradict those of your king, great guru. Look! Even now he sits there silent while you implore me on his behalf.’ Guru Vashishta turned to look at the maharaja. Dasaratha’s face was filled with such despair and pain, Rama could hardly bear to look at his father. ‘Ayodhya-naresh,’ the guru said, ‘and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. Both of you have reached an impasse. One asserts the right of a Brahmin to demand dakshina from a Kshatriya. The other asserts the right of a father to preserve the life of his son. This debate could rage for ever without an end. Nor would I have you fling insults at one another.’ ‘What would you have us do, guruji?’ asked Dasaratha in a sobered tone. Rama could empathise with his father’s dilemma: he was torn between his concern for Rama and his desire to fulfil his dharma. ‘Pray, give us the fruit of your wisdom.’ Vashishta

spread

his

hands

wide,

indicating the empty sabha hall. ‘When Manu Lawmaker, the first maharaja of Kosala, was crowned, in this very chamber, and on that very sunwood throne, he laid down two laws by which he would govern. Those two laws determine all life-and-death decisions in Ayodhya even today. Rajkumar Rama, would you tell us what those two laws are?’ ‘The first law is to obey dharma at all costs,’ Rama said promptly. ‘For dharma is the moral code by which the pillar of Arya character stands upright.’ He paused, seeing the destination of the guru’s argument even before he spoke the words. ‘The second law is that the maharaja rules not for himself, his dynasty, clan, varna or family. He rules for the people. If he takes a decision that affects the people, then it must meet with the people’s consent.’ There was silence for a moment as everyone absorbed the implications of the second rule. When Guru Vashishta spoke again, it was in a lighter, almost mischievous tone. Rama thought he could see a playful twinkle in the ancient seer’s eyes. ‘Maharaja Dasaratha, do you deny the second law of Manu?’ Dasaratha looked puzzled. ‘Of course not, gurudev. The maharajas of Ayodhya have always ruled only at the people’s behest.’ ‘Then there is the solution to your vexing dilemma. Abjure any further discussion on this matter. Proceed with the Holi ritual prayers and festivities. When you stand before the citizens of Ayodhya on the mela grounds today, confront them with the question. Let

them decide if Rajkumar Rama is to go with Vishwamitra or stay here in Ayodhya. Ask Ayodhya to decide!’ In the stunned silence that followed, Rama saw the unmistakable gleam of a smile in the eyes of Vishwamitra.

TWENTY-NINE ‘Dashasu dikshu apratihatam calayateeti Dasharatha.’

ratham

The chanting rose from a thousand Brahmins led by the court purohit Rishi Vamadeva. Seated cross-legged on a flat wagon drawn by a train of sixteen elephants, the Brahmins headed the procession winding its way majestically down Harshavardhana Avenue, the traditional starting point of the annual parade. A boy of not more than seven years sat at the head of the chanting Brahmins, his shaven pate decorated with caste marks in the shape of a Shiva lingam, an appeasement to the god of destruction that he might allow this moving machine to pass unharmed. The elephants trumpeted at varying intervals, punctuating the chanting of the Sanskrit slokas praising Maharaja Dasaratha. The wagon bearing the Brahmins was a little less than three yards wide and twenty yards long, rolling on eighty wheels each a yard high. The crowd lined up along the sides of the avenue were kept back safely by silken ropes held by PFs in full battle regalia but unarmed. The order to shelve weapons had been given by Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra after hearing the story of the near-riot on Raghuvamsa Avenue earlier that morning. Even so, the PFs still made an imposing sight, and the children watching from behind the ropes were as fascinated by their battle scars and towering stature as by the royal parade. Among the thousands of children watching were two young vaisya girls, their packets of rangoli and pitchkarees still clutched in their hands, faces and clothes splattered and stained with a rainbow of hues. The taller of the pair, attractive in an honest, clean-featured

way, seemed to have endured more rangsmearing than her partner. Her face was a bright crimson smudge relieved only by small patches of purple and indigo. From this quilt of gay colours, her bright blue eyes shone out eagerly, transfixed by the flat wagon. ‘There must be lakhs of purohits,’ her friend said excitedly. ‘Look at how perfectly they’re chanting together. That’s how Maa Prema always tells us to chant and we can never do it so well!’ ‘How many times have I told you, Sreelata,’ the taller girl said impatiently. ‘A lakh is a hundred thousand. There aren’t even ten thousand purohits there, let alone a lakh!’ ‘Oh,’ Sreelata said. ‘Well, I can never figure out number counting. But there certainly are a lot of bald heads on that wagon, aren’t there, Nandini?’ ‘There sure are,’ Nandini agreed, smiling at her friend’s choice of words. ‘And the parade hasn’t even started yet. Just wait till you see the royal wheelhouse pass. It’s a hundred yards long, divided into four sections of twenty-five yards each, which are joined by little bridges so you can walk from one end to the other without getting out of the chariot.’ ‘I thought you said it was a wheelhouse, not a chariot,’ Sreelata said, chewing on the end of her sari anxiously. ‘Yes, yes, wheelhouse,’ Nandini said. ‘And then you have to see the battle elephants. They’re so beautiful! There are lakhs of them in the royal army, but of course they can’t parade them all at once so they only bring out a few from each akshohini. That’s a division of the army. One akshohini consists of 21,870

elephants, 21,870 chariots, 65,610 horsemen and 1,09,350 foot soldiers. The army of Ayodhya has twenty-five akshohini, while another fifteen are quartered around the kingdom at various places.’ ‘How do you know all this?’ Sreelata asked wide-eyed. She was constantly in awe of Nandini’s knowledge of numbers and things. It made her aware of how large and complex the world outside the temple walls really was. ‘You have to keep your ears and eyes open,’ Nandini replied mysteriously. Then she nudged her less well-informed friend affectionately, adding: ‘And keep the guardsmen talking after they finish with you. Men can talk ten times as long as they can love. That’s something you must know by now, Sreelata!’ Sreelata giggled. ‘That I do. They really can talk, can’t they? Oh, look, what’s that big chariot coming up now? The one with all the gold carvings and conchbearers getting ready to blow their conches? Is it the royal chariot? I mean, wheelhouse?’ ‘No, silly! That’s just the conch-bearer chariot. It’s the first of the royal procession. Look, they’re blowing their conches now. That’s to let us know the royal procession is coming up.’ Over the pervasive, city-filling sound of the conches, Sreelata said almost shyly, ‘Do you think we’ll see Prince Rama then?’ Nandini looked at her companion. ‘Why? Do you want to ask him to visit us at the temple?’ Sreelata punched her friend in the stomach. ‘Shut up!’ Her cheeks and neck

blazed with embarrassment. Nandini laughed delightedly. ‘So your heart is lost to Prince Rama, huh? Well, then you had better be that one-in-acrore girl. Because he’s sworn to take only one wife in his lifetime.’ Nandini waved her hand excitedly. ‘Look down there. The elephants! The elephants are coming!’ ‘What do you mean, one wife?’ Sreelata nudged her friend curiously. ‘He’s the prince-heir. He can have a thousand wives if he wants.’ Nandini glanced at her friend fondly. ‘That’s the point. He can, but he won’t. I hear he’s sworn to find just one wife.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it has something to do with his father having too many wives! If you know what I mean.’ ‘Jai Mata Ki!’ Sreelata’s mind spun with the idea. A man who sought only one mate? What a romantic notion! Suddenly she adored Prince Rama all the more for being so unattainable, so principled. A man who would only love one woman? She instantly wanted to be that woman! Although she knew the odds of a mere temple prostitute catching the eye of a prince-heir were . . . what was that number? One in a crore? One in a hundred crores, more likely. Nandini released a long, shrill scream, dropping her carefully cultivated upperclass air without a second’s thought. ‘Sreelata,’ she shrieked. ‘Look! There’s the royal wheelhouse! And in the front, riding on those four horses, it’s the princes! Look, the handsome one in front with the dark, almost bluish skin, that’s Rama! Isn’t he gorgeous! Oh, I could just eat him alive!’

Sreelata joined her friend, shrieking as loud as she could, echoed by every woman, man and child in the crowd. Never mind that he was sworn to take only one mate. A girl could dream, couldn’t she? The parade wound its way down Harshavardhana Avenue, tracing the heartline of the city in its slow, stately progress. The sounds of conches, elephants, dhol-drums, trumpets, flutes, Brahmins chanting, people shouting, children crying with joy, all mingled in one enormous cloud of jubilation. The citizens crowding the streets were painted with rang and drenched with water. The soldiers riding the elephants and chariots, astride the war horses, marching in full battle armour, all strode proudly under the admiring gaze of their families, their friends, their people. This was Ayodhya’s day for displaying her colours, in every sense of the word. From the sigils of the different noble houses to the banners of vaisya merchants and sudra traders, every varna, tribe and clan in the great Arya nation of Kosala participated in this grand spectacle. As the parade reached its destination, the people migrated down-city to the rolling northern bank of the Sarayu. Here the royal procession parked and dismounted, flanked on three sides by the representatives of the army, administration and nobility. On the fourth, the south side, was the citizenry, seating itself cross-legged on the bank of the river. This enormous stretch of land was in fact well within city limits, between the third and fourth gates. Ayodhya was designed to include a microcosm of the entire landscape that surrounded her. Manu, the ancient king

who had built the city, had planned well and with foresight. Ayodhya was not a city that walled out the world; the world was here, within its walls, as much a part of her structure as the river that wound its way literally beneath her greatest buildings. It took the better part of an hour for the parade to wind down and the people to settle down. Finally, when the riverbank was carpeted for the better part of a mile with gaily stained white-clad kurtas and saris sitting in long neat rows, Rishi Vamadeva stood on a large hummock that served as a natural dais and led the people in the traditional chant. ‘Yatha raja tatha praja.’ As is the king, so are his people. ‘Yatha raja tatha praja,’ chanted the people. Birds took flight in the thicket downstream, swooping across the river, veering away from the Southwoods—a few stragglers boldly going to the very edge of the dark, malignant forest— and returning in a wide arc to their original roosts. The chanting was followed by the customary bhashans, speeches by various mantris and political representatives of the four castes and the several dozen varnas and gotras, efficient divisions of labour equivalent to the guilds of Western nations. Except for a few dozen house banners mounted on tall poles to mark out the leading noble families, the crowd was a mélange of varna, race, sex and community. The banners flapping in the warm westerly wind made a sound like faint applause. Brahmins sat beside

sudras, vaisyas with Kshatriyas, all intermingling freely. Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra stood and made a speech that was hugely popular on account of its being blessedly short, and then invited the maharaja to speak. Maharaja Dasaratha’s weathered voice carried easily across the heads of lakhs of his citizens, all of whom had been waiting eagerly to hear their king speak. Even those well past drunk on bhaang or charas managed to settle down sufficiently to listen. Perhaps Guru Vashishta had magically enhanced their ability to hear him over the sounds of the river and the chirring of hummingbirds in the thicket downstream. Whatever the reason, the maharaja’s voice was clearly audible even to the farthest citizen sitting several hundred yards downstream. Dispensing with the ritual benedictions quickly—one of the advantages of being a Kshatriya-king was that you could leave it to the Brahmins to take care of the religious and ritualistic formalities— he came to the point. ‘Today we have among us a legendary and illustrious guest. Guru Vashishta has already extolled the story of his ascension from a bold warrior king to the exalted Brahmanic stature he holds today. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra needs no further introduction. But what most of you may not yet know is that he brings us disturbing tidings.’

THIRTY Dasaratha held up a hand to still the murmurs of anxiety that greeted his introductory remarks. ‘There is no reason to be alarmed. Even as you enjoy your Holi feast, the war council of the Arya nations is preparing to convene, and I promise you we will find ways to deal with and crush this possible threat without delay. Rest assured that your liege will seek the quickest and least violent solution to the problem. You will be kept informed of further developments as they happen.’ He paused, feeling sweat pop out on his upper lip as the sun rose higher in the spring sky. ‘But there is another matter that is more pressing right now. The brahmarishi has come to me with the traditional demand for guru-dakshina. As you know, it is the sworn duty of any Kshatriya to immediately and unhesitantly grant the gurudakshina without question. The Aryaputra Suryavansha Ikshvaku Kshatriya line has filled the chronicles of Bharat-varsha with such legendary tales of generosity and munificence. And yet, the brahmarishi’s demand is so unusual that it behoves me to share it with you, my people. For his request is nothing more nor less than that I grant him the life of my son Rama!’ The silence that followed these words was so complete that it seemed for a moment that even the birds had stopped chirring, the river stopped gurgling, the grass stopped rustling in the breeze. ‘I shall explain. The brahmarishi is performing a yagna at his ashram in the Southwoods. It is part of our greater

attempt to protect ourself from the asura menace. It is imperative that his yagna is performed successfully and according to Vedic rites. But his ashram is threatened by rakshasas.’ An uneasy murmur rose from the crowd. ‘Were these ordinary pooja-violators, common outlaws or outcasts, I would not think twice. My son Rama is the pride of our race, a champion in every sport he lays a hand to, a master of weaponry and Vedic knowledge, a superb specimen of Arya manhood. But the rakshasas the brahmarishi is plagued by are no ordinary asuras. They are front-soldiers dispatched by the wretched Lord of Lanka himself, sent to the Southwoods for the express purpose of rooting out the Brahmins and rishis. The asuras have controlled those dark, evil forests for generations and now they fear that our rishis and maharishis will purify those unexplored regions and make them hospitable for civilised Aryas. ‘Three of these rakshasas, dispatched by the rakshas king Ravana himself, and backed by untold numbers of accomplices, are breeding in the Bhayanak-van. They make impossible the completion of the brahmarishi’s yagna, or any attempt to purify the woods. They are said to be desperate, vile beasts, capable of doing anything to ensure that the brahmarishi’s yagna is not completed successfully. Against these deadly creatures, the brahmarishi wishes me to send my son Prince Rama, to stave them off while he and his purohits perform the sacred yagna before the sacred full moon of Holi Purnima waxes to awamas. This is the guru-dakshina he desires.’ Maharaja Dasaratha paused to take the measure of his listeners. The crowd was

enraptured by his announcement. Even the royal family on the podium exchanged wary glances, although their anxiety was related more to what came next than the announcement itself. ‘It is at the wise suggestion of our esteemed Guru Vashishta that I place this matter before you, beloved Ayodhya. For before I even knew of the brahmarishi’s arrival or any of the other happenings in the Southwoods, I had arrived at the decision to declare before you all this morning my intention to crown my eldest heir, Prince Rama Chandra, the liege-heir of our kingdom.’ This statement was greeted by an uproar. People leaped to their feet, yelling, shouting and cheering. The pandemonium that broke out resembled the response to the outcome of a decisive battle in a hundred-year war. The air, so silent an instant earlier, was filled with the sound of a million throats crying out with joy. The birds in the thicket screeched, echoing the thrilled cries of the women and girls in the audience—in the devdasi group, Sreelata and Nandini were hopping up and down like mad rabbits—and a shower of butterflies descended from the sky to flit around the royal entourage like a fistful of rang flung by the devas from above. First Queen Kausalya’s face creased in a smile of relief and pleasure. It was one thing to know that Rama was popular; quite another to witness this enormous display of support and joy, and these auspicious omens. Third Queen Sumitra leaned across and took Kausalya’s hand, squeezing it warmly for a moment. Similar expressions of pleasure or approval were reflected on the faces of every member of the royal household present there, as well as those of the noble houses, whose young girls of

marriageable age looked in the direction of the four princes like peacocks preening lustfully under a monsoon cloud. Even Mantri Jabali’s normally pinched, sallow face softened for a moment in a quick, impatient smile of approval, before lapsing into deep contemplation of some new Platonic moral conundrum. The only face that didn’t resemble all others was that of Second Queen Kaikeyi. She seemed frozen in a posture of shock and rage so intense that a crow might have been tempted to peck at her face in hopes of getting a chip or two of bitterwood for his nest. Behind her, the hunchbacked Manthara, seated within her lady’s palanquin, contorted her face in rage and frustration, her hands clenching into curled fists as twisted as the gnarled roots of the banyan tree that spread its ancient limbs over the royal entourage. The other wet nurses, Susama-daiimaa and Ahilya-daiimaa, were the only ones who heard the muffled grunts of anger that drifted out from the doli, and shifted away nervously. They knew and feared Manthara-daiimaa’s foul moods well enough to know when to keep their distance. It was obvious that the news of Rama’s ascension hadn’t been well received by the second queen or her aide. Bharat, Lakshman and Shatrugan were all happily hugging their brother and slapping him on the back. It would have been obvious to even a casual observer—the Greek envoy perhaps, seated among the foreign delegates— that the young princes were not divided in their response as their mothers were. They looked like a team of archers who had just won first prize in the annual tourney thanks largely to the efforts of

their best player. Even the small jabs and punches they showered on Rama were more affectionate than envious. Maharaja Dasaratha held up a hand to ask for silence. It took a moment to be given, but finally the crowd managed to curb its exhilaration and heed his next words. ‘Rama is to be crowned prince-heir on the tenth day of the new moon of Chaitra, the sixteenth anniversary of his birth. I promise you, friends, that before you have entirely cast off the hangover of today’s Holi feast and celebration, you will be fasting to prepare for a jubilee unparalleled in the history of our kingdom. Mark the day well in your horoscopes; it is the day a new star will rise in the Suryavansha universe.’ A Kshatriya girl, barely nine years of age and already marked with the scars and signs of a Mithila bowman, stood to ask the king if there would be pedas on that day. The roar of laughter that greeted this question was deafening. Pedas were the simplest, most common sweetmeat, available daily in the mithaigalli of any part of the city for a few paisa a kilo. Asking the king about pedas at his son’s coronation feast was akin to asking a wedding host if drinking water would be available at the banquet. Dasaratha received the naïve question with good humour, smiling indulgently and taking a moment to respond politely to the solemn-faced young apprentice. ‘Yes, indeed, young bowmaster,’ he replied indulgently. ‘There will be as many pedas as you can eat for a month! And much, much else besides!’

He allowed the brief humorous respite to roll its course, then continued in a more formal tone. ‘But you will recall that I began by telling you about my samasya. On the one hand, I am a father and a king, eager to see my eldest son appointed to the throne in my stead. After all, I will not live for ever, despite the heartfelt wishes of you, my friends. On the other hand, I am bound by the honour of the Ikshvaku clan and the Suryavansha dynasty, by the tradition and heritage of the Arya forefathers who seeded this mighty nation before venturing northwards to foreign lands where they settled the Germanic wildwoods. I am compelled by the repositories of our knowledge—the shastras and Vedas that guide us in all we do—and finally, by the code of the Kshatriya that asserts the duty of every warrior, king or common foot-soldier to grant his guru’s wish for guru-dakshina without question or hesitation. Above all, I am governed by dharma.’ At the last word, even the few sporadic whispered discussions faded away to utter silence. Once again, Ayodhya listened raptly. ‘Dharma demands that I fulfil the seermage’s wish and send my son Rama Chandra, now officially your crownprince-inwaiting, into the Southwoods to face and combat God knows what danger. A father’s heart cries out that I send my mighty army in his place, that I select my bravest warriors, that I go myself if need be, but at all costs keep my precious heir from this dire mission. But dharma,’ a heavy sigh, echoing the weight of age, long illness, and the burden of kingship that rested on his tired shoulders, ‘dharma is unrelenting

and uncompromising. Dharma demands that I comply with the brahmarishi’s demand without question or doubt, hesitation or negotiation.’ Dasaratha glanced at the two seers, standing apart from the royal entourage. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra had remained motionless through this long speech, his staff held upright in his right hand, his impassive weathered face and flowing beard revealing no hint of his inner thoughts or responses. Guru Vashishta looked just as stoic, although there was an air of sadness and empathy that could be sensed rather than seen on his lined face as he listened to the impassioned words of his old friend and shishya, Dasaratha. After all, the greatest living seer in the world had chosen to grant his spiritual guidance exclusively to the Suryavansha dynasty of the Ikshvaku clan a thousand years ago, and in a thousand years even the most austere penitent will start to feel some measure of attachment. He listened to Dasaratha’s words attentively, tacitly indicating his approval of the maharaja’s announcement without needing to say a single word. Maharaja Dasaratha continued: ‘I was greatly troubled by the brahmarishi’s request, I admit this freely. What father would not be? Yet dharma demanded I obey. The quandary might have gone unresolved even now, except that Guru Vashishta, the venerable and infinitely wise mentor of my line, offered a brilliantly simple suggestion. It is on his advice that I do what I do now.’ Maharaja Dasaratha turned in his place, addressing his next words to Brahmarishi Vishwamitra directly. ‘Pranaam, mahadev, you whose penance exalted our entire race and inspired us

all. You whose devotion won the admiration of mighty Brahma himself, who saw fit to grant you the mastery of Brahman, the force that created, sustains and nourishes the universe. I bow before you, great one.’ Dasaratha matched his words with actions, bending his head in a saprem namaskar. Straightening up with folded hands, he continued: ‘My answer to your request for gurudakshina is this, great one. You ask for Prince Rama. I say, Prince Rama is not mine to give. He belongs to Ayodhya. To every one of us assembled here today. Because of his seniority and birth, he is the natural and true heir to the throne of Ayodhya. Rama does not belong to me alone, nor to his mother or family. He belongs to the people whom he is birth-sworn to serve all his natural life. Dharma itself demands that a member of the ruling dynasty places his people’s needs before his own. So even Rama himself cannot decide his actions purely for his own selfish benefit. He must act in the best interests of the people he serves. You ask me for the guru-dakshina of my son Rama. But I do not have first right over Rama. Ayodhya does. If you wish to have the services of Prince Rama, you must ask those whom he truly belongs to. Ask Ayodhya.’ And Maharaja Dasaratha gestured with both hands outflung to encompass the vast crowd seated on the banks of the Sarayu, and the great city around them.

THIRTY-ONE ‘Ayodhya!’ The voice of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra sliced through the pandemonium and uproar that had raged unabated for the past several minutes. If Maharaja Dasaratha’s announcement had had the effect of a blazing mashaal tossed into a field of dry straw then the legendary seer-mage’s single spoken word was a waterfall of icy water dousing the inferno. The crowd subdued itself with a great effort, remembered tales of the wrathful temper of seers impelling them to control their dismayed anxiety for the moment. The brahmarishi gestured at Maharaja Dasaratha, who had seated himself on the palanquin throne once again and was draining a goblet of wine beneath the disapproving eyes of the royal vaids. ‘Your maharaja is wise indeed and greatly versed in dharma. He speaks truly. Prince Rama Chandra belongs to you, the people he was born to serve. And it is you who must decide whether or not my demand for guru-dakshina should be fulfilled. But before you do so, you must know that he will not be risking his life for the successful fulfilment of my yagna alone. This mission that he will be called on to execute is for the greater good of all humankind at large, including Ayodhya.’ The seer-mage raised his towering staff over his head. ‘But I am no statesman or liege. My meaning will be best conveyed by giving you a glimpse of what might unfold lest my words go unheeded. The images I am about to show you will speak for themselves. I give you, the invasion of Ayodhya.’

At the words, Rama started. Lakshman, standing beside his brother, noticed a change come over him. Rama stared transfixed at the brahmarishi, a haunted, desolate look on his face. It was as if his brooding wariness of this morning had been in anticipation of this very thing. As the crowd muttered and shifted uneasily, Vishwamitra chanted aloud a mantra too arcane and complex for any Brahmin to decipher. Dark thunderclouds appeared in the sky above, converging as suddenly as crows on a fallen fledgling. The day turned from bright morning to dusky twilight in the space of an eye-blink. The air grew thick and heavy, like the air during an electric thunderstorm. Lakshman’s skin tingled with a peculiar stinging sensation, like the time he had brushed against poisonleaf as a small boy. From the way the mantris nearby were rubbing their arms and necks, he guessed everyone felt the same way. The scent of damp rotting earth filled his nostrils, clogging his nasal passages. As Vishwamitra reached the end of his incantation, lightning exploded in the skies, accompanied immediately by the crashing of thunder so deafening that people cringed and cried out, covering their heads in fear. Children had begun to bawl across the field, dogs howled, elephants trumpeted in alarm and stomped their feet, camels rolled their eyes and foamed at the mouth, monkeys chittered madly and leaped from tree to tree in the thicket downstream. The easterners in the crowd—visitors from Banglar, and the other far-flung areas of the kingdom— looked around in stark terror, fearing one of the awful natural calamities that plagued that part of India; a typhoon perhaps, or a tidal wave, even though Ayodhya was hundreds of

yojanas away from any ocean. Lakshman was startled by the sound of an agonised groan. He saw Rama drop to his knees like a man who had been clubbed on the back of the head, eyes tight shut, teeth clenched, hands bunched into fists, bending over until his forehead touched the swaying tips of the grass. ‘Bhai?’ Lakshman bent down beside Rama. He touched Rama’s shoulder and was shocked to find it fever-hot and clammy with sweat. ‘What’s wrong? Are you—’ Rama’s eyes opened wide, rolling up to the skies. Lakshman reared back in fright. A cry exploded from deep within Rama’s belly, less a human scream than the anguished howl of some primitive animal. The cry was lost in the crashing of thunder, but Lakshman was too shaken by what he had seen in Rama’s eyes to realise that his brother’s startling behaviour was being mirrored in the ranks of the PFs and other Kshatriya warriors throughout the field. Yet even these anguished howls went unnoticed in the mêlée of terrified panic that had erupted. In moments, a happy celebration had turned into a nightmare. And above the chaos, the brahmarishi’s voice rang out, reverberating amid the echoes of thunder that rolled down from the boiling ocean of clouds. Vishwamitra reached the end of his second mantra, and as abruptly as the chaos had begun, it ended. Every man, woman, child and animal in Ayodhya froze. One moment they were a mob filled

with fear and panic, on the verge of running amok and causing needless harm to one another and themselves, terrified by the nightmare illusions perpetuated by the seer’s sorcery. The next they were still as statues, frozen in the attitudes in which they had been at the instant the mantra took effect. Lakshman bending over to help Rama. Rama on his knees, fists raised to the sky, mouth open in a howl of anguish, eyes staring at some as yet unseen horror. Bharat and Shatrugan, standing together, one looking east, the other west, hands on their bows, ready to fight as always. Brahmins frozen in the act of bending to kiss the ground in admiration and awe of Vishwamitra’s mastery of Brahman. Kshatriyas with faces contorted in fear and disgust at the sorcery unfolding around them. (Warriors always abhorred magic, Guru Vashishta had taught the young princes, because you cannot fight what you cannot understand. That was why it was so important for a Kshatriya to learn much more than mere warcraft.) Vaisyas, sudras, ordinary citizens, mothers and babes in arms, aged couples leaning on the strong young shoulders of their grown offspring, large extended families of as many as a hundred members accustomed to living beneath a single roof, now joining hands in a human chain, taking comfort from the presence of their parivar at this terrifying moment, devdasis and purohits, mochees and dhobis, sutaars and sitar players, kavees and carvers, archers and fletchers, blacksmiths and forgers, masons and philosophers, architects and money-lenders, halwais and hawaldars . . . all stood, sat or lay frozen in place, protected now from riot or panic-driven accidents by the seer-mage’s magic, able

to do nothing but watch as the brahmarishi’s enormous sound-and-light show unfolded before them. First came the darkness. Pitch-black as a crow’s feather. As a lock of Rama’s hair. With the darkness, a complete absence of sound, more terrible than any normal human silence. Then, with the mellifluous artistry of a stage musician producing a taal for a Sanskrit drama—an epic tragedy perhaps, the doomed love story of Dushyanta and Sakuntala or the blooddrenched romance of Vasavadatta, or some older, more arcane and pagan tale of blood and terror and love gone wrong—the wind began to keen. It was a nerve-racking sound, like the noise of a stone being scraped across glass very hard and slowly. Yet it had its own arcane rhythm, as though the invisible stage musician was pounding his tabla to a frenzied climax. And then, rising above the intolerable keening of the wind, a strange, unnatural sound like nothing heard before by any of the citizens gathered on the riverbank. Only the warriors and veterans present understood what this new sound meant. And it was good that they were frozen immobile, or else they would have rushed to arms. It was the sound of an invading army. Like an enraged wild boar breaking free of a thorn bush, the asura army emerged from the Southwoods. They crawled, ran, leaped, flew, rode, slithered and seeped out of the black forest, exploding on to the south bank of the Sarayu like a plague.

Their numbers were beyond counting. An army of ants would not have been more numerous. Vishwamitra’s earlier estimates, given in the sabha hall, were modest if anything. There were enough creatures of the netherworld assembling on the far bank to turn the earth black for a dozen yojanas in every direction, an area of a hundred square Western miles. Even if viewed from Chand, the earth’s moon, the asura army’s progress would be visible, like a seething carpet creeping amoeba-like across the land, a gigantic primordial force that consumed everything in its path. For a moment the asuras stood on the south bank and viewed the great prize they had come so far in search of: Ayodhya the Unconquerable. Rakshasas, Danavs, Daityas, Pisacas, Yaksas, and every crossbreed thereof feasted their alien eyes on the goal that had eluded every invading army for a millennium. And then, with one bone-rattling, bloodboiling cry, they charged down the hill. And the rape of Ayodhya began.

THIRTY-TWO Rama recovered the use of his limbs with an exhalation of breath that threatened to drain him of life itself. He sucked in fresh air as needily as a disoriented infant taking its first independent breath. The cool winterspring air was as blessed as a mother’s touch. The warmth of the sun on his bare shoulders and face was a benediction by a kindly god. Across the field, lakhs of Ayodhyans were recovering too. All kept glancing up and around to make sure the sorcery was truly over and they were back in the real, normal world once more. Babies and immature children had been shielded from the experience, and now they blinked and gaped dumbly, as if woken from a brief nap. The smell of wet grass and damp earth remained like a pall over all. After giving his audience time to recover and reassure itself that the nightmare show was really over, Vishwamitra spoke again, his pervasive voice rolling out across the field, commanding rapt attention. He was the puppet-master, they were his puppets as well as his audience. Never before had such a display of Brahman sorcery ever been witnessed or heard of by any of those present. Rishis and self-styled seers were mouthing mantras of praise for the brahmarishi, praying that some vestige of his incomprehensible power might rub off on them. Power alms for the powerless. The Kshatriyas, especially those warriors who had been stricken to their core the way Rama had—if not as intensely, for none had felt quite what he had felt—looked around with haunted expressions, unable to believe that those terrible sights of death and destruction had been only an illusion. The seer’s

magic had not spared the viewers the horrific details, but his mantra did guard their minds from the total breakdown that could afflict anyone confronted by such horrors. Sudras and vaisyas, commoners and soldiers, nobility and their servants, all bore the same shocked and stunned expressions as they realised the implications of what they had just seen. Even Maharaja Dasaratha, rubbing his own bleary eyes and silently cursing seers and their sorcery, was shaken out of his complacency. In that moment, he realised as he looked around at his bewildered people, Ayodhya was totally united, all caste, class and other petty differences forgotten as they turned their eyes up to stare in hushed awe at the seer-mage. Vishwamitra’s voice was a calming balm. ‘Fear not, Ayodhya. This was but an illusion. A vision of what might be. One possible future that lies in store for you. If the Dark Lord of Lanka has his way, then this vision will become reality within the year, just before winter falls, when Ayodhya is most vulnerable to siege. He has prepared for this day for years, even centuries, for he whom the gods named Ravana is no ordinary rakshas, as you know. He is destined to become ruler of the three worlds one day.’ He cut off the startled protests with an upraised hand. ‘Hold steady, brave Ayodhya. The wisdom of the devas is infinite. For every Ravana they allow to seep into creation like a pus-boil on a diseased animal, they also create an antidote. This is why we proud inhabitants of the land of the Aryas have been blessed with an infinite number of avatars of the One True God. The progeny of the devas are limitless in

number and power. Ravana can and must be defeated. As your noble maharaja has said, he and your kingdom’s rulers will find a way to combat the asura menace before it reaches the banks of the Sarayu and threatens the Arya nations. This too has been prophesied.’ A ripple of relief passed across the crowd. Vishwamitra continued without pause. ‘But before we can even address that issue of Ravana, we must first show him that he has met a foe more formidable than any he has ever fought before. Today, he issued a challenge to your honour. He sent one of his most trusted aides, his own uncle no less, into the heart of this great city. His mission, it can only be surmised, was to wreak havoc and slaughter in the royal family.’ Angry murmurs now. Feelings ran strong about the morning’s intrusion. Feelings strengthened now by the sorcerous vision. ‘This was no mere intrusion. It was a test and a challenge. Ravana wishes to know if we are prepared to withstand him. Or to simply roll over like a meek pup and beg his mercy. What do you think, Ayodhya? What would be your response to the Lord of Lanka? Fright or fight?’ The answer boomed like thunder across the assembled hordes. ‘FIGHT!’ The seer-mage nodded, pleased. ‘I thought no less. And yet it is important to give Ravana this answer in a manner that befits his asking of the question. To gather up an army and march to Lanka would be an overreaction. Perhaps that is even what he hopes for, because then

he would have the upper hand, as he had before during the last asura war. No, that would be too strong and premature a response. He sent a single champion into our midst. We must do the same.’ There was silence now as everyone contemplated his meaning. A single champion? Into the midst of Lanka? Was that what the brahmarishi meant? ‘Not into Lanka,’ he said, as if reading their collective consciousness as easily as chalk letters on a child’s slate. ‘Into the Southwoods, the dread Bhayanak-van, which he has created and maintained as a barrier between the Arya nations and the great southern sub-continent. For millennia he has curbed the progress of the Aryas at this geographical barrier, by creating an environment so hostile and threatening to mortals that even the greatest warriors of lore have rarely returned alive from its depths.’ He paused, scanning their silent upturned faces. ‘You wonder, then, if the Bhayanak-van is so dangerous, how would our champion survive it? But this is precisely my point. If one of our Kshatriyas can enter the Bhayanak-van and wreak damage on the ranks of Ravana’s vile hordes, then we will have sent a powerful message to the Lord of Lanka. We will have shown him that not only do we not fear him, we are stronger than he believes. Behold, we shall say, just one of our Kshatriyas, a young and untried warrior at that, can inflict such destruction upon your numbers. Imagine, then, you vile creature of hell, what an entire army of Arya Kshatriyas could do.’ The crowd began to nod, whispering, understanding his point at last. Several began to break out into exclamations of

agreement and support. Lakshman observed that these were mainly Kshatriyas rather than Brahmins. He was impressing even the warriors with his war strategy, the old seer. After all, he was once a great warrior-king. ‘Now, you ask, who then shall we send? Which young, untested warrior do I speak of? Who can undertake this deadly mission and accomplish it successfully? I ask you in turn, Ayodhya, if Ravana could risk his own blood-uncle, can we do any less? You must send no less than your greatest son of all. Your prince and just titled prince-heir. Rama Chandra.’ The silence was deafening. Lakshman could hear the wind whispering through the ranks of Ayodhyans for hundreds of yards around. He could hear the distant calling of cuckoos and parrots in the mango grove downriver. He could smell the odour of food roasting in the pavilions, waiting for the feast to begin. Then a flurry of arguments and queries broke out. Vishwamitra answered each one painstakingly but briefly, with devastating logic and unshakeable conviction. Senapati Maheshwari asked why it would not be better to send a full akshohini contingent into the Southwoods rather than a single warrior. That would be less than an army, yet more capable of victory than a single Kshatriya. Vishwamitra replied patiently: ‘Maharaja Dasaratha has already offered me his entire army, his greatest warriors, his most accomplished champions. But I say nay to all these. What will Ravana think if we send a whole army to fight his small force of berserkers? Or even our best champions? The rakshasas of Bhayanak-van are dangerous, true, but

Ravana has other champions far greater and deadlier. His own eldest son is not named Indrajit without reason: the boy earned the title when he defeated mighty Indra, king of the devas, during the asura invasion of Indraprastha, the capital city of the gods. Nay, only a single warrior can send the message we wish to give Ravana.’ Mantri Ashok asked reasonably how a single warrior could be expected to face an entire forest filled with demoniac asuras. Vishwamitra nodded sagely. ‘Young Rama will not be alone. I will be beside him every step of the way. I shall prepare him en route to face the perils ahead. I shall gift him the most potent mahamantras ever created for martial combat. When he enters the Bhayanak-van, he will be alone, true, but he will have the power of a thousand Kshatriya veterans. When we have cleared the Bhayanak-van of Ravana’s vile filth, the rajkumar and I shall proceed to my ashram, where he shall defend my purohits and myself as we conduct the yagna of which I spoke earlier. Thereby we shall sanctify that forbidden land and make it hospitable at long last for Arya habitation. Bear in mind, people, I do not ask you this favour idly. I know well of what I speak. It is a seemingly impossible task, I admit. Yet sometimes, a single man can do what vast nations cannot.’ Finally, the arguments wound down, and the brahmarishi reached his conclusion. ‘And so I ask you, as is my right according to the code of the Kshatriyas and Brahmins: give me Prince Rama Chandra as my guru-dakshina, and I will give you a champion. Give me your

crown-heir for this mission, and I will help strike an important first blow in this new war against the asuras. Give me this boy-warrior to wield as a weapon against the berserkers who threaten my yagna, and I will prove to you as well as to Ravana that under the guidance and tutelage of a brahmarishi such as myself, even a single inexperienced Kshatriya can defeat a horde of rakshasas. Grant me this guru-dakshina, for Ayodhya’s future, and humankind’s sake.’

hand, acknowledging the truth of what she said, then rose and spoke, expressing what all the gathered assemblage had only been able to think nervously until now.

And the brahmarishi joined his palms together and bowed his head before the people, waiting for their reply.

As the dhobi sat down, Lakshman glanced at his father. Dasaratha’s face was drained of all colour. The dhobi’s simple logic was unassailable. If the maharaja refused the seer now, every parent would have a ready excuse to refuse to draft his children into the coming war.

It was not long in coming. Later, there would be much debate about the finer points of the matter. People would ask: ‘But can a young stripling truly face a force of berserker rakshasas?’ And others would answer indignantly: ‘Under the tutelage of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, even a carpenter could face them.’ And they would add, sniffing: ‘Not just any young stripling, mind. It’s Prince Rama he speaks of.’ A dhobi seated with his wife and six children, his head covered in the white roughcloth turban of his class, heard his wife say anxiously from beneath her sari’s head-cover, ‘God forbid that the prince should come to any harm. But even if he were to die fighting the demons, it would be a noble sacrifice for a good cause.’ The dhobi turned and glared at his wife, reflexively raising his palm, withered and creased by years of washing, and threatened her with a slap that would rock her head. But slowly, he lowered his

‘If a son of Ayodhya must go, better it should be our proudest son. If Maharaja Dasaratha agrees to send his own scion, then no father in the Arya nations will hesitate to send his own heirs into battle against the asuras.’

‘Yatha raja tatha praja.’ The dhobi was the first to take up the chant. In moments, the entire crowd was thundering the words. ‘Yatha raja tatha praja, yatha raja tatha praja, yatha raja tatha praja!’ Dasaratha came to his feet, unable to ignore the call of his own people. The people whom he was sworn to rule and govern, by the second law of Manu and by his own conscience. The people’s answer was crystal clear. As does the king, so shall the people. Rama must go.

THIRTY-THREE On Guru Vashishta’s advice, they rode discreetly to the palace, using simple chariots rather than the elaborate royal entourage. It was the guru who suggested they do their leave-taking at the rear gate of the palace rather than the parade grounds. After that, the brahmarishi and the rajkumar could take the old road out of the city, thereby bypassing the crowds of exuberant Holi revellers. It was not that they wished to avoid the people, but if they took their leave of all of Ayodhya, it would be days before they left the city. Kausalya would have liked to see Rama to the first gate, but the guru as well as Sumantra advised against it— security was still a concern. Only after they reached the palace and were behind barred gates did Captain Drishti Kumar withdraw his men to a discreet distance to allow the royal family space for a private moment. Kaikeyi was conspicuous by her absence, as was Manthara: Bharat had seen both the second queen and her aide leave the parade abruptly after the brahmarishi’s amazing demonstration, hurrying angrily back to the palace. They were probably within the Second Queen’s Palace even now, seething with anger over the coronation announcement. But Bharat was there, as were Shatrugan and Sumitra-maa. The third queen was already in tears, less in control of her emotions than the more stoic Kausalya, even though it was Kausalya’s son who was leaving. Everyone stood around for a moment, uncomfortable and nervous, except for the two seers, who remained as impassive as ever.

Lakshman was the first to end the awkward pause. ‘Father,’ he said, kneeling before Dasaratha. ‘I beg your leave to go with my brother on his sacred mission.’ Dasaratha blanched. ‘My son, how can you even ask such a thing of me? It is Rama’s karma to go, I understand and accept that now, as I have accepted the will of the people and the desire of the great brahmarishi. But do not ask me to sacrifice another son to this terrible task! It is perilous enough for one Kshatriya, yet with the blessings of the devas, I pray that he shall return victorious. But with two of you, the chances of mortal harm increase twofold. I cannot brook such a thought. Please, Lakshman, don’t ask this of me.’ Lakshman looked up at his father with an expression filled with all the sorrow and longing of youth. ‘Father, I have never asked you for anything. But you know that from the time I could stand, I stood beside Rama. When he would not eat, I starved. When he laughed, I was happy. We have never been separated for a moment, by any force. Do not separate us now.’ Dasaratha’s face was a mask of conflicting emotions. He passed a hand wearily across his brow, trying to find a way to convince his son. Rama spoke quietly. ‘Father, forgive me for speaking out of turn. But I wish to say something to Lakshman. My brother, stay. The shadow of the asura threat hangs over Ayodhya still. Your bow will be needed here should any more intruders come. You saw the

brahmarishi’s warning of what might come to pass.’

woods, at least they will look out for each other.’

Lakshman turned his head. ‘But Rama, you heard him yourself. The reason he wishes to take you into the Bhayanakvan is to prevent that invasion from taking place! By going with you, I will help prevent it more effectively than staying here. Besides, one bow more or less in Ayodhya will not matter much. While in the forest, it would double the chances of success.’

‘Sumitra?’ Dasaratha replied, astonished. ‘Do you know what you’re saying? You would risk the life of your own son even when not required? Rama is honourbound to go now. Lakshman does not have to take this great risk. Think before you speak your mind, my gentle queen!’

Dasaratha looked at the brahmarishi in despair. ‘Mahadev, what is your esteemed opinion on this matter?’ Vishwamitra leaned on his staff. ‘Maharaj, I have no opinion in this matter. This is a father’s and a mother’s decision to make, not a guru’s. If Rajkumar Lakshman wishes to accompany his brother, so be it. If he stays, that is acceptable to me as well.’ He moved away after saying these words, distancing himself from the family debate. Dasaratha looked around, searching for someone to aid him in his argument against Lakshman. His eyes flicked across Kausalya, who wisely remained silent, and were passing on to Guru Vashishta when Sumitra-maa spoke, struggling through her tears. ‘Send Lakshman with Rama.’ Everyone turned to stare in surprise at the third queen. Sumitra’s delicate small features were smeared with damp kajal and a streak of sindhoor. She stepped forward, wiping her face with the pallo of her sari. ‘He speaks the truth. He and Rama share a bond that is beyond this mortal plane. If he were to stay back, he would pine and waste away. In the

‘I’m saying what’s right,’ she said with surprising determination. ‘Do you think it doesn’t hurt me to say it?’ She held the pallo to the corner of her mouth, her eyes misting over again. ‘It’s like pulling a piece of my heart from my breast. But then I say, if I can endure the pain of sending Rama, then I can endure the pain of sending Lakshman as well. That way, double the pain will halve the risk at least.’ She looked around defiantly, challenging anyone to prove her wrong. ‘I cannot speak for Bharat, but I would send Shatrugan as well. Because—’ Both Bharat and Shatrugan stepped forward, speaking hotly. ‘Father, send us too!’ Dasaratha waved them to gesturing to Sumitra to go on.

silence,

‘Because,’ she went on, ‘Rama is a son of my heart if not of my body. To lose him would be as unbearable as to lose my own birth-sons. So I say, if Lakshman’s going gives him satisfaction, if the presence of one more bow improves the chances of success, then why should I not send my son as well?’ All eyes watched Dasaratha, waiting for his verdict. He looked at Sumitra’s tearful, defiant face, at Lakshman’s desperate pleading eyes, and his tired shoulders slumped. He released a great

sigh. ‘Very well, then. So be it. Lakshman shall go with Rama.’ Both Bharat and Shatrugan began to protest. Dasaratha waved them wearily into silence again. They quietened instantly. ‘But none other than Lakshman. Leave me at least half my sons in this time of crisis!’ He seemed to address the plea to some invisible deva rather than to anyone present. Rama spoke to his brothers. ‘Bharat, Shatrugan. Heed Father’s words. He is ailing. If for any reason imaginable we should fail in our mission, Ayodhya will need your axe and your mace. Stay and defend our mothers and our city.’ Bharat and Shatrugan bowed their heads reluctantly, agreeing. Lakshman rose and stood beside Rama. Guru Vashishta cleared his throat. ‘You must make haste. The brahmarishi desires to reach Ananga-ashrama before sunfall. You have a great walk ahead.’ The rajkumars glanced at each other, then, moving as one, went forward and bowed before their guru together. They touched his feet in the ritual plea for blessings. ‘Guruji, ashirwaad dijiye.’ The guru laid his hands on both their heads gently. ‘Ayushmaanbhav, Ayodhya ke rajkumaron. Hum tumhari safalta ke liya prarthana karenge.’ Live long, princes of Ayodhya. We shall pray for your success. Next they turned to the maharaja. Dasaratha’s eyes were red and swollen

even though he hadn’t shed a tear. His face was blotchy and flushed with strain. Rama’s heart twinged as he raised himself after touching his father’s feet. ‘Father, have faith in us. We shall bring you triumph.’ ‘I expect nothing less, my sons.’ Dasaratha’s voice was hoarse and cracked. Suddenly, as Rama and Lakshman started to turn away, he lurched forward and put his arms around them both, enfolding and crushing them in a massive bear-hug. ‘Oh, my sons, my sons. What have I done? Can I never do right by you? What have I done to deserve this cursed karma?’ Rama hugged and kissed his father gently. The maharaja’s greying stubble was rough against his smooth, hairless cheek. ‘You have always done right by us, Father. It’s not your karma but our dharma that leads us where we go.’ Dasaratha looked at his son, fat opaque tears spilling from his anguished eyes. ‘So young and yet so wise. If I have ever done anything to deserve a boon from the devas, I pray for your safe return. Both of you.’ He clutched their arms one last time, his meaty fists twice the size of their slender shoulders, and released them, turning away with a choked cry. They went next to Kausalya-maa. She had tears in her eyes when they bent to take her ashirwaad, and made no attempt to conceal them, but her voice was steady and clear. ‘Heed the words of your new guru carefully and obediently. Care for one another as well as for yourselves. Guard each other’s backs night and day. Do as your gurus have taught you and as your duty demands. Fulfil your dharma.’

The boys took their leave of Sumitramaa, Bharat and Shatrugan next and turned to Guru Vashishta once more. He nodded, acknowledging the momentary disorientation that was visible on their faces. ‘Be brave, young rajkumars. It is a great thing you go to do today. A noble undertaking. Your names shall be writ large in the chronicles of your dynasty and your line. Go now, with the grace of the devas. I shall use every power at my disposal to pray for your speedy and safe return.’ Vishwamitra tapped his staff on the ground, indicating to the captain that they were ready to leave. The brahmarishi looked back once at Maharaja Dasaratha and the rest of the royal family. ‘I give you my word, Ayodhya-naresh. Either I shall return both your sons safely to you once my mission is accomplished; or I shall not return at all.’ Dasaratha felt a chill in his heart at the brahmarishi’s words. Not return at all? Was the seer admitting there was some chance of failure? But of course he was, he chided himself. Even the most powerful of seers couldn’t guarantee the future. What he meant was that he had pledged not just his honour but his life on ensuring their safe return. Either they would all return safely, or none would return. Dasaratha couldn’t deal with the implications of the latter possibility. As the rear gates of the palace swung open, Drishti Kumar and his guards gave the departing trio a royal salute. Then, turning smartly, they began to shut the gates, following their security procedures without lapse. Bharat and Shatrugan ran forward, clutching at the bars of the

gates and calling words of farewell and encouragement to their brothers. Rama and Lakshman walked behind the seer, following the customary three paces to the rear of their new guru, without looking back once. A way had been cleared specially for their passing right through to the first gate, and the rajmarg was deserted as far as the eye could see, with soldiers standing alert at regular ten-metre intervals along the way. The three travellers reached the end of the avenue and turned the bend, passing out of sight.

KAAND 2

ONE From a window in the Second Queen’s Palace, Manthara and Kaikeyi watched the three figures walk down the avenue and disappear round a bend in the road. The minute they were out of sight, Kaikeyi turned her tear-streaked eyes on Manthara. ‘My son was to be crowned maharaja. My son, Bharat. Not Rama! Bharat!’ The daiimaa let the drapes fall back into place. She replied calmly: ‘Before he can be crowned maharaja, he must be crowned prince-heir. And then he must wait for his father to resign the throne or die. That is the law of ascension.’ ‘I don’t care about the law,’ Kaikeyi shrieked. ‘I want my son to be king! You said it would happen! You said his kundalee is that of a king, not a mere lord or thakur. You promised me he would become maharaja!’ ‘So I did,’ Manthara replied levelly. Kaikeyi’s shriek still echoed in the corridors. The palace was deserted. Everybody was at the parade grounds, celebrating the feast. The rest of the royal family would hardly care to enter these chambers. ‘And so he will.’ Kaikeyi bent down and clutched Manthara’s bony shoulders tight enough to hurt the daiimaa. ‘Then why was Rama declared crown prince today? Answer that, you witch!’ Manthara hissed. A flash of greenishyellow flame, like the tongue of some enormous lizard, snaked out from deep within her throat. The sorcerous fire shot out and struck Kaikeyi between the

eyes, crackling at the impact. The second queen’s eyes rolled up, astonished, and like a rag doll being tossed aside by a playground bully, she was flung back bodily across the chamber. She struck a chaupat on the way, knocking it over and sending crystal jal-bartans and greasy dishes from her afternoon snack crashing, and landed with a bone-jarring impact on the bolsters and well-padded mattresses of her own baithaksthan. She lay there like a crumpled toy, breathing noisily through her open mouth, nostrils flared in shock, eyes wide and round. Manthara crooked one finger and Kaikeyi sat up abruptly, her head lolling forward like a dog’s wagging tail. She gasped, as startled by the involuntary movement as she had been by the flight across the room. Manthara took three steps towards her, raising one long, gnarled finger in warning. ‘Never lay a hand on me again, my queen. Next time your fall will not be cushioned.’ Kaikeyi rose slowly to her feet, checking her limbs. Her hands shook with fear and conflicting emotions. ‘How . . . how . . . did you do that?’ Manthara shrugged. ‘What difference does it make? I can do it. That’s all that matters to you. Just remember, you snivelling, spoilt Arya she-whelp, you’ve grown much too old to slap and spank. And I don’t have the patience I used to.’ Kaikeyi blinked, puzzled. What did the daiimaa mean? She had never had any patience to begin with. She realised belatedly that Manthara was being ironic. That was somehow even scarier than the sudden display of power. ‘I’m . . . sorry . . . I touched you.’ She stammered out the

words. Manthara ignored the apology. ‘You mentioned Bharat’s kundalee. Yes, his horoscope clearly says he will be maharaja. And he will be. All in good time.’ She paced the room thoughtfully. Kaikeyi watched her like a child watching a puppet prance across a kathputhli stage. ‘But there is work to be done to make that come to pass.’ She looked at Kaikeyi. ‘Instead of playing with your over-muscled wrestlers in gloomy inns at night, you will have to do as I say. Time is short and every moment counts in this game.’ Game? What kind of game? Kaikeyi managed to hold her tongue, something that was almost as difficult for her as controlling her diet. She watched the daiimaa pace. Finally, the hunchback paused, her eyes gleaming. ‘Yes. That is exactly what she must do. Your genius knows no bounds, my lord.’ Kaikeyi looked around the chamber, wondering whom Manthara was addressing. Had Dasaratha come unexpectedly into her chambers? But there was nobody else here. She shivered suddenly. She had frequently called Manthara a witch, in her mind and behind the daiimaa’s back. But that was only in the figurative sense. Now she began to realise that the hunchbacked crone’s abilities did indeed lie in that forbidden realm of dark sorcery. What Manthara had just done to her, merely by crooking a finger, that had been the work of sorcery. And not Brahman sorcery

either. What other secrets had Manthara kept from her all these years? What else was the woman capable of? Manthara turned her eyes to Kaikeyi. It was as if she knew every thought and emotion racing through Kaikeyi’s confused brain. ‘Don’t pretend that you want Bharat’s ascension for his sake. You haven’t a selfless bone in your body, Kaikeyi. If you ever did have one, then I must have broken it years ago. No, all you care about is your own status as second queen. You fear that if Rama were to ascend the throne, Kausalya would cut you down to size quickly enough, taking revenge on you for warming Dasaratha’s bed these many years. You fear the loss of your unlimited allowance, your river of silks and trinkets that the maharaja’s generosity keeps in spate. You fear that with Dasaratha’s passing, you will be relegated to the status of a widow, banished to some remote corner of the kingdom, there to spend the rest of your days in nameless ignominy. This is your true motivation in wanting Bharat to be crowned prince of Ayodhya.’ Kaikeyi stared up at Manthara wordlessly. She was speechless because Manthara had said everything there was to be said. These very fears kept Kaikeyi awake at night, these were the demons she sought to drown when she downed her endless goblets of wine and gorged like a feasting Brahmin each morning, noon and sundown. Even so, hearing them spoken aloud brought home the selfish crudeness of her innermost concerns with the bracing impact of a blow to the face. Manthara smiled grimly. ‘Have no fear. It shall be as you desire. Your son shall be crowned prince-heir, to become

maharaja on his father’s passing. And you shall retain your status as the first queen in all but title for many a year to come. The keys to the kingdom’s coffers shall be in your fleshy fists, and not even Kausalya will dare to question you on any account.’ Kaikeyi’s eyes narrowed. ‘You taunt and tease me, Manthara. I already apologised for laying hands on you. Don’t humiliate me now. I’m a grown woman, not a girl any more.’ ‘Taunt you? Tease you?’ Manthara’s laughter was like the sound of a monkey gibbering. ‘My poor fat Kaikeyi. I am only telling you what is written in your kundalee. Don’t you recall? I have told you these very things before, when I read your horoscope on your sixteenth naming day!’ Kaikeyi’s mouth fell open. She did recall the daiimaa reading her kundalee when she was sixteen, and the hunchback had reeled off a list of wonderful things that would transpire in Kaikeyi’s future. ‘You mean . . . all the things you said . . . they will really come to pass?’ Manthara’s mouth continued to smile, but her eyes hardened, the wrinkled skin around them tightening. ‘Every word. You do wish them to come to pass, don’t you, my little girl-whelp?’ Kaikeyi was so excited, she could only nod her head vigorously, unable to form any words. Manthara bent her head forward and crooked her finger. ‘Then come to me and let me tell you how you can help bring these things about.’

*** The maharaja’s highway ran alongside the bank of the river Sarayu for a full yojana. Vishwamitra and the two princes walked the distance without speaking, the seer leading at a pace that soon had both boys sweating freely. The only sound was the clicking of their wooden sandals and the steady roar of the Sarayu. It was late afternoon, perhaps two hours from sunset, yet the day seemed warmer than usual, a sign of the seasonal change and a good omen. Rama and Lakshman were still in their whites, each wearing a simple dhoti, with an ang-vastra draped loosely around their shoulders. Despite the bracing coolness of the air, their new duty as oathsworn Kshatriyas required them to abjure all comforts. Vishwamitra had politely declined Dasaratha’s offer of a chariot and a platoon of PFs to see them to Mithila Bridge. It was said the brahmarishi had not ridden a chariot or sat on a horse for over seventeen hundred years. Even Vashishta, despite his status as royal guru, walked the distance to and from his ashram every day, a distance of one and a half yojana each way. And Rishi Vamadeva, who perforce lived in the palace to supervise the small army of purohits the sunwood throne employed, slept on a mat of rushes and ate simple fare from an earthen bowl. As the saying went, ‘The Greater the Seer, the Fewer His Needs.’ Nor could Rama and Lakshman be permitted to accept any of the comforts of their princely heritage. The moment they had sworn their oaths to the brahmarishi, they had given up all claim to their worldly titles, possessions and comforts. They were bound to follow Vishwamitra and do his bidding

implicitly until he released them from their obligation to him. Such was the tradition of the guru-shishya contract. As the city fell further behind, the sounds of revelry and games and the parade fading with every step, Rama felt a pinprick of wonder at the twist of fate that had put him upon this path. Not doubt or fear, no. Just a tiny little question mark curling inside his belly, its tip pricking his gut. We knew what we were getting into when we accepted the sage as guru, Rama thought. Or at least I knew. He stole a quick glance at his brother, matching him pace for pace in perfect step. But I should have known that Lakshman would want to follow me. I should have done something, pre-empted him somehow, made him stay back. It was my responsibility as his older brother. A thread of sweat trickled down Lakshman’s face. Rama reached out and dabbed at it with the end of his angvastra. Lakshman nodded. At that exact moment, a drop of sweat rolled down Rama’s own forehead, stealing into his left eye. Lakshman tried to use his own angvastra to wipe it away but was too late. It stung mildly. Rama blinked it away, grinning. Lakshman grinned back. They walked. The sun passed behind a stray cloud shaped like a wineskin filled to bursting with buttermilk—a mental association that was probably the result of his unfed stomach—and when it reappeared, it seemed to have grown fiercer. Rama felt as if he was holding a blazing mashaal at arm’s length. Sweat ran freely down their faces and bodies; their ang-vastras were soon soaked through. Winter certainly is through with us, he thought.

He glanced at the cool, welcoming white waters of the Sarayu. A dip in the river would be heaven right now. He caught Lakshman sneaking a glance leftwards too and knew he was wishing the same thing. Sarayu’s cool breath carried a fine mist redolent of the iron tang of glacial icemelt. It was a scent of mountains and flower-vales; the scent of their ancestral homesteads. A drove of dragonflies as large as pigeons whirred over the water, travelling upstream. Deep within the shaded glade where Rama had sat only a few hours earlier, a pair of koyals called insistently. I would love to sit with you awhile, my friends, but duty calls. Squirrels leaped along branches overhanging the river, racing deftly from tree to tree, leaving a row of swinging limbs behind them as they dashed downriver. The silver flanks of enormous mahseer and rawas gleamed in the river, silver and lean from the long hard winter. Soon they would grow fat and slow, fit for the cookfire. I should have eaten some of Susama-daiimaa’s naashta after all. A stag slurping water near the same rock where Rama had found the wounded doe cornered by the poachers looked up and stared at them fearlessly. He was a young black buck, also lean from the winter, but his fur was sleek and glossy. Soon it would be mating season and he would dash his proud horns against a brother buck to decide their mate; only one of them would survive the ritual. Fruitlessly Rama scanned the bank for a sign of the doe, hoping she had survived the arrow wound, although it didn’t seem likely. The sun fell steadily in the western sky as

they walked on, and soon even the faraway sounds of conches blowing and elephants trumpeting faded behind them. The river’s sound dimmed as the raj-marg rose steadily above its banks. They passed mango groves, orange orchards, apple groves, grape vineyards, and sugarcane patches rife with scorpion-birds that hovered above the high stalks, their carapaced bellies swollen with the sweet treacly juice. The welcome shadow of jackfruit trees shielded them from the slanting sun. Rama and Lakshman had sat beneath the shade of these very trees, eating their stomachs’ fill of the chewy gum-like fruit, carrying the rest back to Susamadaiimaa, who cooked a delicious sweetsour phanas curry in the Marathi style. Now they only looked wistfully up at the swollen ripe fruit, and walked on. As the raj-marg rose steadily higher, the day seemed to grow even hotter despite the shade of the wayside trees: too hot for winter, too hot even for spring. Hot on Holi day means monsoon’s not far away, the daiimaas always said. Rama licked his dry lips, missing the moist air of the Sarayu riverbank, the refreshing cool spray on his face, the delicate scents of the lotus and jasmine blooms that drifted downriver. Wiping the side of his face with the tip of his ang-vastra, he remembered suddenly that he hadn’t even anointed himself with rang. He couldn’t recall a Holi when he and Lakshman had failed to colour each other. Yet here they were, without even a dab of powder on their faces, clothes unmarked. Then he remembered the kumkum that his mother had pressed on his forehead after her aarti; he did have colour on his face after all. Maa had seen to that.

A small pebble caught between his toes and he paused to remove it. Lakshman paused as well but Rama motioned him forward. As Lakshman walked on behind the sage, Rama saw that his brother’s rig was arranged in such a way that the tip of his curved bow pointed east, the quiverful of arrows west; his head and feet already marked north and south. He lit up the cardinal directions as he rode into battle on his flaming chariot. Now, where was that from? Some old poem about one of Rama’s ancestors, Surya probably, who gave the Suryavansha dynasty his name when he took the only daughter of tribal chieftain Ikshvaku the Settler. Rama stood and followed the others, catching up quickly, unaware that his own rig mirrored Lakshman’s perfectly, their hair as black as crows’ wings, their posture identical. The sun was a little more than an hour from sunset when they reached Mithila Bridge. One of only three such bridges spanning the Sarayu, Mithila Bridge was built at the highest point on both banks, an aweinspiring seven hundred yards above the river. Far below its carved span, the Sarayu ran rough and fast over a halfmile of enormous grey boulders that had fallen in some avalanche a few thousand years ago. The river boiled and seethed as it roared over the boulders. Precisely one and a half yojana or fourteen Western miles from the outermost gate of Ayodhya, Mithila Bridge also marked the end of the royal protectorate. As they approached the bridge, Rama made out the forms of several men mounted on elephants, guarding both the north and south ends of the structure. Even the elephants were dwarfed by the enormous proportions of

the bridge. Hewn from the sturdy timber of a single massive shagun tree, which the Greeks called ‘teak’ after the Greek word tekton, for ‘carpenter’, the bridge was broad enough to allow not two but three royal wheelhouses to pass at a time, or seven elephants ambling abreast. Even at this considerable height, much of its span was obscured by a cloud of spray-mist from the river. Vishwamitra stopped at the point where the raj-marg curved slowly to present good access to the bridge for wheelhouses and other large vehicles. He turned to Rama and Lakshman. ‘Do not reveal yourselves, rajkumars. There are enemy eyes everywhere, and it would be best if our mission goes unreported. Act the part of my acolytes and leave the talking to me.’ Without waiting for an answer, he gestured and spoke a brief mantra. Rama and Lakshman found themselves transformed into the spitting likeness of two shaven-pate chotti-sprouting Brahmin acolytes, while Vishwamitra had become a paunchy, jolly-looking red-faced pundit dressed in ritual saffron. The seer nodded approvingly and turned back to face the two outriders who had ridden to meet them.

TWO Dismounting, they approached quickly but cautiously, their bodies glistening with the wet mist of river spray. They were all but naked in the style of all rakshaks, the Kshatriya clan designated as the guardians of life and property, clad only in white cotton langots that covered their maleness. Slabs of muscle rippled on their oiled torsos and thighs, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Their faces were broad and fleshy, their skin as dark as Rama’s hair, heads glistening darkly, unprotected from the harsh sun. They were so similar in appearance, Rama could hardly tell them apart at first. ‘Punditji,’ the first one said curtly to the seer. ‘Are you lost? The way to Ayodhya lies behind you.’ ‘Well met, rakshaks,’ Vishwamitra replied cheerfully in his new role as pundit. ‘And greetings to you on this feast day. Regretfully, my holy business takes me in the opposite direction of the Holi mela at our great capital city. My young apprentices were quite sullen about not being permitted to partake of Maharaja Dasaratha’s munificent hospitality. I admit I too would not have been averse to enjoying the exotic sights and sounds of the celebration. However, I am bound to Ananga-ashrama on a holy errand and must reach there before nightfall.’ The two rakshaks exchanged a troubled glance. ‘Anangaashrama? This very day? Can’t your business wait a day or three, pundit? Our advice is to return to the capital and take advantage of the maharaja’s hospitality for the duration of the seven-day celebration. Nightfall is not long coming. You will be safer within the walls of Ayodhya. Come this

way again next Somvar, and we will wish you good journey and let you pass without question.’ Rama saw a frown crinkle the brow of the brahmarishi. He tried hard to keep a straight face: the sight of Vishwamitra posing as a plump pundit was incongruous to the point of hilarity. Yet it was an impressively effective disguise. He touched his own face and felt a weaker jaw and fleshier cheeks, a bulbous nose. The inclination to smile faded at once as he realised how foolish he too must look. But what exactly does the brahmarishi fear? The bridge-guard can’t be spies too, can they? Come to think of it, why couldn’t they be spies? With a shock he realised that all his assumptions might have to be altered to suit the new reality they were facing. ‘Alas, brave protectors, my journey must be completed this day itself, or my karya will be bhung. What lies ahead that makes the way so perilous? We are at peace yet with all our neighbours, are we not?’ The rakshak snorted. ‘Not for long, if Maharaja Dasaratha stays as docile as he has been for so long.’ His companion shot him a warning glance. Rama thought the second rakshak was an older man, although it was hard to tell without hair. He spoke less curtly than his partner, with some modicum of respect, and seemed apologetic about his young companion. Father and son, Rama realised with yet another flash of insight. ‘My fellow rakshak means no disrespect to our great maharaja, punditji. This has been an odd day, with many wild rumours abroad. Talk of strange happenings across the

kingdom. We who watch and protect Mithila Bridge meet travellers from all parts of the land, and hear much that Ayodhya itself may not hear at all, or only days later.’ ‘And what do your ears hear today, good man?’ Vishwamitra’s tone was cheerful but puzzled, as befitted a Brahmin ritualist seeking to return to his ashram with his apprentices in tow. ‘What scares you so that you seek to bar the raj-marg to righteous pilgrims?’ The first rakshak bristled. ‘Scares? You’d do well not to use that word when speaking of rakshaks, holy man! Nothing scares a rakshak.’ His companion put a hand on his arm, quieting him. ‘As I said, there are strange rumours abroad. It is difficult to know how much is truth and how much idle speculation or malicious gossip. We who guard the ways hear much but know little for certain.’ He continued before the first rakshak could speak again. ‘We had news of a team of rakshasas breaking into the royal palace and ravishing two queens and killing several dozen palace guards before being cut down by a volley of thunderbolts flung by the mighty seermage Vishwamitra, resurrected by the mantras of Guru Vashishta.’ ‘Two queens ravished?’ Lakshman blurted in startled surprise. Rama poked him in the ribs, admonishing him into silence, but he was not amused at the inaccuracy of the so-called ‘news’. ‘Untitled queens,’ the rakshak replied. ‘And another rumour spoke of an army of asuras amassing in the Southwoods at the behest of the Lord of Lanka. At the

height of the feasting and celebration, when the army and PFs are all heady with wine and the gate-watch is least manned, accomplices of the asuras within the walls will open the gates and let them into the city, to pillage and run amok.’ He added belatedly: ‘Or so the rumours say.’ Ridiculous! Rama almost broke his silence too, startled at the malicious incorrectness of the rumours. Do you think Ayodhya’s entire army and guard will be reeling around drunkenly just because it’s Holi? Fool! He was on the verge of countering indignantly that his father had ordered the gate-watch tripled, and the army kept on full alert. The orders had been issued by Dasaratha to Sumantra, who in turn had informed the senapatis of each akshohini in a private briefing. The army would patrol the city in plainclothes with weapons concealed so as not to alarm the citizenry. No soldier on duty would take a drop of soma today, and six-hour duty shifts had been allotted, ensuring that three-quarters of the full force would be on duty at all times, day or night. But an ordinary Brahmin acolyte could hardly speak of such things, so he held his tongue, seething. Vishwamitra seemed unruffled. ‘Even if this gossipy chatter contains a smidgen of truth, my good man—and mind you, I do not grant it even that much licence—what does it have to do with us? Why bar the road to Anangaashrama? Surely the asuras do not seek to waylay simple men of God such as us?’ He leavened the questions with a goodnatured chuckle that matched his portly appearance. ‘What would they hope to

gain after all? Vishnu’s blessings?’ The first rakshak, the one Rama thought of as the son, looked down darkly at the seer. ‘How do we know that you aren’t asuras yourselves? There’s been word—’ He broke off, glanced around, and swallowed before continuing gruffly: ‘There’s been word of asuras who alter their bhes-bhav and appear as common travellers, or even as nobility and royalty to deceive us protectors. They say three rakshak wardens have been murdered in the woods by such deceivers.’ He hawked and spat angrily, missing Rama’s foot by inches. ‘I’d give my right arm to get one chance, just one, to put my lance through one of them khotteysikkey! I’ll show them how we deal with asuras here in Kosala!’ He’s scared, Rama realised. That’s why he’s so belligerent and rude. He doesn’t know whom to trust. Vishwamitra replied calmly: ‘And you may get your chance sooner than you think, young man. But now let us pass and go about our holy business. The great Lord Shiva will not be pleased if we do not reach Ananga-ashrama in time to complete our ishta.’ The older rakshak looked down at his halter for a moment. ‘I wish I could be of help, old one. But our order has decided that until we receive orders directly from a king’s envoy, we are not to permit anyone to pass over Mithila Bridge.’ He backed his horse away a few paces, preparing to turn around and ride back to his post. ‘Carry out your ishta on another auspicious day. Now, return to Ayodhya before sunset. There will be a

curfew outside the city and throughout the kingdom, and all travellers without authorisation scrolls will be dealt with on the spot. These are our orders.’ He turned his horse around, and the younger rakshak did the same. ‘Halt, rakshak!’ Vishwamitra’s voice rang out sharp and clear, his nasal twang and chuckling tone gone. ‘Look at me.’ The two rakshaks turned their horses back again, peering suspiciously at the seer. The younger man already had his lance in hand, and the older was reaching for his sword. Rama glanced at the brahmarishi and saw a faint haze surrounding him, like a cloak that fluttered inches from his skin, sheathing him loosely all over. It shimmered in the bright sunlight, flecked with gold and blue tones. Brahman power. Vishwamitra’s appearance had reverted to its original form. ‘I knew there was something not right with this lot,’ the younger rakshak began, spurring his horse to ride the travellers down. A bulb of brightness popped out of the brahmarishi’s aura and travelled to the rakshak, stopping him and his horse dead in their tracks. An identical bulb struck his older partner. The bulbs hit the faces of the two rakshaks with a wet plopping sound, and enveloped their heads, like translucent balloons filled with a treacly fluid. The substance of the bulbs began to seep into their eyes, ears, nostrils and mouths. The rakshaks’ eyes widened in alarm, their nostrils flaring with panic; then, abruptly, twin

expressions of perfect calm descended on them. They smiled, and their smiles were so goofy and unlike themselves that Rama almost laughed out loud in amazement. They look happily high on ganja! ‘What’s with them?’ whispered, nudging him.

Lakshman

‘Those things the brahmarishi shot at them, they’ve acted as some kind of tranquilliser.’ Lakshman stared at him perplexed. ‘What things?’ Rama glanced at his brother curiously. ‘The things on their heads. Don’t you see them?’ Lakshman looked. ‘All I see are those goofy grins on their faces.’ Why am I able to see them when he can’t? The answer that sprang unbidden to Rama’s mind was as vexing as the question itself: For the same reason that you had the dream of Ayodhya’s rape and he didn’t. Your karma and his are intertwined, yet separate. Do not forget: you are blood-brothers, so close you feel like two halves of the same person, yet even two halves must differ in some ways. This is one such way. Accept it, move on. With an effort he cleared his mind of these distracting thoughts. Vishwamitra raised his staff and strode forward. For a moment, he continued speaking in the voice of the portly Brahmin. ‘Thank you for your concern and for sharing your news, good rakshaks. Lord Shiva strengthen your arm and protect you from harm.’

In mid-sentence his voice changed back to its normal bass, but of course the rakshaks were long past noticing such incongruities. Rama and Lakshman followed Vishwamitra as he walked to the bridge. An entire platoon of rakshaks were spread out across the northern end, backed by elephants that swung their trunks to and fro restlessly. A single barked command from their ebonyskinned captain, and the elephants would line up to make any passage impossible, the rakshaks joining shields to attack. Rama had never seen rakshaks fight but he had watched them train. They were clan-sworn to protect and guard the waystations, bridges and forest ranges of the Arya nations: gatekeepers of the Arya world was how they described themselves. Infant rakshaks were given weapons to hold even before they were weaned. These men on Mithila Bridge would die without surrendering or retreating. And if their orders were to let nobody pass, then nobody would pass. But they weren’t equipped to deal with the Brahman powers of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. ‘Rakshaks!’ the seer called out, raising his longstaff. His aura flowed thick and fast around his body, alive with swirling motes of gold, blue and bright jade green. A dozen, then another dozen bulbs of luminescence broke free from the translucent flow and shot towards the rakshaks and their pachyderm reinforcements. It was all over in moments.

THREE They emerged on the south side of Mithila Bridge, a light sheen of river mist spray on their bodies the only thing they had to show for the crossing. Toll-free crossing, Rama amended, still smiling to himself at the goofy expressions on the faces of the rakshaks. Even the elephants had gone cross-eyed and rolled their trunks around in spirals before slumping to their knees. One had defecated copiously as he passed, following the release with a deep sigh of contentment. He had patted the wrinkled grey flank of the mare for good luck, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Perfume of the road, his father always called it. He was glad the encounter with the rakshaks had gone so easily. A fight would have resulted in spilt blood. A lot of it. It was one thing to defend oneself against violent poachers or marauding asuras, but the idea of taking Arya lives sat uneasily on his conscience. Lakshman expelled a sharp breath as they emerged from the cool shadow of the bridge’s overhang and stepped on to the dusty surface of the raj-marg once more. ‘Amazing! Bhai, if we knew that trick, we could get into any place we wanted!’ He dug an elbow into Rama’s ribs. ‘Even the princesses’ quarters at Uncle Maharaja Janak’s palace!’ Rama grinned at the thought of Lakshman loose in their uncle’s palace at Mithila. ‘You need to get married soon, brother. Before you become a father!’ Lakshman winked slyly. ‘And you need to get married before you become a monk!’ Rama shrugged good-naturedly. His selfcontrol regarding matters sexual was

notorious. ‘I’ll marry when the right girl comes along.’ ‘You mean you’ll marry Sita when she comes of age! Don’t deny it, bhai. You’ve always had a soft spot for Maharaja Janak’s eldest.’ Rama felt a tiny pinprick of irritation. He didn’t like Lakshman speaking of Sita that way. Although I haven’t seen her in years, so why should I care? ‘You’re probably thinking of her younger sisters. Urmila, was it? The one with whom you were caught swimming nanga in the fountain?’ It was Lakshman’s turn to be embarrassed. He punched his brother in the shoulder hard enough to hurt. ‘She talked me into it. Besides, we were just babes. Barely weaned.’ Rama replied with deceptive innocence: ‘So when we meet her next, you’ll be sure to tell her that you’ve been fully weaned now, right?’ He dodged his brother’s fist this time. Lakshman raised his hands in surrender. ‘All right, you got me. I always did like Urmi. Why deny it? In fact, I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard Susamadaiimaa and my mother talk about making a match with Janak-chacha’s four daughters and the four of us. Always when Shatrugan or I were within hearing distance.’ It was a logical match. Ayodhya and Mithila were sister cities, identical in architectural planning and most other ways. Both the clans were descendants of Ikshvaku, with the Ayodhyan Ikshvakus tracing their descent through Surya and the Mithilans through Chandra: lunar to Ayodhya’s solar. A

marital alliance between the sunwood and silvermoon thrones would cement the already healthy relationship between the two powerful kingdoms and almost double the size of Ayodhya’s fighting forces. An alliance that strong could make the difference between success and failure when faced with an imminent asura invasion. Rama was about to say this aloud when the seer-mage slowed ahead of them. For a moment he thought Vishwamitra was stopping to admonish them for their mischievous banter. Both Rama and Lakshman prepared themselves for a tongue-lashing. But the brahmarishi surprising gentleness.

spoke

with

‘Rajkumars Rama and Lakshmana, on the south bank of the Sarayu the very hills and trees have ears. We are in hostile territory now. Your innocent banter may be heard by spies of the Lord of Lanka. Keep your tongues in check unless something important needs saying.’ Rama and Lakshman lowered their eyes respectfully. The seer-mage looked at each of them in turn, his white beard stirring slowly in a gentle breeze. He added in a faintly amused tone: ‘Impossible as it may seem to you now, I was young once too. But keep your chatter for some more suitable time. Now, you need to conserve your energy. We still have a fair way to go to Anangaashrama and the daylight fades swiftly.’ He seemed to want to say something further, but turned away without speaking again. He resumed his powerful strides, as precise as the fourstep of a

Kshatriya army on the march. Rama and Lakshman glanced at each other briefly, exchanging an identical look of ‘well, that wasn’t so bad after all’, and followed their new guru without speaking another word. Sarayu’s voice formed a pleasing backdrop to the sounds of their footfalls and the quiet inner sounds of breathing and heartbeats. The perfume of the river enveloped them, keeping at bay the stench of the Southwoods that loomed on the cliffs to their right. Like an army host lined up ready and waiting . . . but for what? The only thing Rama knew about the Bhayanak-van was that it was a forbidden forest, segregating the mapped Arya territories from the vast unexplored wilderness of the southern subcontinent. No Arya truly knew what lay beyond the dark dense Forest of Fear, which was the literal translation of Bhayanak-van. Even the Arya outposts along the coastline were always visited by ship, the outpost Kshatriyas seldom daring to venture too far into the interior regions. Those who had done so over the centuries had never been seen again. The fauna was sparser here on this side of the river, the ground rocky and pebbled, unlike its lush northern counterpart. That was strange since the silt should have been as rich, as fertile. Up ahead, Rama saw a solitary tall tree growing out of the smooth red clay of the riverbank. A maharuk, which the common folk called the Tree of Heaven. It was tall for its species, well over twenty yards high. More unusual, it was in full bloom already, its pale trunk capped by a closely woven foliage ablaze with little golden-yellow flowers. Normally the maharuk bloomed well

after spring began. So it’s just another sign of early spring, another good omen. The tree’s tall trunk, thick foliage and delicately scented flowers provided shade as blessed to a sun-weary traveller as the hand of a deva offering ashirwaad. As Rama passed beneath the fragrant canopy, a gust of wind rustled the maharuk’s upper branches. With a sound like crisp silks rubbed together, the tree showered the three of them with gaily coloured flowers. At the same moment, a cluster of butterflies—so similar in colouring to the flowers that he mistook them at first—appeared before him, hovered momentarily above his head and danced away gaily. The road turned to avoid a heap of large boulders which effectively obscured the view of the river and of Mithila Bridge. The terrain began to change almost at once. To their left a steady line of anjan trees rose ominously, effectively obscuring any view of the Sarayu valley. Patches of colour were starting to appear on the anjan trees—colloquially dubbed ‘ironwood’ for their sturdy blackish timber, as dark as the anjan grease used to line one’s eyes—and soon they would burst with a profusion of hues. But right now their dark green foliage and sombre trunks, some as much as eight yards high, made for a grim hedge that loomed over the road, overcasting the bright day with a monsoon gloom. After a moment, Rama realised what else was eerie about this natural avenue: there was no birdsong or insect sounds at all. Humps of reddish-black boulders began to sprout from the cliff face to their right, like boils on the face of some diseased animal. As they climbed steadily upwards, the boulders grew more profuse until the entire cliff wall seethed

with the gnarled dark protrusions. The rusty streaks and gashes in the black stone were signs of raw iron ore, Rama knew, but in the dimness of the ironwood avenue they resembled suppurating pus oozing from the dark boils. He’d heard it said that when the makers of this raj-marg had carted the iron-rich fragments of these boulders down to the city, the Lohars of Ayodhya refused to smelt them in their smithies, believing that Southbank iron was cursed and would not cut asura flesh. He wondered now if this were true or just a superstition, one of the many that centred on all things south of the Sarayu. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch one of the ugly lumps; even the sage was clearly walking in the middle of the raj-marg, staying well away from the anjans at the left as well as the cliff face to the right. As they reached the top of the raj-marg, Rama’s attention was caught by one particularly large boulder overhanging the road. It was so big it completely shut out the sun for a moment, so when the sage passed into its ponderous shadow, he was swallowed by darkness as smoky as dusk. From this angle it was difficult to be sure, but Rama thought he saw scores running along the top and the sides of the rock. Something crunched underfoot and he looked down to see scrapings of red and black, curled exactly like shavings left by a sutaar’s planing of a wooden plank. What creature or force of nature could have scraped ironstone hard enough to produce shavings? Nothing he had ever encountered in his short life, he was certain. Just when he thought they were approaching the peak of the cliff, the marg grew darker still.

The anjan trees huddled in closer, reaching across the avenue in an attempt to touch the protruding boulders of the cliff face. The boulders were larger and more unruly here, even though Rama knew that the marg-makers who maintained the king’s highway must have cut and planed them smooth. Maybe they keep growing after they’re cut. That was ridiculous—boulders couldn’t grow! But he stopped smiling when he saw a swatch of torn cloth caught between a jagged spur of rock and a clawing leafless branch, as if the two had come together like pincers to catch some hapless traveller. Looking up as he passed below the dangling strip of cloth, he could vaguely make out the sigil of the House of Janaka, belonging to his uncle the Maharaja of Mithila. There was that Mithila courier who disappeared last month with a message undelivered, Sumantra said. He could only just make out a faint dark stain below the stag-against-a-full-moon crest and forced himself to look at the road again. He felt a buzzing in his ears and swatted instinctively before he realised that there were no insects. Must be the damn iron in the rocks; the royal vaids say it affects our individual magnetic force and its harmony with the polarity of the planet. One final slow curve around a boulder that was far too large for even the tireless marg-makers to shape, and they were suddenly blessedly blinking at soft but still warm sunlight, out of the wretched anjan avenue. ‘Om Shiv Hari Swaha, Praised be the Name of Shiva,’ Lakshman said in a whisper beside him, and Rama sent up a brief prayer of his own. It felt as though they had just emerged from some dark tunnel filled with a

thousand watching wild beasts. But all we did was walk up a byroad of the king’s highway in broad daylight! The raj-marg broadened considerably here, providing a respite for wagons and wheelhouses before they attempted the more dangerous downward journey. It brought back memories of his father’s old charioteer Santosha yelling orders to the horse-boys as they scurried about hitching horses to the back of the royal wheelhouse to help control the downward passage of the monstrous luxury cabin, and he was faintly disappointed at the absence of neighing horses, laughing soldiers and his father’s hoarse loud voice, and the overpowering stench of that familiar road perfume, freshly dropped horse dung! All that met them was the tracks of the countless wagons and horses that had passed this way before, and a few dried droppings. To the right, the looming periphery of the woods was kept at bay by a field of kusalavya grass that grew from dark scorched earth. They have to keep burning the woods as they try to come closer to the road. Even so, the skulking darkness of the thicket instilled a sense of foreboding that was strong enough to make his head ache. Like a beast that just sits there, biding its time. He wondered if the sage would take them into the woods from here. The faint line of a footpath cut across the desolate field, entering the woods through a narrow mouth between two crouching trunks. A fresh mark caught his eye and he knelt to examine a small round impression in the dry earth. Another seer with a wooden staff about the size of Vishwamitra’s had passed this way only hours earlier. Perhaps it was Vishwamitra himself. After all, he had come out of the Southwoods. The knowledge that the

brahmarishi had endured centuries in the dreaded woods and had emerged alive and unharmed gave Rama a sense of reassurance, until he remembered that the seer had mastery of Brahman. While all I have is my bow and a shortsword.

on its way to Mithila.

He had expected the seer to lead them directly into the woods, across the burnt field. But Vishwamitra was looking the other way, out at the valley, standing on the lip of a jutting promontory that stuck out over the cliff face to provide a scenic view of the Sarayu valley. The spot was popularly known as Ayodhyadarshan or Sarayu-darshan, all important things in Arya having at least two names. Rama and Lakshman stood alongside their new guru and looked down.

He looked at Lakshman and saw his brother’s eyes gleaming a little more brightly than before.

The view was breathtaking. The Sarayu valley lay below them, stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. To the north, the mountains of the Garhwal Himalayas rose steadily, vanishing into the mists of late winter. A thick carpeting of palas trees gave the north bank a rich red texture, like the intricate dense weave of the deep-pile Gandahari dhurries his mother loved to collect. The Sarayu’s white line formed an undulating border at the bottom of this roughly rectangular deep-pile rug. Rama could trace the point at which the river entered the valley, far to the distant left. It then passed out of sight beneath the shooting towers and vaulting arches of Ayodhya, roared down sharply over the twentyyard drop of Aja-putra Rapids, turning into a foaming, seething bundle of cold white fire that calmed down only slightly as it expanded its width and worked its way steadily to the extreme far right of the panorama, beneath spray-shrouded Mithila Bridge, down the ragged boulder-strewn rapids, finally disappearing into a thicket of mangrove

When next I look upon you, my river-mother, I will have earned the right to be called Rama Rakshas-slayer. Or I will not look upon you again. This I swear.

Moving at the same time, both placed their hands on each other’s shoulders and squeezed tightly. When they turned, Vishwamitra was waiting. The seer-mage raised his staff and pointed silently. They followed him across the burnt field and into the thicket, turning their backs on their last sight of Ayodhya.

FOUR Maharaja Dasaratha reached the last turn and paused to catch his breath. It had been a long day and a hard one, and he had eaten and drunk too much, as usual. Well, it’s Holi, he thought, trying to shrug it off. A little extra wine and meat on a feast day never hurt anyone. But the leaden weight in his distended belly, the piercing ache in his lower back, the crushing pressure in his neck and the back of his head, all disagreed fiercely. After a moment it dawned on him that he was not going to feel much better any time soon, and with a weary sigh and a muttered curse he climbed the last few steps. He stood on the red-marble floor of the Seer’s Eye, the star-chamber at the peak of the Seers’ Tower. Seen from without, it was a needle-like protuberance that spiralled upwards, like a talon touching the belly of the sky; from within, it was a circular platform open to the skies, its seven inward-curving pillars shaped like lances representing the Seven Seers who had raised and infused the tower with Brahman power. It was windy here, and the powerful currents yanked urgently at his clothes and hair, calling him to the edge and into the arms of oblivion. It would be so easy to simply let it carry me over. To float like a bird for a few moments until Prithvi Maa rushes up to embrace me. It would be an end to all his troubles and ailments, to this long, slow climb up the waterfall of time. He knew he should feel ashamed for even contemplating such a thought; perhaps it was the soma talking. Perhaps. He lowered his aching bulk to the stone floor, expecting to find it cold from

exposure to the long winter nights; it was surprisingly warm. Brahman magic. Always, I am surrounded by the sorcerous power of mages. But for once, his ageing bones were grateful for the sorcery. He had come here to get away from the inevitable rush of questions and debate after the tribulations of this morning and post-noon. Vishwamitra had got his guru-dakshina. Rama and Lakshman were on their way to fulfil their dharma. Kausalya would be content, or as content as could be expected. The citizens had their prince-apparent, and their feast. The sportsmen their games. The vaisya book-keepers a whole new set of odds to manipulate now that the four biggest favourites were out of the games—Bharat and Shatrugan had opted out in the absence of their brothers. Even the lawbreakers in the city prison had their freedom, in keeping with ancient tradition. The city would celebrate this Holi like never before, the games and revelry continuing for the rest of the seven-day. Somewhere in that week, the war council would convene, and the warmongers would have their day as well, lobbying furiously for increases in weapons manufacture, siege defences, war machines, soldiers’ payscales, senapatis’ fiefs, rakshak deployment, and the devas knew what else. Everybody had what they wished for, or close enough. And what did Maharaja Dasaratha have? Nothing but a body that was falling apart faster than a mud wall in a flood, and a heart heavy with fear and anticipation. The setting sun dipped further, turning the silver thread of the Sarayu into gold, and he sighed as he instinctively muttered the sandhyavandana mantra: Soon I will run my course like all rivers must,

and I will sleep in the breast of the ocean and dream no more nightmares. And Rama would rule in his stead. He felt a pang of guilt; was it fair to lay such a burden on so young and untried a boy? Ah, but kingrule was never fair, only necessary. It is his dharma to rule, just as it was mine in my time. His time has come. And yet. And yet. The instant the three figures had vanished over the last rise, Dasaratha had felt his belly turn to ice. He had wanted nothing more than to get on his chariot and ride, ride, ride, the way he had so often in younger days, except that this time he would ride not to take his mind off his troubles, but to leave them behind once and for all. It had been hard going through the complex formalities of the parade, the pooja, the yagna and havan, the speeches and entertainments, the feasting and games. As for the hours after Rama’s departure, they were all a blur, a sunsmeared line of endless smirking faces and fake smiles—or so they had seemed to his cynically despairing mind. Finally, he had been able to take it no more. Borrowing Sumantra’s chariot— his own chariot was too lavishly bedecked to ride quickly—he had returned to the palace without a word to anyone, leaving the feast moments after it had begun, escaping it all. It had been strangely disquieting, that ride back to the palace grounds. The city roads were oddly silent and deserted— everybody was at the parade grounds, celebrating and feasting. Approaching the palace stairs, he had veered away at the last moment, distracted by a glance of sunlight off the towering Seer’s Eye, driven by some inexplicable urge to go

up there. Now, he intended to sit here in blessed privacy while the city feasted. He could see the threads of smoke from the hundreds of tandoors set up specially for the feast, slender plumes rising into the ocean-blue sky that would be visible for a dozen yojanas. Like smoke from a burning city. There was enough meat roasting down there to feed every belly in the city for seven days; the royal huntsmen would be busy day and night, supplying fresh meat daily. His stomach churned in memory of the quickly and angrily eaten joints he had consumed while downing copious quantities of soma. Even at this height, the sounds of merriment and jubilation were faintly audible. Ten thousand serving girls. Thousands of dance performers, jugglers, sword-swallowers, ropeclimbers, snake-charmers, knifethrowers, tightrope-walkers, bodypiercers, glass-eaters, mujra dancers, musicians, puppet shows, nautanki performers and several dozens of others that Dasaratha could hardly recall the names of, imported from every corner of the kingdom to provide the people with unparalleled entertainment while also educating them on the variety of cultures in their great nation. Every imaginable entertainment, cuisine and skill was on display, and the people fell on it all with the ravenous appetite of a child woken from a nightmare. The morning’s rakshas intrusion had been easily forgotten, a minor aberration on a day of great jubilation, dealt with decisively by Brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s plan to launch a counter-strike against the asuras. Dasaratha smiled as he recalled the brain-numbing thunder of applause

and cheers that had greeted his announcement of Rama’s ascension and forthcoming coronation. It didn’t take much to make Ayodhya dance, and she was dancing with joy now, celebrating the good omens of an early spring—which invariably meant a fertile seeding—and a new crown-prince. Even if that newly announced crownprince had been dispatched to the dreaded Bhayanak-van to risk his life in service to his nation; he had heard the confident words of every second citizen and noble alike: ‘Rama will return safe. He has the power of right on his side.’ It was a sentiment that Dasaratha could hardly contradict, no matter how dark his secret fears and anxieties might be. He envied his city her ability to hang her cares and dance. Dance now, my love, for who knows when the music will end and the screaming begin? Then he sighed, realising he was being uncharitable and unfair. They deserve their jubilee. It’s these fine people that have made Ayodhya the pride of all the Arya nations and made it possible for you to wear your crown with such pride, Dasa, don’t forget that. He rubbed his aching thighs, feeling the weight of his sixty years and a lifetime of kingship. Soon he would have to turn his mind to the matter of the intrusion, and the interrogation of the spies in the city dungeons, and to addressing the concerns of those who feared an all-out asura invasion. The war council would convene soon, and all would look to him, Dasaratha, He Who Fought In Ten Directions At Once, to propose a typically brilliant military strategy. How could he explain to them that he was weary of battles and warmongering. That all he desired was to spend his last

waking hours in the soft perfumed arms of his first queen, his first love, and in the company of his sons. All those ten directions for which he was named seemed to have been shut off now, leaving only one way for him to go: down the long dark corridor into oblivion. ‘Dasa?’ The voice was soft and concerned. Dasaratha knew the speaker’s identity even before he turned his head. ‘Kausalya?’ he said, surprised but secretly pleased. ‘You climbed all the way up here?’ ‘You climbed, didn’t you?’ She smiled cautiously as she reached the uppermost stair. ‘Why did you leave so suddenly? I called after you but you rode like you were in a chariot race! I had to borrow Mantri Jabali’s two-horse to chase you here. He looked sour-faced as usual, and suspicious, and the Greek envoy goggled as if suspecting some royal intrigue.’ Dasaratha shook his head, grinning. ‘Good. We’ll give the court something more interesting to talk about than asura intrusions. Come to me, my speedy one.’ She came to him across the breadth of the Eye, bright parrot-green silk sari rustling sensuously as the wind caught at its folds, jewellery tinkling. A horizontal bar of sunlight struck her midway, illuminating her hair and flawless skin, making her shimmer in a green-gold haze, and he was filled with an emotion so pure and strong, he thought his heart would burst. She looked at him closely. ‘Should you be climbing up here in your condition?’

He shrugged. ‘The vaids would like me in my bed all day and night. Would you rather have that?’

you forget your wretchedness,’ she said with complete conviction. ‘And will make you prouder yet. Wait and see.’

She smiled fondly, sitting beside him, her hand on his thigh, lightly placed. ‘I would have you live a thousand years.’

He looked at her closely. ‘You have grown so much, Kausalya. My God. You were always strong as burnished bronze, but now you are forged and tempered steel.’

‘Even after I sent your son into the Southwoods to fight rakshasas?’ He looked at her, trying not to show his anxiety. She was not one of those he had sought to run from, but he was still unsure how she felt deep within her heart. But there was no reproach in her eyes, no sullenness in her tone. Only a quiet acceptance.

She looked away, her eyes brimming with sunlight. ‘Steel that has been hammered, beaten, folded upon itself countless times, and dipped into the icy heart of a glacier.’ She looked at him, twin suns blazing. ‘Fifteen years in the forging.’

‘You had no choice, Dasa. The sage demanded his gurudakshina, the people’s choice was unanimous. You could only say aye, never nay. Besides, if Rama is to be king, he must learn to fulfil his dharma without question.’ He nodded, hiding his relief just as adroitly as he had hidden his anxiety. ‘It was not he who protested. I was the one who could not bear to fulfil the sage’s demand. Even in the sabha hall I had rejected it, and Rama all but dropped to his knees and pledged his sword then and there.’ He shook his head, recalling Rama’s eagerness to accede to the seer’s request as well as to please his father. ‘It was a blessed day that made me the father of that boy.’ He touched Kausalya’s hands, lying clasped in her lap; her bangles clinked softly. ‘And when he left with the sage, so calm and dignified, I tell you truly, Kausalya, at that moment I was never so proud to be his father nor so wretched at being a king.’ ‘He will enhance your pride and make

A searing dagger of pain pierced his exhaustion. ‘Tempered, yes, forged, yes. But never beaten. I have wronged you, my queen. But you have grown stronger as a result. And in your strength I see Rama’s strength. My kingdom will rest in able hands. Crowning him will be the best thing I have ever done as a maharaja.’ She softened. ‘You judge yourself too harshly. You are a man as well as a maharaja. Men make mistakes.’ He nodded, more sober than when he had woken that morning. ‘You believe that my sending Rama and Lakshman to the Southwoods was not one such mistake?’ ‘Why do you seek new ways to torture yourself, Dasaratha? You did what you had to. He will do what he must.’ He sighed. ‘Well said, but hard words. I feel as if I have sent my son to his death.’ She shushed him loudly, placing her

fingers on his lips. ‘Ashubh! Rama will return. And he will be crowned. The stars foretell it. It was in his kundalee at birth, you must remember that.’ He did. He remembered his son’s horoscope far too well. ‘His kundalee also predicted that he would be crowned king when he is thirty years of age. Yet I propose to crown him heir in the next fourteen days, not fourteen years.’ She looked away. ‘Being crowned princeheir is not the same as being crowned king. You will rule for another fourteen years, if not twice as long. That was what was meant in our son’s kundalee.’ He smiled. ‘If a dutiful wife’s karma could be joined to an undutiful husband’s karma, then perhaps it would be so. But I think you ask the devas for too much, Kausalya!’ Her jaw tightened. ‘They owe me as much. Do you deny that?’ He saw the resolve in her eyes and stopped smiling. ‘You speak true. There are reparations to be made. You have suffered greatly.’ She shook her head. ‘Not reparations. The devas owe us nothing. This is all a vast game played by the wheel of time. But this I believe: Rama will return from the Southwoods safe and triumphant, his reputation established and his prestige enhanced. And in due course, he will ascend the sunwood throne and join the illustrious ranks of the great Suryavansha monarchs.’ He took her hand, kissing it. ‘My queen, you speak with a golden tongue. The devas grant your every wish.’ They were distracted momentarily by a great roar of

excitement from below. The last game of the evening was reaching a close. The chariot race. A line of two-horse onerider chariots had left the city on a circuitous route, and were now returning to the starting point. The line of dust curling up from their wake rose slowly into the sky, reminding Dasaratha of days when he would have been there on the royal palanquin, watching and roaring as loudly as the crowd, and still older days when he would have been there on a chariot, riding with the best and besting them all. He was absorbed in trying to identify the chariot in the lead— his eyes were failing him as rapidly as the rest of his weary physique—when a voice rang out harshly above the sound of the wind and distant cheering. ‘The deceitful husband and his harlot. Caught together at last by the betrayed wife. Someone run and fetch the royal kalakaar quick. This will make a portrait worth hanging on my bedchamber wall. Or perhaps my bath-chamber wall.’ Dasaratha started up at the sight of Kaikeyi, flushed from the climb, eyes burning with feverish hatred and fury. As if her barbed tongue wasn’t enough, the second queen carried a shortspear in her hand, and wore a sword at her waist. She was dressed in full battle armour and looked every inch a warrior-queen. She raised the shortspear in her right hand, squinting against the setting sun as she prepared to cast it.

FIVE They were at the lip of the woods, yards away from the first gnarled trees, when they heard the thunder. At first Rama thought it was coming from the thicket, but almost immediately he realised that was an auditory illusion created by the close-growing foliage: the woods were bouncing the sound back at them, which meant the source was actually— ‘Behind us,’ he said, turning and dropping to his knees, pulling his bow and and stringing his arrow in a single smooth motion. A peculiar fetor rose from the ground, a stench as if some beast had died, rotted, and then been roasted to ash. It crept into his nostrils, threatening to nauseate him. He suppressed the urge and scanned the periphery of the cliff edge, searching for the origin of the rumbling. Beside him, Lakshman had fallen into the same defensive stance, arrow strung and ready. Through the knee that was pressed to the ground, Rama could make out the cause of the sound more easily; what had sounded like a distant rumbling from a monsoon cloud was in fact the approaching thunder of hoofbeats, the rumbling of chariots, and a deeper, heavier sound. ‘Bigfoot,’ Lakshman said, voicing Rama’s thoughts. ‘Ten or more in battle armour.’ ‘Horse, a hundred or more,’ Rama added. ‘Wheel, about twenty, lightly armoured.’ Vishwamitra, still behind them, said calmly, ‘Sixteen elephants. Battlearmoured and shielded. With eight horseback warriors and one chariot apiece.’ He added what all three of them knew by now. ‘Vajra.’

Rama and Lakshman both smiled and relaxed their aim. Rama started to rise, returning the arrow to his quiver as he did so. The brahmarishi’s voice stopped him. ‘String your dhanush-baans and keep your aim steady, rajkumars.’ Lakshman looked at Rama, perplexed. ‘But these are Ayodhyans approaching. Surely they cannot mean us any harm, gurudev?’ ‘From the time you left Ayodhya, you are no longer merely Ayodhyans. You are pilgrims on a holy mission. Anyone and anything that stands in our path must be treated as a potential enemy.’ Seeing their confusion, the brahmarishi added more gently: ‘I am sure this issue can be resolved with a few words. But even so, it is required that we support our words with strong actions. I ask you once again, string your bows and do not hesitate to unleash them if these approaching Kshatriyas should happen to disregard my requests. Do not forget, you are now oathsworn to me, and I command this action. Whatever happens from this point on, you yourselves shall be blameless. I take full responsibility for all consequences.’ Rama had already restrung his bow. Lakshman followed a brief instant later. Both their faces had lost their smiles of anticipation and were tense and grim now, intent on following their guru’s orders. Rama refused to allow the slightest shred of doubt to enter his mind: what the guru said was the same as any commander would expect of his troops. Without total obedience no military unit could survive long. He

waited calmly, his entire concentration focussed on the space at the end of his arrow’s projected trajectory, as the sounds of the approaching Vajra grew louder and closer. A Vajra attack force was a small elite squad of mounted and wheeled warriors supported by a retreat line of elephants, divided into sections of one elephant, eight horsemen and one chariot each. Four additional chariots acted as scouts. Typically, the chariot and horse units rode deep into enemy territory to launch quick stabbing forays, inflicting as much damage as they could in the shortest time, then pulling out before the enemy could recover and retaliate. When the enemy did rally and give chase, the elephants provided effective dissuasion. During a large battle, the Vajra were sent to make repeated short attacks at the flanks of the enemy’s main force while the main battle was being fought in the vanguard; the Vajra soon became an irritating and costly distraction which provoked the enemy into chasing them away from the main body, thus splitting their resources and stretching them thin. Stripped for speed, the Vajra’s swift chariots and light horse would lead the enemy on a merry chase—all the way into a cul-de-sac of armoured battle elephants waiting at a predetermined location. The horse and chariots would then loop back smartly, fan out behind the pursuing forces and drive them directly towards the elephants, boxing them in. Then the slaughter would begin. Each akshohini of the army had its own Vajra squad, named after the mythical thunderbolt of Lord Indra, ruler of the devas. The Vajra that appeared at the rim of the cliff, the first horses snorting as they

breasted the top of the rise, was the best of all its brother-squads in the maharaja’s army. Father’s personal Vajra, led by his best captain. The chariots rolled smartly across the burnt field, fanning out. That instantly told Rama that they weren’t planning to attack. A Vajra always attacked in straight-arrow formation, presenting the enemy with a single chariot as target. And they haven’t strung arrows. The horses that followed also fanned out behind the chariots, and he could see that their riders had no flailing maces and ballchains at the ready. He picked out the lead chariot and targeted the Vajra captain standing at the helm, hands by his sides despite the lurching motion of the fast-moving chariot. A Vajra bowman’s hands are for holding his bow or his bride, not for clutching the sides of a chariot like a milksop toddler. He had heard the words spoken when he was barely a boy of six, watching the Vajra captain yell them at a ragged line of new recruits struggling to learn the art of firing a bow from the helm of a rattling chariot. Now, his arrowtip marked the throat of the same man. The sound of a hundred and twenty horses ought to have been deafening, but the immaculately trained riders and charioteers—and their equally disciplined mounts—moved with surprisingly little sound across the grassmatted field. The only reason we heard them coming was because they came by the raj-marg and weren’t trying to be quiet. The lines of gleaming chariots and sleek Kambhoja stallions filled his field of vision, looming larger in his heightened window of perception, the approach made more ominous by the relative lack of noise.

They’ll run us into the ground if they don’t stop . . . now. As if hearing his thoughts, the Vajra captain raised his arm. The bowstring tightened between Rama’s thumb and forefinger, the taut cord thrumming in the soft breeze from the valley. ‘Halt!’ called the captain. The chariots and horse came to a halt, their line filling the field to either side of Rama and Lakshman. If the approach had been relatively lowkey, then in contrast the silence that followed was deafening. Rama’s attenuated hearing picked up the unmistakable sound of elephants honking and plodding ponderously up the steep gradient of the cliff-road. They’ll take a few moments to catch up. His arrow followed the Vajra captain as he unhelmed himself and stepped down from the chariot, his magnificent black horses snickering before the charioteer quietened them with a gentle tug of the reins. The head of the maharaja’s own Vajra squad strode towards Rama and Lakshman, face creased in a cross between a frown and a smile. He was a squat, heavyset man, making up in muscle what he lacked in height. A face as ugly as the hog badger after which he was nicknamed was mostly covered by a bushy moustache and burns and a beard as brown and bristly as a hog badger’s fur. Bejoo. Or Bejoochacha, as Rama and his brothers had always called him, using the ubiquitous Arya ‘uncle’ for endearment, giggling amongst themselves at the notion of calling someone Hog-Badger-uncle. He carried no weapon or shield, but even so Rama’s voice rang out in warning. ‘Come no further, captain, or my arrow

flies to your breast.’ In fact, Rama’s arrow was aimed at the squad-leader’s throat, rather than his breast, which was protected by a closewoven chainmail coat. Although he had instinctively picked a needle arrow, whose sharp and unbarbed tip could easily penetrate the chainmail, the unhelmed man’s throat made a much more attractive and comfortable target. Except that this wasn’t just a target, it was Bejoo-chacha, a Kshatriya he had hero-worshipped growing up. Captain Bejoo raised his eyebrows. ‘You would put metal in my breast? This same breast on which you played as a babe, bouncing on my knee, tugging at my beard until my eyes watered? Come now, Rajkumar Rama Chandra. You would no sooner shoot me than I would raise an open sword to your bare neck. Put that shortbow away and let me have words with the sage.’ Rama kept his arrow strung and his bow taut. ‘Mahadev,’ he said, addressing the brahmarishi without turning around. ‘What is your desire?’ Vishwamitra addressed Captain Bejoo directly. ‘I have no business with you, Kshatriya. Return to Ayodhya and let us proceed on our journey. We have much ground yet to cover and the sun waits for no man.’ Captain Bejoo’s face grew stormy. ‘I do not ride out for my health, mahadev. My liege’s orders bring me here. Maharaja Dasaratha himself ordered me to follow after Rajkumars Rama Chandra and Lakshman and join with them in their mission.’ He gestured proudly at the row

of mounted horsemen and armoured chariots. ‘He sends his very own Vajra to assist them in their fight against the asura intruders.’ Vishwamitra sounded unimpressed. ‘Nevertheless, we do not require your services. Turn your chariot around and go back the way you came. We have no time to stand here and waste breath.’ Bejoo took a step forward, his thick hairy hands bunching into fists. Like most high-ranking Kshatriyas, he wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from anyone except his supreme commander, the maharaja. Had the brahmarishi been any ordinary Brahmin or purohit, his head would lie at his feet by now, never mind the sin of killing a Brahmin. Rama understood and sympathised with Bejoo’s frustration at being spoken to so curtly. But his sympathies didn’t loosen his bowstring by so much as a fraction of a millimetre. Bejoo looked at Rama, his bushy brows beetling with anger. ‘Rajkumar, make the sadhu understand that I have direct orders from your father. I cannot disobey the maharaja’s command and return without my duty discharged.’ Rama’s aim never wavered for an instant. ‘Captain Bejoo, my sword and my brother’s swords are oathsworn to Brahmarishi Vishwamitra now. I urge you to do as he suggests. I am sure my father would understand your position.’ Bejoo scowled at the emphasis on the sage’s title. He shook his head, emphasising a word as well in response. ‘Your father the maharaja’s orders were explicit and left no room for interpretation. To return with my mission unfulfilled would be to openly

disobey Maharaja Dasaratha. I cannot do such a thing.’ ‘And I will not permit you to accompany us. Heed your young prince’s wise words, Kshatriya. Return to Ayodhya. Do not delay us further.’ Captain Bejoo studiously ignored the sage and kept his eyes on Rama. ‘Oathsworn you may be, rajkumar. Yet you are prince to the sunwood throne. Your father named you liege-heir today, to be crowned on your sixteenth nameday this very month. Your first duty is to the seat and people of Ayodhya and the kingdom of Kosala. You must understand why the maharaja sent me to accompany you. Two young boys . . . princes . . . can hardly face wild asuras in the Bhayanak-van alone. You need our support to accomplish this perilous mission.’ Perilous? You mean suicidal, dearest Uncle Hog-Badger. Aloud he said: ‘I understand my father’s reasons for sending you, captain. But my oath leaves no room for interpretation either. The brahmarishi has rejected your request and asked you to leave us be. Pray, heed his word and mine as well. Return to Ayodhya.’ Bejoo scratched his beard, looking perplexed and put out. He was torn between disobeying his maharaja’s orders and flouting the will of his crownprince-in-waiting. Behind him, the Vajra waited as quietly as it could, the welloiled chariot wheels barely creaking, the horses keeping their heads down and snorts to a minimum: a careless snicker or a squeaky wheel could mean disaster in an ambush. As Rama waited for Bejoo’s decision, the first of the Vajra’s elephants crested the top of the cliff-

road, raising its trunk triumphantly but silently, its discipline forbidding it from issuing its habitual honk of glee on accomplishing the difficult ascent. It was followed closely by its companions, all beautifully decked out in burnished armour, their gold-ringed tusks blazing in the afternoon sun. The ground beneath Rama’s knee shivered under their weight. Finally, Captain Bejoo nodded curtly to Rama, still ignoring the brahmarishi, and strode back to his chariot without saying another word. Climbing aboard in two quick steps, he signalled a silent order. At once, the entire line of chariots began turning their horses around; the mounted riders behind them did the same. The mahout of the lead elephant patted the side of his mount, bringing the giant beast to a surprised halt. Sorry, old bigfoot, your climb was for nothing. At least the way back was downhill, Rama reflected as he loosened his bowstring a fraction, still keeping the arrow in the bow. Behind him, the sage spoke with surprising gentleness, in sharp contrast to the harshness he had used with the Vajra captain. ‘Come, rajkumars. We have some way yet to travel before sunset, and the way ahead is not as easy as the raj-marg. Let us make haste.’ Rama rose to his feet and backed away, keeping his eyes on the retreating Vajra. The chariots and horse had stopped to wait for the last of the elephants to reach the top and turn around. Rama noticed fresh scratches scored along the backs of more than one elephant, blood welling up in some of the cuts. From those lowhanging ironwood branches no doubt, wretched anjans. I bet they’re bewitched. He knew Lakshman would be concerned: his

brother adored elephants even more than horses. But there was no time to feel sorry; these were only minor cuts, and he expected to see much more blood spilled before this journey was done. And not just elephant blood. He backed up until he could feel a branch inches behind his head, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation, then turned and ducked beneath an overhanging eave, entering the sullen gloom of the thicket. *** Captain Bejoo waited until the princes and the sage had disappeared into the thick shadow of the woods. Then he beckoned to his second-in-command, a tall, handsome Kshatriya mounted on a bronze horse. Like all Vajra Kshatriyas, the young man was nicknamed after his patron animal. Because his long jaw, milky-fair Arya skin, dark-blond hair and almost white grey eyes resembled the fawn-stippled-with-black appearance of the plainswolf, he was named Bheriya. ‘Bheriya.’ Bejoo’s eyes stayed on the place where the three foot-travellers had entered the forest. ‘Tell Gaja to keep his bigfoots here for another hour then follow slowly and silently. And I mean slow and silent, samjhe? Not crashing through the forest like a pack of timberelephants.’ Bheriya’s handsome fair face frowned as he tried to absorb his captain’s order. ‘Captain, if we are to ride back to Ayodhya, then why the need for stealth?’ He blinked several times, understanding suddenly. ‘Wait, did you say forest, captain?’ Captain Bejoo grimaced.

‘Bheriya, it’s a relief your beautiful new bride didn’t suck your brains out along with your seed.’ Bheriya was just married; had in fact enjoyed his suhaag raat just the night before. ‘Wait a few minutes, then send three scouts on foot after the rajkumars and the Brahmin. When they have determined the route they’re taking, one will return to show us the closest cart-path fit to carry our wheel and horse through that cursed bunch of darkwood. A second scout will return another hour later, guiding us the rest of the way. By then it will be nightfall and we shall camp within easy reach of their camp if possible. We shall take up the pursuit at daybreak, using the same system to follow them to their destination, and fulfil our mission as commanded.’ Bheriya nodded, his expression revealing that he understood but didn’t care much for his captain’s plan: the Vajra Kshatriyas permitted a far greater degree of informality and individuality than other Kshatriya corps. ‘Assuming we find a suitable cart-path even part of the way, and assuming the rajkumars stay close enough to it to be followed. Which would be unlikely, don’t you think, Bejoo?’ Bejoo turned and spat on the ground. ‘I don’t want to hear unlikely and impossible, Bheriya.’ He shook his fist in the air. ‘Whatever happens, I will follow my orders. We must be close behind the crown prince when he encounters any threat.’ Bheriya glanced up at the brooding thicket. ‘That would be every minute of the way.’ ‘The rajkumars can handle wild beasts

and the like. I’ve seen them hunt and they’re both as good with their bows as any Mithila bowman. It’s the rakshasas I’m talking about. Young Rajkumar Rama Chandra has no idea what it means to face such creatures.’ He spat again. ‘Stubborn Brahmins. Vishnuavatar Parasurama had the right idea, hewing down Kshatriyas with his axe, except he should have taken his blade to Brahmin necks instead. One good purge like that and we’d all be better off.’ Bheriya was inured to his captain’s pet peeve. He spoke with grim bravado. ‘Don’t worry, captain. We’ll be between them and any asura scum before those wretches can open their mouths to snarl.’ He added quickly: ‘I mean the rakshasas, not the rajkumars.’ ‘Bheriya, have you ever fought rakshasas before?’ ‘No, sir, can’t say I’ve had the pleasure yet.’ ‘Then shut your slavering jaws and see to my orders.’ Bheriya saluted his captain quickly and wheeled his horse about. Bejoo suppressed a grin as he watched his second-incommand ride across the field. Bheriya was a very good man, perhaps the best lieutenant he had ever commanded, but Bejoo would die before he admitted as much to the younger man. If anything, his captain’s fondness for him earned Bheriya harsher treatment from Bejoo, who expected nothing less than perfection from the man he fully expected to succeed him in the command of his unit. Why, if Shakun and he had been able to have children, he would have wanted nothing more than a son like Bheriya.

Thinking of his wife brought back the familiar knife-twist of regret and pain. For an Arya Kshatriya not to have progeny was painful beyond description. For a man of Bejoo’s stature to remain childless was unbearable. And yet, having Bheriya almost made it bearable. After all, a fighting Kshatriya’s unit was his extended family. Bejoo’s Vajra was his home away from home. Shakun even joked drily that he spent more time with his sautan—his second wife—than with her. And, she added invariably, he seemed to enjoy the sautan’s company more. He sighed. It was true that as the years had turned his hair greyer, and he had come to terms with the cruel fact of his childlessness, he had begun to seek more pleasure in his work with the Vajra than from his wife’s company. There were times when he had to resist the urge to hug Bheriya tightly and call him putra. Hence his gruff harshness with the lieutenant. He was only concealing the feelings he feared would betray the soft kernel within his hard exterior. He watched now as Bheriya rode across the field, giving quick, precise commands to the mounted soldiers, charioteers and elephant-warriors, using a carefully perfected sequence of hand gestures to communicate it all. Vajras were used to communicating thus while deep in enemy territory where conversation could be overheard. Moments later, three charioteers handed the reins of their two-horse teams to their bowmen and stepped down. Bejoo nodded approvingly. As navigators, the charioteers would make the best scouts, and the bowmen were all capable of leading their chariots and firing at the same time. Already, the three bowmen

were attaching the reins of their chariots to clasps in their chainmail. Now they could direct their horse-teams simply by twisting their bodies; not the most efficient way to manoeuvre a chariot, but it would do. The Vajra Kshatriyas had developed their unique skills over centuries of stealth-fighting. Bejoo had heard that there were clan warriors in that islandkingdom far to the north-east who used similar silent-attack tactics. And no doubt they learned our techniques from some Nipponese envoy who carried home news of our Vajras. Like the Arya hand-to-hand fighting technique of kalarappa, which was rumoured to be the most popular new martial art in the Mandarin kingdoms north and east of Myanmar. He squinted up at the sun, still high above in the azure-blue sky. There was a good four or five hours of daylight left. He had no idea how far the sage intended to lead the two rajkumars before sunset, but stop they must before it grew dark. The Southwoods were treacherous enough as it was; to move in there after dark would be madness. As is this whole mission. The three scouts awaited his command to leave. He made a hand gesture, pointing three joined fingers at the spot where the three travellers had entered the woods, thumb kept down on the palm. Then he shot his forefinger up, followed by his middle finger. The scouts signalled back their confirmation silently: message understood. Three to follow, one to return, then a second one to return. Moving in perfect rhythm, the three scouts jogged forward, sprinting to the edge of the woods. They entered the close thicket and were lost to sight.

We’ll be right behind you, Rajkumar Rama Chandra. No rakshas will harm a hair on the head of an Ikshvaku Suryavansha. Not while Bejoo Vajra-rakshak still draws breath. He waited impatiently for the return of the first scout.

SIX ‘Maa!’ Bharat’s hand shot out as he broached the top of the stairs. He caught the shortspear to wrest it away from his mother. She struggled momentarily, her face contorting with fury, and for a moment Dasaratha thought that his son would lose the contest. She’s a strong one, as strong as Kausalya in her own way, and a warrior. But Bharat had the advantage of gravity on his side: reaching up, he had grabbed the hilt of the spear just as Kaikeyi had drawn it back to throw. All Bharat had to do was pull down and Kaikeyi was knocked off balance. She swung around, still holding on with one hand, snarling at her son. Then something passed across her face, some pale shadow of a maternal instinct, and she released her grip on the weapon. Bharat took the spear and broke it across his knee, his face rippling with anger and shock. ‘You were about to throw this at Father,’ he cried, holding up the broken halves of the spear. ‘How could you?’ Kaikeyi adjusted her coronet, her face grim with sullen rage. Dasaratha realised she was dressed for the women’s mêlée. Her armour grew a little tighter each year, but she always won the shield. She must have seen him leaving, with Kausalya close behind, and followed them both on her horse. Bharat must have been her second man; they had been practising together for a few weeks. ‘I wasn’t aiming for your father, you idio—my son. I was aiming at his harlot.’

‘Kaikeyi!’ Dasaratha’s voice rang out across the wind-blasted space. ‘Be careful how you use your tongue! Kausalya is my queen and deserves your respect.’ Kaikeyi stared at the first queen, her head bent low, her eyes gleaming with the reddish fire of the setting sun. ‘She behaves like a harlot; she is a harlot.’ Dasaratha strode across the Seer’s Eye, his hand raised. ‘Take back your words.’ She raised her face to meet his blow. ‘Go on. Smash my face. You’ve done it often enough to know where best to strike.’ He stayed his hand with an effort that took more energy than any ten blows. ‘You are not in your senses. Apologise to Kausalya and leave my presence at once.’ ‘Why? So you can continue conspiring against my son and me in secret?’ ‘Your son?’ He faltered, confused, glancing at Bharat. The look of abject misery on the face of his second-oldest was heart-breaking. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what that chudail is doing! From the moment I heard that she had lured you into her chambers, I knew that she was casting her spells again. By what black art did she seduce you into depriving my son of his birthright, raje? Or did she achieve her ends by the use of her vile womanly wiles?’ Kaikeyi sniffed disparagingly. ‘Although I fail to see what you could find attractive in that bag of bones. Any one of your concubines would serve you better in the bedchamber.’ Kausalya’s voice was devoid of the

venom that infected Kaikeyi’s tone. The first queen spoke surprisingly calmly, but beneath her words was a blade of steel, barely sheathed. ‘You’re confusing your own methods with mine, Kaikeyi. You were the one who lured my husband away from my marital bed into your illicit arms, or have you forgotten that, Second Queen?’ Kaikeyi snarled. ‘You witch! Don’t deny you used sorcery to corrupt the maharaja’s mind. He would never have consented to deny my Bharat his kingship otherwise. It was all your doing!’ She spat across the open space, and had the wind not been so strong, her spittle would have spattered against Kausalya’s face. The first queen stood her ground calmly. ‘Kaikeyi!’ Dasaratha’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion, but he summoned up the last vestige of his strength with a superhuman effort. ‘You have overstepped your bounds. I command you to apologise to Kausalya at once.’ She turned to him, and for a moment he thought she was about to spit on him as well. But her words were as galling. ‘You betrayed me, Dasa. I heard palace gossip but didn’t believe it. All these months, you neglected me and avoided my bed, feigning illness and weakness, spurning my affections, and all the while you were falling under the spell of this—’ The word she used was one that he had never heard her speak aloud before— except in the heat of passion. He recoiled at the sound of it, shocked that she would use it in her own son’s presence. How had he shared his bed with this woman for so many years?

How had he abandoned gentle, beautiful Kausalya for this hysterical shrew? Because she did such wild things as no other woman ever did for you, you fool, you fool, and you were young and foolish enough to think with your manhood rather than your head. He strained to control his hand, still quivering with rage and eager to strike the filthy words from her gaudily rouged lips. ‘You go too far now, woman. Remember your place. Behave like a queen of Ayodhya.’ He gestured to Bharat, standing miserably behind her, head bowed in embarrassment. ‘Behave like a queen mother.’ ‘A queen mother, am I? Funny. After the announcement earlier today, I thought I must be just another untitled concubine. Why else would you pass my son over for that witch’s whelp and make me feel like a cast-aside mistress?’ He tried to keep his voice from rising to a shout. ‘Rama is my eldest son and the rightful heir to the throne. You know that as well as Bharat does. Ask your son if he begrudges his brother his birthright. Go on, ask him.’ She didn’t even turn to look at Bharat, whose eyes were filled with such pain that Dasaratha’s heart went out to him. Forgive me, my son, for letting such a day come to pass. May you never have to witness such a scene ever again. Kaikeyi shook her head, sneering. ‘Don’t drag him into this mess, you brute. This is between you and me. You made a promise once. Now live up to your words! Or do I have to remind you what

happened on the field of Kaikeya, when you lay unconscious and mortally injured, your host smashed and fleeing before the might of Ravana’s asura hordes? Does your precious first queen know about that day? About how I swooped down into the heart of the battle in my chariot, picked you up in my own arms and carried you to safety, then returned and led my father’s forces as well as yours in a regroup that held the asura hordes back long enough to give you time to recover and lead your army once more? Have you forgotten that day, Dasaratha?’ ‘I remember it as if it were yesterday,’ he said quietly, his anger suddenly fled. And he did. A terrible, dark yesterday. Kaikeyi’s chin rose proudly. ‘Then tell Kausalya what you promised me when we returned to my father’s palace.’ He was filled with a sense of dread so acute he thought for a moment that the whole world was turning dark. Then he realised it was only the setting sun, dipping down below the western mountains. ‘I will listen to no more, Kaikeyi,’ he said. ‘Leave me now. Bharat, my son, escort your mother to her chambers. She needs to recover her wits.’ Kaikeyi shook off her son’s hand. ‘Don’t lay a hand on me! You may be fooled by your father’s deceit, but I won’t let him get away with this. The only thing I need to recover is your birthright. And I promise you, son, I’ll get it back even if it takes me until my last breath.’ She pointed a clawing finger at Kausalya. ‘Hear my words, First Witch. Even if your precious whelp returns alive from

his trip to the Southwoods, which I honestly doubt, he will not be crowned prince-heir of Ayodhya. Not on his name-day or on any other day in his entire lifetime. This is my curse as a wronged mother and betrayed wife. Hear my shraap and tremble!’ Dasaratha experienced a moment of such pure, white-hot anger, he thought his head would burst with the intensity. His hand moved of its own accord and the next thing he knew, he had Kaikeyi’s throat in his grip, the pads of his fingers and thumb pressing against the most tender part of her spine. An ounce more pressure and he could snap her neck as easily as Bharat had snapped the shortspear. He still had that much strength. Do it, a deathly-quiet voice said in his feverish brain, do it and put the ghost of your sins to rest once and for all. Do it, or after you are gone this woman will become your son’s worst enemy; have no doubt that she will do everything in her power to cut Rama down, clan-mother or not. Do it, Dasaratha. Kill her now. But Bharat’s face was before him, staring up at him with an expression that said that never in his wildest dreams could he have foreseen such a day or event. Those sorrowful tear-filled eyes wrenched at his heart, staying his hand. My son, oh my son, you should not have to see this day. The strength went out of Dasaratha’s arm. A white wave came roaring down from the skies and bore him away and he saw and heard no more. *** They emerged from the woods into the direct light of the setting sun. Rama’s eyes, accustomed to the dimness of the thicket for the past hour, were momentarily dazzled.

clumsiness.’ That moment was all it took for him to take a step too far. The ground crumbled underfoot and then there was nothing left to hold his weight. He stepped out into the void, his other senses seeing instantly what had eluded his lightblinded eyes. It’s a sheer cliff and I’ve stepped over the edge! He started to fall, mouth opening to yell a warning to Lakshman and the seer, and his guts rose up to fill his throat. A hand caught his rig, another his left shoulder. For a fraction of a heartstopping instant, he hung suspended in mid-air, the wind howling around his head, sun filling his eyes like a mashaal thrust into his face, and knew what a bird must feel at the moment when it ceases to flap its wings and starts to plummet back to earth. Then he was yanked up and fell on his back, feet scrambling over the crumbly dry soil, struggling to anchor himself. Lakshman fell on his knees beside him, grasping his arm with a sweaty palm. ‘Bhai? Bhai! Bhai!’ ‘I’m all right,’ he said, not feeling all right at all. He glanced up at the sage, standing calmly beside them. The brahmarishi looked as impassive as ever. ‘Mahadev, aapka lakh-lakh shukar hai. Aapne meri jaan bachaii.’ Great one, a hundred thousand thanks. You saved my life. Vishwamitra seemed not to hear. Rather than acknowledge Rama’s gratitude, he gestured at the void before them. ‘There are far greater dangers in store for us than the natural pitfalls of geography, rajkumar. You would do well to remember that. Next time, I may not be at hand to protect you from your own

Clumsiness? Rama blinked and bit back a response. He saw Lakshman start to rise and speak, and caught his hand, holding him down. The seer-mage is right: I ought to have sensed the thicket was ending and slowed. Yet he knew that he had been neither clumsy nor distracted. The thicket had simply ended and given way to a sheer drop with startling abruptness. One instant we were in the heart of the heart of the woods, barely able to see a yard ahead; the next we were on the tip of a precipice. Nobody could have seen it coming. Although clearly the seer-mage had seen, and had slowed in time. Then why didn’t he warn us? Rama got to his feet, brushing off the dirt without a word. Lakshman shot a sullen glance at their new guru but held his tongue as well. Rama turned and looked down at the void that had nearly claimed his life. They were standing at the edge of a sheer fall at least two hundred yards high. To either side the woods clustered thickly, crowding the very edge of the rocky cliff for as far as the eye could see in either direction. At the edge of the cliff, the thickly growing forest ended in a crumbly mud-covered lip less than a yard broad. No wonder I went over the rim; even a Ladakhi goat would barely be able to hold its footing on this terrain. Why, my two-horse has a wider running ramp on either side! A step back and his head would bump against the last tree, its dense shrub-like overgrowth reaching over his head. A leaf fell from above, drifting directly down despite the strong breeze, falling like a stone into the void, turning round and round but never once turning over. The setting sun was almost parallel with them at this height, glaring directly into

their faces. Peering down between his feet, Rama saw the familiar silver-gold gleam of water at the foot of the precipice. A river? Here? It was only a thin rivulet really, perhaps a tenth of the width of Sarayu, but it was a surprise to see any flowing water in this cursed place. More surprising was the apparently peaceful flower-studded glade in the valley below. It looked almost . . . idyllic. ‘These are the Southwoods?’ Lakshman’s voice reflected the incredulity that Rama felt. The seer sounded distant and aloof. ‘It is Kama’s Grove, our destination.’ Kama’s Grove? But that was a holy place. What had happened to the dreaded Southwoods? The so-called Bhayanakvan, the forest so terrible that even asuras feared to enter? So far he had seen little more than the dense thicket of anjan trees through which they had just come, sister to the same ironwoods that lined the raj-marg on the far side of the plateau. Difficult to negotiate, rife with dagger-long thorns and clawing limbs, but not quite the horrific forest he had grown up hearing terror tales of. The only unusual thing about the thicket had been the complete absence of any fauna. Not a bird, not a squirrel, not a living thing apart from the closely crowded trees. And the only danger they had encountered thus far had been his narrow escape just now. If this is what the whole trip’s going to be like, it’s not much of a challenge. But he knew there had to be more to it. ‘Come,’ said the seer. ‘We have to reach the river before sunset. You must perform your sandhyavandana.’

Vishwamitra turned and made as if to step sideways over the lip of the precipice, like a man getting off a horse. To Rama’s surprise, the seer seemed to find firm footing easily, and he went over the edge, his matted white hair ruffled by the wind as he descended step by step, disappearing from sight. Lakshman and Rama leaned over, peering down. The sage was directly below them, only his head and broad shoulders visible from this angle. At first it looked as though he was walking on thin air, but then Rama saw that he was treading a narrow in-ledge cut directly into the side of the sheer cliff face. Judging from the comfortable speed at which he was descending, Vishwamitra had come this way before. Which means it shouldn’t be too hard for us to follow. The realisation did nothing to reassure him. He looked at Lakshman, who was waiting for him to decide what to do next, then he shrugged and imitated the seer’s action. He fully expected his foot to flail in mid-air, his weight carrying him over the lip, this time to plummet straight down to the bottom. He had a wild vision of himself falling, passing the still drifting ironwood leaf, and reaching for it as if in a dream. Then his foot found the cleverly cut step and took a firm purchase. To his surprise, the ledge was easier to walk on than he had thought. It took him several heartstopping moments to get used to the unusual posture—practically hugging the face of the cliff—but once he got going, it was doable. He heard Lakshman’s sharp intake of breath as he followed his example. In moments, they were both descending the precipice, Rama resisting the urge to peer down to see how far Vishwamitra had gone. Somehow he had a feeling that

if he fell again, the seer wouldn’t be able to catch him in time. Rather than scaring him into freezing still, the thought made him more determined to make it safely down. He moved with growing confidence and precision, increasing his pace steadily until it felt as if he’d been doing this all his life.

SEVEN They reached the foot of the cliff without mishap. The sun was very low by then, minutes away from setting. Vishwamitra stood by the bank of the stream, waiting. The angular light of the sun had turned the water into a mirror and Rama could see two Vishwamitras as he approached, one facing away from him, the other looking up from the water. The Vishwamitra in the water looked like a white-wax statue on fire. Except for the soft gurgling the water made as it flowed past, it could well have been a mirror, so still and quiet did it glide. It’s as pure and clear as Sarayu herself. It even smells like Sarayu. That mix of glacier and lotus and herbweed that nothing else on earth smells like; yes, it is Sarayu herself or her twin sister, I’d wager. ‘What is the name and source of this stream, mahadev?’ Lakshman asked. The seer continued to stare at the horizon, his white beard and hair ablaze with the fiery shades of sunset. ‘It is a diversion of the Sarayu, Rajkumar Lakshman. I diverted it myself some six hundred years past, in order to provide sustenance for the rishis who inhabit this grove.’ He turned, casting a keen appraising eye over them. Rama felt himself straighten his back and keep his face moulded in a respectful expression. It wasn’t hard; he had walked many times this distance before. But his stomach growled angrily, a creature beyond his control. He hoped the seer hadn’t heard the growl. The mage finished appraising them, gesturing at the river. ‘You are sullied by

your journey. Cleanse yourselves in the purifying waters of Sarayu, and perform your sandhyavandana with complete sincerity. After that, I will convey to you the twin maha-mantras of Bala and Atibala. Come, waste no more time; your ancestor Surya grows impatient to leave this part of the land and visit his dominions on the far side of Prithvi.’ Rama joined his palms together. ‘Jaise aagya, gurudev.’ As you command, great guru. The two princes waded out into the stream. It was surprisingly cool and fragrant, and as he washed the dirt of the road from his face, Rama felt instantly refreshed. Thus far, the journey hadn’t been half as bad as he had anticipated. And if the guru meant what he said, he would be receiving two of the greatest mantras any Kshatriya could aspire to know. What do you mean, if he meant what he said? Of course he meant what he said; a seer doesn’t make false promises. He took his acamana the three prescribed times, softly chanting the mantras of the sandhyavandana or evening worship, thanking the sun-god for nourishing the world this past day and expressing his eagerness to see Surya at the dawning once more. When he was done, he found himself hoping the seer had plans for them to eat before long. From the riverbank, Vishwamitra watched the two princes perform their evening ritual. He admired the way they moved with perfect synchronicity, Lakshman’s actions mirroring his elder brother’s. They had kept their weapons on their backs as was the custom during forays into hostile territory. He could have told them to leave the rigs and swords on the bank; no enemy would attack them here. But it was better to let them follow their Kshatriya training.

Guru Vashishta’s teachings at his gurukul were the basis of their world view. Soon, the young rajkumars would be flung headlong into events beyond the ken of their wildest imaginings, and it was important that they be allowed to cling to some of their childhood beliefs. A part of him thought differently. There were limits to even Guru Vashishta’s knowledge after all; the great seer still clung to the ancient ways. To face and survive the challenges that lay ahead, the ancient ways would not be nearly sufficient. They would merely be the basis on which he must build a new, more effective defence. As he watched them perform their ablutions, Vishwamitra felt the faintest twinge of sadness at the obstacles and challenges these two young boys would soon face. They were barely out of boyhood; they deserved a few more years of youthful carelessness. Why, he himself had enjoyed these very years to the hilt, squeezing out every last pleasure to be had in his adolescent days. The rajkumars did not deserve the harsh burden that he was about to lay on their smooth shoulders. But he had no other recourse. There were forces at work now that were far greater than any seer could hope to control. Vashishta had understood that and supported him explicitly. This was not just a matter of two young princes of Ayodhya; it was a crisis of history itself. And desperate times called for desperate methods. Samay had decreed that two young boys would undertake a task that even the greatest champions of yore would have feared to attempt. The rajkumars emerged from the river, their bodies shedding golden beads in the dusky light.

Without needing to be told, they prostrated themselves at Vishwamitra’s feet to receive his ashirwaad, then sat facing him in the cross-legged lotus posture, the traditional yogic stance of shishyas receiving vidya from their guru. They waited, their faces shining in the reflected light. He wasted no time on lectures and introductions; it was not his way. Unlike Vashishta, who used eloquence as a lubricant for the knowledge he imparted, Vishwamitra preferred to let his vidya speak for itself. ‘Empty your mind and become one with Brahman,’ he commanded. ‘The mahamantras I am about to impart to you are the mothers of all martial knowledge. When you have received them, you will feel neither hunger nor thirst, heat nor cold, weariness nor drowsiness, pain nor discomfort. You will no longer fear any foe, neither the nameless ancient spirits that walk abroad in the ungodly hours before dawn, nor the hideous asuras that will seek your destruction in the days to come. As long as you respect and use these gifts wisely and sparingly, neither disease nor age will touch you. No enemy can attack you unawares when you are asleep or off guard, no bodily urges will overcome your wits or allow you to be seduced. Even the most ravishing apsaras of Indra’s court and the most sensuous gandharvas of the forest will not succeed in arousing your desires. The strength of your limbs will be unmatched on this earth, and none other in the three worlds will equal your vidya, your shakti and your chaturta. You will have no equal on or off the field of battle. Accept the gift of these great scientific formulae, master the use of them, deploy them wisely and sparingly, and you will be warriors among warriors,

Kshatriyas from whom other Kshatriyas may learn, gurus to your varna.’ He paused, seeking their minds with his own inner eye. All it took was a deep, relaxing breath—the opposite of concentration— and the bluish-white glow of his Brahman aura sprang ablaze. The force flowed through him with an intensity that was uplifting, intoxicating. He flowed with it, probing around the much fainter but strong young auras of the two rajkumars. He was pleased to see how receptive and ready they were. Guru Vashishta taught these boys well, their discipline is admirable. They desire learning fiercely, these two. Just as the great Brahma was filled with desire at the dawn of creation— not the desire to procreate, but the desire for knowledge. The desire to be one with the universe. That was the essence of Brahman, and it was strong in these two young boys. Opening the doorway to the innermost kernel of his consciousness, that part of himself which was no more human than any deva or asura, the gateway to Brahman, the force that was everything and nothing at once, the essence of all creation and the absence of it, the soul of all matter and the opposite of matter both at once . . . opening that sacred passage, he released the mahamantras. The searing blue light of Brahman blazed around the three of them, burning like a giant sapphire triangle in the dim light of dusk, consuming the two young rajkumars in an explosion of light and energy that made a thunderclap seem mild. It was done. From this moment on, these two young men are more than mortal. Brahma be praised.

*** From the top of the cliff, three pairs of eyes watched the two princes and their new guru seated below on the riverbank. Only one pair of eyes possessed the ability to see the frighteningly beautiful burst of Brahman power that accompanied the transference of the two maha-mantras. Even though the owner of this pair of eyes did not know exactly what had caused the show of power, she could hazard a few good guesses. Brahman sorcery. The seer’s preparing them to face my cousins in the Bhayanak-van. Foolish sage. You do not know what you do to these innocent boys. If my cousins don’t kill them, your mantras will. Like all rakshasas, Supanakha had no great respect for the force of Brahman or its practitioners. She raised her head and issued a cry that was part-deer and part-rakshasi. On her left shoulder, a fresh scar marked a recently healed injury; the spot where the poacher’s arrow had struck her that morning. She lowered her head again, crept over the lip of the cliff, and began working her way downwards on all fours. In the fading dimness of the dusky twilight, her reddish-black fur blended perfectly with the rusty veins of the lohit stone. Not forty yards to the left of the Yaksa, the two scouts of the maharaja’s Vajra looked around curiously. They were Geedhar and Doda, named after their respective totems, the jackal and the raven. ‘What in Kali’s name was that?’ Geedhar asked, his neck prickling at the loud animal cry. Doda shrugged. ‘No idea, but don’t

speak Kali’s name in these dark places, brother. You never know, she might hear and come searching to see who uses her name in vain.’ Geedhar snorted derisively, but felt a secret twinge of fear. He had heard less likely stories of the Southwoods. Although thus far he and his companions hadn’t seen much to fear, he had no doubt that great dangers lay lurking in wait in these dread forests. ‘Dhole should have reached the captain by now,’ he said, in the hope of changing the topic. Doda had a morbid turn of mind and Geedhar was in no mood to hear further dire pronouncements. Not with night falling as rapidly as a white sheet over a corpse. ‘And what will he tell him? That there’s no cart-path through the thicket? And even if there were, how would our horse and wheel go down this slope? Or for that matter, how will we?’ ‘The seer and the rajkumars went down easily enough,’ said Geedhar. ‘Twas still light then. In a few minutes it will be as dark as your mother’s womb. How are we to do it then?’ ‘We wait until dawn. Ananga-ashrama is across the stream, in Kama’s Grove. The seer and the rajkumars must mean to camp the night there. We wait here until dawn. At first light, we go down.’ Doda mumbled something incomprehensible, then chewed his betel-leaf-and-tobacco silently for a moment. He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice to one side and nodded. ‘First light, then,’ he agreed reluctantly.

‘You take first watch while I get some shut-eye.’ Geedhar didn’t argue. He wouldn’t have objected if his companion had asked him to stand watch all night. He didn’t think he was going to get much sleep tonight. Not after that last animal cry. What was that anyway? Some kind of vixen? Somehow, he didn’t think so. *** The princes tried wading across the stream in the fading twilight. It was their third attempt to find a crossing point. Once again, they were forced to turn back. Though shallow and weak, the rivulet was still twice the depth of a man’s height. They emerged dripping and bowed to the brahmarishi. ‘Gurudev, the only way across is to swim.’ Lakshman indicated the width of the stream. ‘It is only a few yards across.’ The brahmarishi remained immobile, staring up at the western sky, now streaked with the hues of sunset. ‘It is after sundown, Rajkumar Lakshman. I prefer not to immerse myself in running water after Surya’s last kiran leaves the prithvi.’ Lakshman looked at Rama, confused. ‘Kintu, gurudev, it is the only way across.’ The brahmarishi turned his attention to Rama, staring silently at him. Rama’s eyes met his and something passed between them. Lakshman saw it and sensed a glimmer of what had happened. The guru just showed him another way we can cross the river.

He had no idea how he had understood this, but he had. Rama turned silently and walked to the edge of the cliff. A tree-trunk lay fallen there, battered from its long descent down the craggy cliffside. Its roots and lower branches were withered and cracked, sticking up into the air like the limbs of some overturned insect. Lakshman frowned as he watched Rama climb up to the large boulder on which the trunk lay at a diagonal angle. Rama glanced up and down the length of the tree briefly. It was perhaps seven or eight yards long at the trunk, and about a yard thick. ‘Bhai? What do you . . .’ His voice died away. Rama had bent down and was grasping hold of the trunk. He put his arms around it, grappling it firmly. Then, as Lakshman watched in astonishment, he heaved and stood upright again. Holding the tree in his arms. The way a hay-farmer might hold up a bale of threshed straw. Rama leaped off the boulder, landing on the ground with a thump that Lakshman felt reverberate through his own bones. The tree stuck out for yards to either side of his slender form: it was at least ten times his mass, and as many times his weight. It must weigh half a ton if it weighs a kilo, Lakshman thought, unable to believe what he was seeing. Rama carried the dead tree over to the rivulet. He braced himself on some submerged stones at the stream’s edge, the water splashing lightly around his ankles. Then he raised the tree in his

arms, like a weightlifter jerking his ironrod above his head. For a moment, he stood silhouetted against the darkening dusk sky, an impossibly small ant bearing an incredibly large splinter of sugarcane. He threw the tree into the river. It landed with a noisy splash, splattering water fifteen yards to every side, a few drops falling on Lakshman’s head like a blessing. Rama surveyed his work for a moment, then he turned and walked back to where they stood. He bowed to the brahmarishi. ‘Gurudev,’ he said, indicating the stream. ‘You may now cross without immersing yourself.’ Lakshman followed the brahmarishi’s gaze. The tree-trunk lay where Rama had tossed it—like a bale of straw! — forming a perfect makeshift bridge across the stream. The guru put a hand on Rama’s shoulder. ‘Well done, Rajkumar Rama.’ He turned to Lakshman, and even in the growing darkness Lakshman could see the twinkle in the seer’s eyes. ‘You are wondering how your brother has suddenly gained the strength of a bull elephant, Rajkumar Lakshman.’ Lakshman shut his mouth abruptly. ‘I am, gurudev.’ Vishwamitra nodded. ‘This is the result of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala. Already they have begun to transform your physiognomy, altering the very cellular structure of your bodies, enhancing your abilities and empowering you in numerous immeasurable ways. This little display of raw strength was

only a small taste of the full effect of the maha-mantras. Soon you two will be able to do much more than simply pick up and toss dead trees.’ ‘We two?’ Lakshman’s voice caught in his throat. ‘Even I, mahadev?’ The seer smiled. ‘Of course, young Lakshman. The mahamantras act differently on different individuals, it is true. They may enhance some aspects of Rama’s mind and body while altering other aspects in your own makeup. But alter they will, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Already you can see the effect of their miraculous empowerment. Look at your brother and at yourself. Look closely.’ Lakshman looked at Rama. It took him a moment to adjust, the way one had to refocus one’s vision when gazing suddenly across a vast distance after staring at a close object for too long.

He could feel his power and strength growing with every breath he inhaled. ‘And in time,’ the brahmarishi went on, ‘after the mahamantras have fully empowered both of you, I may induct you in the use of dev-astras, the divine weapons of the devas themselves. Imbibing Bala and Atibala are an essential foundation before taking that step.’ Lakshman was impressed. Dev-astras? The mythic weapons of the great wars between the devas and the asuras? Given to me and Rama! ‘Gurudev,’ he said, folding his hands. ‘Truly, your vidya is immense and mighty.’ The brahmarishi gestured with his staff. ‘Come now, rajkumars. It grows dark. Let us make our way to Anangaashrama.’ They crossed the rivulet easily over the tree, its squat broad trunk quite comfortable to walk on.

Then he saw it. The tips of Rama’s fingers, the corners of his eyes, the orifices of his nostrils, his mouth, all exuded a faintly glowing bluish light. Rama glanced down at the palm of his right hand, plucking out a splinter from the tree-trunk, and tossing it away. Lakshman saw the point at which the splinter had embedded itself shallowly in Rama’s flesh glowing brighter, deeper blue, as if his blood itself had been infused with the power of Brahman. Lakshman looked down at himself. The same phenomenon was happening to him. I’m filled with Brahman power. We both are. And as the realisation came upon him, so did the awareness of the transformation working within his cells.

As boys, Lakshman and his brothers had played at walking over small ravines on saplings barely the thickness of a wristwidth. This fat trunk he could have walked blindfolded. He leaped down on the far side behind the brahmarishi and Rama, stopping to look back at the dead tree. ‘Gurudev, should we leave the tree as it lies?’ The brahmarishi glanced back. ‘It might be better to remove it.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you might like to take care of the chore, Rajkumar Lakshman?’ Lakshman grinned. He had been hoping the guru would say just that.

*** Supanakha watched from the face of the cliff. She was suspended barely ten yards from the foot of the rise. She had stopped in her downward descent to watch Rama pick up the tree and toss it across the rivulet. Now, she watched as Lakshman picked up the same tree and threw it to one side on the far bank. Lakshman dusted off his palms, looking as pleased with himself as a child who had won his first race, and turned to follow his brother and his guru into the thicket. In a moment, the three of them had vanished into the fruit grove. Supanakha completed her descent, pondering the meaning of this new development. So the brahmarishi had administered some form of Brahman magic to the two rajkumars, something which made them much stronger, and presumably faster and more tireless as well. This was something she would have to report back to her master. Her cousin. She gnashed her teeth at the thought of facing Ravana again. For a while, she had dwelt in the fantasy that she would just follow her saviour Rama and observe him on his journey south. She could bear to do just that for a while longer; he was immensely watchable. And she still wanted to try to understand this human youth who had risked his own life to save the life of an anonymous doe. But she couldn’t deny the fact that she was, after all was said and done, a rakshasi. And not just any rakshasi, but the cousin of Ravana. And she had a mission to execute. No matter how much she hated the idea. She snarled her displeasure, the sound echoing in the sleepy stillness of dusk.

EIGHT They blinked in surprise at the soft warm glow of oil lanterns glimpsed through the trees. As they approached the clearing, the outline of a large plain hut came into view, limned by the illumination from a pair of lanterns. It was a simple thatch-wood hut, put together with mud, straw and dung. The most basic building unit of Arya common architecture. The hut was made in the familiar rectangular shape of an ashram, a simple straw awning over the doorless doorway, and seemed large enough to house fifteen or twenty men at best. Two cows and a calf were tethered to a bamboo pillar, munching steadily on freshly plucked darbha grass. They lowed sleepily as the visitors approached the aangan of the hut. Rama noticed that the aangan had been freshly swept with a thrashbroom, judging by the faint parallel lines in the flat ground. A head emerged from the doorway, hair tied in a neat bun on top of the head in the style of hermits. A young rishi with a smile as wide as his waist was narrow came out, beaming warmly. Shaivites, Rama thought. No other order would starve themselves so. The Shivaworshippers were slowly gaining in numbers; although nowhere near equal the ubiquitous Vishnu and Brahma cults, Shaivism was starting to grow in respectability as well as popularity. Several more rishis poured out of the hut, most of them young acolytes— brahmacharyas sworn to twenty-five years of celibate meditation. All of them fell to their feet and tekoed their foreheads to the ground before the seermage Vishwamitra. Shaivites or

Brahmins, all deva-fearing souls revered a brahmarishi. ‘Ashirwaad, gurudev,’ they chanted in unison, their harmony honed to perfection by years of daily practice. ‘Aadharniya samman. Padhariyen.’ Blessings, great guru. With honour and respect, we invite you to enter and be welcome. ‘Ayushmaanbhav, rishiyon.’ Long life, monks. ‘May your prayers be fruitful.’ A very tall rishi, his bun whiter and face more lined than all the others, hurried forward, prostrating himself before the seer and kissing his feet reverentially. ‘Mahadev, you honour our humble hermitage a thousandfold with your presence. We welcome you and your noble companions to Ananga-ashrama. Blessed are all who enter here.’ ‘Well met again, Rishi Adhranga. I accept your generous invitation on behalf of my companions and myself.’ Vishwamitra touched the flank of the mother cow as he stepped up to the doorway. ‘Forgive me yet again, wise one. I have learned the error of my ways.’ He presented his feet for the customary arghya, and was washed by Rishi Adhranga himself. The other rishis performed the arghya for Rama and Lakshman. Rama wondered why the brahmarishi had apologised to the cow. He vaguely recalled some legend from Vishwamitra’s past— relating to the seer’s first encounter with Guru Vashishta, if he remembered correctly. He would have to ask the sage about it at some appropriate time.

The interior of the hermitage was just as plain as the exterior. Four windowless walls washed white with limechalk. Not a stick of furniture on the bare floors, only a pile of straw pallets at one corner. A very young brahmacharya acolyte, interrupted in the midst of setting out the pallets for the night’s rest, turned and stared dumbstruck at the sight of the sage and the two rajkumars. Uttering a gasp of amazed wonder, he fell to his feet, thumping his shaven pate on the floor. ‘Brahmarishi, mahadev, ashirwaad,’ he gasped in a voice choked with adoration. Rama and Lakshman exchanged amused glances. Now there’s an eager Brahmin. The odour of fresh dung hung over everything, competing for their olfactory attention with the acrid aroma of fresh cow urine. Two of the many gifts of Mother Cow that included milk and leather as well. Though Rama didn’t expect to find the last two under a Shaivite’s roof: the cult was notorious for its self-deprivation and austerities, as their skeletally thin figures proved. Even before his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior, lit within by a single lantern, Rama could tell that the floor was made of recently hardened straw-and-dung, and had been freshly swabbed with cow urine. He had to resist the urge to wrinkle his nose, reminding himself that cow-dung and urine were known for their antiseptic qualities. Actually, he didn’t even mind the dung very much; once dried, it tended to fade to a nondescript muddy odour that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. It was the pungent stench of fresh urine that he had never been able to love.

If only the sage’s maha-mantra gave me the ability to make cow urine smell like rose petals, he thought. Now that would really make me feel no discomfort here. Rishi Adhranga looked up, peering around his ashram in bewilderment. ‘What is that smell?’ ‘It smells like . . . like a woman just passed through here, guruji,’ said one of his acolytes, as puzzled as his teacher. ‘Not a woman, young brahmachari, more like . . . a basket of flowers,’ said another brahmacharya, looking just as puzzled as his companions. Lakshman was looking around too, sniffing for the source of the fragrance. Rama realised that Vishwamitra was the only one who was looking at him directly. The sage seemed to be unconcerned about the source of the smell. The other rishis had begun riffling through the straw pallets on the floor, clucking to themselves in incomprehension. Rama realised he had been holding his breath. He sucked in air and was amazed to find it smelling as sweet as that of his mother’s akasa-chamber. I did it with the blink of a thought, by wishing that cow urine could smell like rose petals. Holy Vishnu, I never meant to actually change the smell! He glanced up nervously at the sage, expecting to be admonished. He should have warned us that we could make things like this happen just by willing it. Already, the older rishis were looking at Vishwamitra and muttering comments about Brahman power. Rama was about to confess his innocent error when one of the young acolytes

held up a rose in full bloom. ‘It was in the north-east corner, with the agarbattis. Dumma must have brought it in.’ ‘I did not!’ cried the young boy who had been alone in the hut when they had all entered. Rama guessed him to be not more than seven years of age. He was clearly the youngest acolyte. ‘Just because I brought in a Queen’s Blessing once doesn’t mean I’m always bringing flowers!’ Rishi Adhranga held out his hand for the rose. ‘Powerful scent from a single rose.’ He glanced up at Vishwamitra with a knowing expression. ‘But no harm done. We of the order of Shiva usually eschew luxuries of any kind, including scentgiving blossoms. But we must consider this unexpected offering an auspicious greeting for our honoured guests.’ ‘Indeed,’ Vishwamitra replied, his face inscrutable. Rama realised he could now smell the pungent odour of cow urine again. He changed the smell back to its natural form, and made that rose appear to justify the fragrance. He avoided looking directly at Vishwamitra but later, while seated on the ground, eating the simple repast of the hermits, he happened to glance up and thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in the sage’s eyes. He decided he would be very careful about controlling his thoughts and actions. It would not do to show off his newly developing abilities before these humble brahmacharyas. They were obsequious enough because of the presence of Vishwamitra and their

awareness of his and Lakshman’s royal status. Besides, he was hardly aware what his new abilities entailed. Tossing dead tree-trunks and making roses appear was all very well; but there had to be much more to the maha-mantras than these tricks. He glanced sideways at Lakshman and saw from his brother’s expression that much the same thoughts were passing through his mind as well. They nodded subtly, a tacit agreement passing between them. Let’s just be normal boys tonight. Their meal consisted of a piece of johar ka roti and a little rock salt. Rishi Adhranga had a fire built outside in their honour and invited them to sit awhile and sip a little berry juice. The juice tasted sour to Rama, as if it had been kept standing too long, but to see the brahmacharyas drink it, you would have thought it was the finest soma nectar in the kingdom! Rama caught sight of the youngest one, Dumma, holding his empty mud-cup and staring longingly at the single jug from which they had all been served— barely a mouthful each. Nudging Lakshman surreptitiously, Rama conveyed his intention; a few moments later, Lakshman slipped the young acolyte both their portions of berry juice. Rama enjoyed watching the brahmacharya novice relish the sour juice with the satisfaction of a palace Brahmin finishing his tenth glass of bhaang at a Holi feast. The night had turned cold after sundown, and Rishi Adhranga inquired if they would prefer to sleep out of doors beside the fire or indoors without a fire. To Rama’s relief Vishwamitra chose the

former option: he would rather have slept in a blizzard than endure the odour of cow’s urine all night. ‘Yesterday my young companions slept on beds of satin and silk; tonight they sleep on darbha grass mats,’ Vishwamitra told the assembled rishis. They nodded approvingly, glancing shyly at Rama and Lakshman. Several of them were still nervous in the presence of such exalted company. ‘Austerity is the first step towards embracing Shiva,’ Rishi Adhranga said solemnly. ‘That is the only shiksha we teach our brahmacharyas for the first five years. How to do without, in order to grow within.’ The rishis spoke of matters spiritual, the virtue of penance, the importance of abstinence, the correct way to invoke the Lord Shiva’s name during a long fast and meditation. They evidently sat every evening discussing such questions, the only time in the day when they took a pause from their grinding routine of work and meditation. They seemed to be pleased to have visitors to share their thoughts with, and for Rama, it was refreshing to be with men of religion after a year of attending banquets, diplomatic convocations, war councils and a hundred other lavish events on Ayodhya’s crowded royal calendar. He was surprised at how nostalgic it made him for Guru Vashishta’s gurukul. Those were the best years of our lives, he thought with a small shock of insight. But I had to go away from the gurukul to realise it. He smiled at the irony. Why is it that we always have to leave the people and places we love in order to understand just how much we love them?

He felt a strange affinity with his surroundings. Even though south of Sarayu, the place seemed more like his favourite northern grove than the fabled Southwood forest of terror. Except for the faint chirring of nightbirds and the occasional insect, there was none of the clicking of crickets or roars of predatory beasts he had expected to hear. The air was pleasantly perfumed with the scent of wild flowers and berries. And somewhere in the darkness, perhaps a hundred yards from the hermitage, the gentle gurgle of the Sarayu was audible. As always, the sound of flowing water soon lulled him into a state neither fully awake nor asleep. But when the sage spoke quietly, he snapped back to full alertness instantly. ‘Rajkumar Rama, do you have a thought you’d like to share with us?’ Rama looked up at the sage, resisting the urge to blink against the bright blaze of the fire. His pupils must have dilated as he drifted off, because although the flames were no higher than they had been before—the rishis only used as much wood as was absolutely necessary—they seemed to glow with much greater intensity. Did Vishwamitra’s voice carry a faint inflection of irony? The sage seemed to know everything he was thinking. Rama was fairly certain by now that the mantras formed some kind of link between himself, Lakshman and Vishwamitra, giving the brahmarishi access to their innermost thoughts and feelings. Oddly, he didn’t mind it very much. After all, he had nothing to hide. Least of all from his new guru.

‘Mahadev, my brothers and I were weaned on such terrifying stories of the Southwoods. The so-called Bhayanakvan. The forbidden forest, domain of the asuras. The desolate place, lair of demons and darkness.’ He gestured at the rishis gathered around the fire. ‘This grove is on the periphery of that same dreaded Southwoods, within reach of its evil influence. Yet the rishis of this ashram don’t seem troubled by rakshasas or other asuras. Here they live outside the protection of Ayodhya and of the rakshak rangers, beyond the boundaries of the Arya nations, unmolested and unharmed. I don’t understand it. For hundreds of generations, our people have believed these Southwoods inhospitable and uninhabitable. We have travelled unchecked as far north as the Norselands and the frozen wastelands of Siber, yet our supremacy has never been able to extend south of the Sarayu. And yet, here we are, in this beautiful glade that is as tranquil and fragrant as any flower grove of Ayodhya. An idyllic grove, a heavenly grove, apparently safe and free of all evil influence. It flies in the face of everything known about the Southwoods. How is this possible?’ Vishwamitra was seated directly across from Rama, his face barely visible through the heat-haze from the fire. ‘Well asked, rajkumar. A puzzling conundrum that deserves a satisfying reply. And you shall have it. Rishi Adhranga, I believe you would be the best one to respond to Rajkumar Rama Chandra’s question. Please, would you grace us with your knowledge?’ The rishi nodded sagely, bowing his head and folding his hands to the seer. ‘It would honour me to share my vidya with

these proud princes of Ayodhya, mahadev. I am fortunate that you deem me worthy.’ He stroked his beard steadily for several minutes, evidently a favourite gesture when preparing to speak. Rama noticed that the rishi’s pepper-and-salt growth was shiny with spilled berry juice but it didn’t seem polite to mention it. Adhranga’s dark eyes glistened in the light of the fire. He seemed able to stare directly into the flames for any length of time without blinking. Rama could imagine him staring at the sun until his pupils turned white: he had that hardened look of the pure penitent about him. A man who welcomed the blasting heat of the desert or the bonenumbing chill of winter merely as notches on an endless sugarcane rod, to be marked off without care for how many were done or how many more lay ahead. What little flesh he had on his bones was all sinew and gristle, so tightly stretched that his limbs appeared to curve slightly, in the way that a great longbow carved from stubbornly hard wood bent with great difficulty. When he spoke, his voice was clear and soft, with the tone of one who believes in conserving every breath to offer in the service of his deity. A word spoken needlessly is a missed opportunity to say the name of the Lord. The voice that spoke the words in Rama’s head was Adhranga’s, but the rishi himself was still silent, stroking his beard in the same steady rhythm, rocking slightly on his folded legs. Rama was suddenly flooded with flickering images of Rishi Adhranga seated before his pupils, in the shade of an enormous banyan tree, the same tree

beneath which they now sat. Except it was early morning, almost sunrise, and the rishi was younger, his hair completely black, as was his beard. But the rhythm and manner in which he stroked his beard were identical. He does it when delivering his morning pravachan, and when he sits with his fellow rishis and shishyas every night at their prashna-uttar sessions, and every time he’s posed a particularly difficult philological query. He strokes it like this for a long time, and all the rishis wait patiently, knowing that he’s about to deliver some special wisdom. With an effort, Rama struggled to empty his brain of the sensations flooding through like a river in spate. He silently spoke the first mantra that came to mind. It happened to be the Gayatri mantra, that most sublime of all verses, the sloka that paved the way for all auspicious beginnings. He sensed another consciousness doing exactly the same thing, like an echo. Opening his eyes, he saw that Lakshman was moving his lips silently as well. We are both struggling with the change wrought by the maha-mantras. Becoming something other than human. As suddenly as the sensations had flooded his mind, they drained away, like water vanishing down a gutter. He sighed, relieved. At that moment, Rishi Adhranga began speaking aloud.

NINE Shatrugan and Bharat waited restlessly outside their father’s chambers. There seemed to be an endless coming and going of serving girls and vaids, all of whom walked past with quick anxious steps. Finally, after some hours, the traffic slowed, and everyone else had left the maharaja’s chambers except for Guru Vashishta, Kausalya-maa and the royal vaid. Susama-daiimaa came thrice to ask them to come to the bhojanshalya for their evening meal, and thrice they refused. They understood from her nervous entreaties that nobody else had eaten either, except for Kaikeyi-maa. The hour grew very late, but even so, they could hear sounds outside the palace walls. Sumantra came by at one point and told them that the sounds were from a crowd collected outside the gates. Although no official word had been given to the people, the news of Dasaratha’s collapse had spread throughout the city and many Holi revellers had left the celebrations to gather at the palace gates where they waited for news of their maharaja.

belligerence: ‘Can’t you give him something? A neem potion maybe? We learned in Ayurveda that a weakness of the heart can be treated with—’ ‘Rajkumar Shatrugan,’ the vaid said patiently. ‘I appreciate your knowledge. But there are some conditions that are beyond the scope of Ayurveda. Even the great body of Arya medical science has limits when issues of life and death are concerned.’ ‘What are you saying, vaidji? That our father—’ Bharat struggled to finish. ‘That he may not have long to live?’ The vaid looked at him sympathetically. ‘That is what I was trying to avoid saying, but yes, it is true. He may last a week, a month, or even more than one month. But I am afraid his time is coming.’ Shatrugan’s face darkened with anger. ‘There must be something you can do. Guru Vashishta can do something. He has lived seven thousand years! He must know how to prolong Father’s life.’

The princes leaped to their feet as the royal vaid emerged from their father’s chambers. He was a tall, fair-skinned northerner with a long face lined with age, and bushy white eyebrows.

The vaid sighed. ‘I can’t speak for the mahaguru. All I can tell you is that our medical knowledge has exhausted itself. Now, whatever happens, it is out of our hands. Aagya, Rajkumars.’

‘Vaidji? How is he?’

Shatrugan watched the vaid leave, his face tight with anger. ‘What good are they then? If they can’t help him at a time like this? What good is all that knowledge and learning?’

He looked at the faces of the two princes, his brows knitting together anxiously. ‘Rajkumars,’ he said gently. ‘I will not give you false hope. Your father’s condition is precarious.’ Shatrugan

asked

with

unexpected

Bharat put his arm around his brother. ‘Shatrugan, calm down. This is not a mace-fight. You won’t help Father by getting angry.’

Shatrugan struggled with his anger. Finally he nodded. ‘I know you’re right, bhai. But I can’t seem to make myself understand it.’ He thumped his chest with a clenched fist. ‘It’s as if something inside me refuses to accept that Father is . . . mortal.’ ‘Only his body, young prince. His atma is immortal.’ They looked up at the imposing figure of Guru Vashishta. ‘Pranaam, guruji,’ they said in unison, folding their hands before the guru. ‘I understand your anger, Rajkumar Shatrugan,’ he said kindly. ‘When faced with something as omnipotent as mortality, our first reaction is fear. And in a healthy being, fear always manifests itself first as anger. You are right to feel angry. But you must learn not to vent that anger. Instead, channel it into a more useful emotion. Turn it into prayer.’ ‘Prayer?’ Shatrugan’s voice expressed his disbelief. ‘Forgive my asking, gurudev. But will prayer truly help Father now? If I pray long and hard enough, will Yamaraj, Lord of Death, spare his life for another twenty years? Or forty?’ The guru looked sharply at Shatrugan. Bharat saw a spark of fire blaze in the brahmarishi’s eyes. ‘I will permit your lapse this time, young Shatrugan, because I empathise with the turmoil you are experiencing. But never again question so fundamental a practice as prayer. If every Arya, swayed by a momentary personal crisis, lost sight of

his faith, this entire nation and all the Arya nations with it would be condemned to eternal damnation. You consider yourself strong, do you, Shatrugan? Then prove your strength of spirit as well as body, mann as well as tann. Keep control of your emotions and your tongue. You cannot put out a fire by adding the oil of your own anger into the flames.’ Shatrugan’s rage melted away, washed clean by the guru’s verbal lashing. Bharat resisted the urge to move away, to avoid being included in the guru’s reprimanding. Instead, he stood closer to his brother, supporting Shatrugan with his presence. Shatrugan relented. He folded his hands and bowed his head to the guru. ‘Shama, gurudev. Forgive me. I forgot myself.’ The guru nodded brusquely, acknowledging the apology. ‘You asked about prayer, young Shatrugan. About how it can help your father. I did not propose you pray for his recovery. His condition is beyond reprieve. Whatever is happening to him now is his own karma manifesting itself. Nay, I asked you to pray for your own sake.’ Shatrugan looked perplexed. ‘For my sake?’ ‘Yes. Prayer cleanses the soul at a time of crisis and prepares us to meet and face any challenge. Turn your harmful negative energy into the positive power of prarthana. Pray not for your father, rajkumar. Pray that you may accept the inevitability of his passing with grace and fortitude.’ The guru whisked away down the long empty corridor, his words hanging in the

air like echoes in a cavern. Bharat and Shatrugan exchanged a glance. Shatrugan looked down, embarrassed. Bharat squeezed his shoulder. ‘Let’s go see Father now.’ Shatrugan shook his head. ‘You go ahead, bhai. I . . . I need some time to come to terms with this.’ He touched his naming thread, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a rudraksh mala and he was counting off prayers. ‘I think I’ll take guruji’s advice. I’ll be at the mandir praying if you need me.’ Bharat watched Shatrugan walk slowly down the corridor. We each have to deal with life in our own individual ways. Brothers we may be, but we are separate individuals too. Even seemingly identical sections of an apple contain different numbers of seeds. Each of us has a different course ahead. We must find our own separate ways, wherever they may lead. He turned and went into his father’s chambers. Serving girls stood about whispering nervously. They leaped to alertness as he passed by. He reached the innermost chamber, his father’s sleeping room. As he parted the drapes, he paused. It occurred to him that the guru had spoken as wisely as always. His own first reaction had been anger too. But his anger had passed much more quickly than Shatrugan’s. Now, he was only afraid. Very afraid. The room was surprisingly bright, illuminated by hundreds of little clay diyas. They were arrayed in rows around the room, covering every available surface. It was the precise opposite of

the dimly lit sickroom Bharat had expected. He blinked, surprised. ‘He fears the dark. His vision is dimming and he wants it to be as bright as possible.’ Kausalya-maa smiled at him from the bedside, sensing his confusion. She was sitting beside the head of the maharaja’s bed, on a simple padded stool, a daubing cloth in her hand. Dasaratha seemed to be fast asleep, his face ashen and strained, but at rest. Bharat nodded. Kausalya-maa was still dressed in the sari she had worn to the Holi parade. She had not had an opportunity to change all day, choosing to spend every minute by the maharaja’s bedside. It made him feel guilty, not for himself, but for his mother, who had stormed angrily back to her own chambers and hadn’t shown her face since the encounter in the Seers’ Tower. Although, he remembered unhappily, Susama-daiimaa had commented on the huge dinner the second queen had ordered to her private chambers. Evidently his father’s condition hadn’t affected his mother’s appetite in the slightest. And here was Kausalya-maa, whom he knew hadn’t touched a morsel or sipped so much as water since his father’s collapse. He knelt by her side, touching her feet. ‘Maa, shama.’ Forgive me, Mother. Kausalya didn’t click her tongue or make any false protestations as most elders customarily did. Instead, she placed her arms on Bharat’s shoulders and said gently, ‘You have done nothing that needs forgiving, my

son.’ He looked up at her. She looked so gentle, so calm. He wished suddenly that he had been born as Kausalya’s son rather than Kaikeyi’s. ‘I heard her calling out to Father, shouting at the servants. I had seen him go up to the Tower minutes before, he does that sometimes when he needs to be alone. I told her he was up there. Only after she ran up the stairs did I realise she was carrying the spear. I followed her thinking she might not be in her full senses.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know she would go so far, say such awful things.’ He averted his eyes. ‘I can’t believe she threatened Father and you with violence.’ Again, Kausalya didn’t sigh, make noises of commiseration or otherwise dilute the intensity of Bharat’s words. He understood and appreciated that greatly; it had been hard for him to say that much. It still felt like betrayal, to speak about his mother when she wasn’t present. But he had felt compelled to explain, to try and make Kausalya-maa see that he hadn’t known what was going to happen. If he had, he would have never told his mother where the maharaja had gone. Especially after he had seen Kausalya go up to the Tower as well. ‘We cannot control the actions of others, Bharat. Each of us makes our own choices, creates our own karma. You are not responsible for your mother’s actions. Don’t carry her burden of guilt on your shoulders.’ He nodded. He knew what she said was wise and true. Yet the pain in his chest remained, like a chip of wood he had swallowed and which was now lodged in

the space between his heart and his ribs. It throbbed with every beat of his lifeblood, sending needles of anguish through his being. He clenched his fist, squeezing his father’s bedspread. Kausalya laid her hand on his fist. ‘Be strong, Bharat. Your father needs you. Kosala needs you. All will be well as long as you remember who you are and what your dharma is. The rest is beyond any mortal’s grasp. Free your mind of all guilt or regret. You have done nothing but honour your father and your line. Dasaratha and I have nothing but pride and love for you, putra.’ At the last word, his heart caught in his chest. He felt the chip of wood burst into flame, searing his insides, turning his blood to lava. She called me putra. Son. My mother treats me like a contemptible stranger, treats Kausalyamaa with such loathing and disrespect, and yet she calls me putra. She regards me as a son. This is my true mother. She must be. Who else would show such love and kindness to the son of her arch-enemy? She is the one I must turn to for guidance through this time of crisis. He bent down and caught hold of her feet again, clasping them tightly, holding on to her as if he would never let go. ‘Maa,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘Maa.’ Mother. In the depths of his fever-sleep, Dasaratha stirred briefly, eyes fluttering without opening. He subsided again in an instant. His face was more restful, as if his soul had found some little peace in the midst of his suffering.

*** Guru Vashishta and Sumantra were in the seal room when Mantri Jabali burst in. The minister’s usually immaculately groomed hair and dress were dishevelled and splattered with stains. He was out of breath and gasping as if he had run a mile or two. ‘Mahadev, Pradhan-Mantriji, forgive the intrusion . . .’ He broke down, sobbing. ‘Something is happening in the dungeons! Please come. Now!’

TEN ‘Ananga-ashrama is the last peaceful place you will find on your southward journey, rajkumar. Alas, you will find none of these gentle attractions as you proceed south of this point. Beds of darbha grass and sour berry juice will seem like palace comforts after tonight. My heart aches to imagine what trials and tribulations may lie in store for you two young rajkumars in the next few days. Especially—’ He broke off, glancing up at the sage. ‘But it is not my business to speak of those matters. By Shiva’s grace, you are in the hands of the venerable Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. He is your guru now. And you should count yourselves blessed that after being raised on the infinite wisdom of Guru Vashishta, one of the oldest and most venerated of the Seven Seers, you are now being tutored by yet another of the same septet, the youngest and most powerful seer in this age, Vishwamitra himself. May his infinite wisdom guide you well on your perilous journey. For none have gone the way you go and returned this way alive before.’ Rishi Adhranga shuddered briefly, although there was no wind and it was warm by the fire. ‘None who were mortal.’ He was silent after that, staring into the fire for several more moments, stroking his beard. When more time had passed than seemed intended, and the youngest brahmacharya, Dumma, had begun to shift impatiently, one of the older brahmacharyas spoke quietly in his guru’s ear. Rishi Adhranga blinked and looked up at Rama again. ‘Excuse my lack of manners. We of Anangaashrama are unaccustomed to the social niceties

befitting such honourable company. You asked me how is it possible that this grove remains so idyllic and tranquil even though it borders on the dread Bhayanak-van, or to use its modern name, the Southwoods. To know this, you must first know the history of Ananga-ashrama and the grove in which it stands. By your grace, I will tell this tale. It is a short one.’ He permitted himself a small smile. ‘Short, that is, by our standards.’ The smile was mirrored all around the fire. ‘And one you might perhaps have heard in brief from your Guru Vashishta. For this grove is more widely known as Kamaashrama and the tale is often told as that of Kama’s Folly.’ Lakshman spoke up, sounding surprised. ‘But Kama’s Folly is the place where Shiva destroyed Lord Kama. That’s a myth.’ ‘Indeed, Rajkumar Lakshman. Over time, truth becomes fact, fact is rewritten as history, history fades to legend, and eventually, legend remains as myth. Yet you are blessed. For you live in the Treta-Yuga, the Age of Reason. Not as blessed as the Satya-Yuga or Age of Truth, but close enough that you may still tread the same sites where devas once lived and loved and fought, and those tales you call myths were once living events as real as your own actions. Over time even these tales will fade from memory, and by the coming of the KaliYuga or Age of Darkness, they will be mere race-memories, dismissed as mythology or fantasy by those who believe themselves rational and scientific. Yet to us who live here and now, these are scientific and rational tales. For they obey the scientific rules of our world without exception. All you need is a

proper knowledge of our science. Or, as we Aryas name it, vidya.’ He smiled sadly, looking into the fire. ‘But I digress once again. Forgive these little wanderings of mine. We rishis of the order of Shiva have vowed our lives to the worship and contemplation of the Destroyer. Katha-vidya, or the science of tale-telling, is an important and precious part of our calling. You might even say it is our only wealth, and if stories are treasure, why, then we are rich men, every one of us here. Are we not, my good rishis?’ ‘Rich men!’ they responded with one voice. It was evidently a favourite call and response. ‘To return to my katha, then. As I said, this hermitage which we call Anangaashrama is one and the same as the mythic place you know as Kamaashrama. We call it Ananga-ashrama for a very good reason which you will know by the time I am finished. My katha dates back to the time after the creation, when devas lived on Prithvi, back in the morning of the first day of Brahma, also known as the Satya-Yuga, for all was innocent and uncorrupted then. Brahmacharyas, do you know how long is a day of Brahma?’ Dumma, the youngest, was the first to speak, his lips still glistening with drying berry juice. ‘Pranaam, guruji. Each day of Brahma consists of 2,160,000,000 of our solar years. When Brahma has created the world, it remains unaltered for this entire period. At the end of a single day of Brahma, the world and all it contains is consumed by fire, only the brahmarishis, devas and elements surviving. Brahma

then sleeps for an unknown period of time. When he awakens once more, he again creates the world, and a new day of Brahma begins. When he completes a hundred of his years in this manner, Brahma’s own existence ends, and he, the universe, the devas and sages and all else are resolved into their constituent elements.’ The young brahmacharya’s face broke into a triumphant grin, exulting in his rote-learning and obviously pleased at having shown off his vidya before his older fellows. ‘Well said, young Dumma. But I only asked you for the duration of a single day of Brahma. The rest of your explanation was not called for. It expended breath and energy that could have been better utilised in your invocation of Shiva, rather than in a childish attempt to generate envy in the breasts of your fellow brahmacharyas.’ Dumma’s grin vanished, reminding Rama of Bharat in younger days, when he always tried to compete with his oldest brother in Guru Vashishta’s gurukul. It brought a pleasing twinge of nostalgia to his heart. Those were great years, when the four of us were like one. Even our fights brought us closer together. ‘As I was saying,’ Rishi Adhranga went on in his measured, patient way, ‘these events happened in the first part of the first day of Brahma. The devas lived their lives unburdened by the responsibilities of governing creation. Only a few mortals had been created, and not all asuras had yet declared their hostility against the gods. It was in this period that Rudra, whom we now speak of as Lord Shiva, a simple mendicant who took pleasure in meditating in

cremation grounds and in passing his time in the company of spirits, ghouls, goblins and the like, took into his heart a desire to wed the beautiful Sati, daughter of Lord Daksha, Seed Spreader. I use the terms Seed Spreader or Seed Caster in the sense of Prajapati, or He Who Procreates His Own Kind, not in the agricultural sense of one who literally flings seeds into furrowed soil. For Lord Daksha was one of only a few chosen mortals who had evolved from their simian ancestors and had been given the task of multiplying the numbers of their race upon this Prithvi. Like your own ancestor Lord Manu, rajkumars, who composed the laws by which civilised humans would govern themselves, descended from the deva Surya himself, who was likewise a Seed Spreader and one of the founders of the Arya race.’

several missing teeth in his upper line. Rama resisted the urge to grin back.

He paused in his beard-stroking for a moment, then continued. The silence that met his pause was testimony to the attentiveness of his listeners. ‘So young Rudra—for even Lord Shiva was young once—became greatly enamoured with Lord Daksha’s daughter Sati and desired to wed her, and beautiful and virtuous Sati herself desired to become mate to the young mendicant Rudra. At first, she was somewhat put off by Rudra’s supernatural companions and wild antics in the netherworld, but she was confident she would rid him of his bachelor habits once they were conjugally united.’

‘So he rejected Rudra and refused his daughter’s wish. But Sati’s love for Rudra was too strong by then. Defying her father, she went ahead and married her chosen mate. Once Rudra became his son-in-law, Daksha was compelled by deva tradition to include him in all family rituals and affairs. But Daksha was proud and uncompromising. He knew that despite his wild appearance and peculiar habits, Rudra had a great sense of dignity. Daksha thought that if he insulted his new son-in-law publicly, Rudra would be so offended he would leave Sati alone and return to his wild bachelor ways.

He allowed himself a wisp of a smile. ‘She would not be the first woman to believe that she could change our Lord Shiva through the use of feminine devices.’

‘So, to slight his new son-in-law, Daksha staged a great yagna and deliberately neglected to invite Rudra, while making sure that Sati herself was present. Sati soon realised what her father had done as all the assembled guests began commenting critically on Rudra’s absence.

Little Dumma flashed a grin at the rishi’s aside, treating Rama to a glimpse of

‘Prajapati Daksha did not share his daughter Sati’s affection for the wildeyed young wanderer. He had raised his daughter on silks and satins, gold and silver, pearls and diamonds. He was appalled at her desire to wed this unruly, dishevelled, homeless young mendicant who rode the black buffalo of the Lord of Death, Yamaraj, wore a serpent as a necklace entwined around his neck, drank poison as an intoxicant and went around clad in a chain of human skulls and a barely modest swatch of uncured leopard’s skin. Lord Daksha took his responsibility as a Seed Spreader very seriously and he wanted his daughter to mate with much better stock than this strange mendicant.

‘But Daksha’s scheme flew back in his own face, like an ill-shot arrow returned by a powerful wind. More than Rudra himself, it was Sati who was devastated by her father’s insult. Blaming her father for dishonouring her husband, she threw herself bodily into the very same yagna havan, calling out to the fire god Agni to accept her sacrifice. Before any of her family could stop her, she was consumed by the flames of the sacred fire. Her name became a synonym for selfsacrifice. Even today, any widowed wife who chooses to follow her husband to the afterlife may voluntarily consign herself to his funeral pyre in an act of sati. ‘Lord Daksha was stricken by the outcome of his actions, but it was too late to undo what had been done. News of Sati’s sacrifice reached Rudra. At first, the dark-skinned deva was consumed by anger as fierce as the agni that had consumed his wife, but he grew heartsick when he realised that he could not spill the blood of his beloved Sati’s father. Unable to avenge her death and cleanse his grief through violence, he vowed to retire from life itself. Since he was a deva and immortal, he could not take his own life. Instead, he sat beneath a banyan tree and began the epic meditations which we attempt to emulate even today in humble mortal form as the asanas of yoga.’ Rishi Adhranga raised one hand, indicating the wild webbing of the tree above his head. ‘This same ancient tree beneath which we sit tonight. As you can see, its vines and limbs are matted in empathy with our Lord Shiva’s own matted hair, reminding us of his great grief at the loss of his beloved.’ Rama saw Dumma release a silent sigh.

The young brahmacharya was enraptured, lost in the katha. As he glanced away from the boy, something flickered at the very edge of his vision. He glanced sharply at the far side of the clearing, at the place where the light of the flames dimmed and faded into the impenetrable moonless darkness of the grove. There it was again: two tiny red pinpoints briefly glimpsed. Like the reflection of the firelight off a pair of eyes. It was probably just a rabbit. Although those eyes had seemed too high and too large to be a ground-hugging rabbit. A doe then. He concentrated his attention on the rishi’s katha. ‘Now, as you all know, when Shiva meditates, the world could end and he would not be aware of it. So it was that in his grief he lost all consciousness of what took place around him. Aeons passed. The morning of the first day of Brahma grew closer to noon. Civilisations rose and fell. Great empires were raised and collapsed. The eternal battle between the devas and asuras began in earnest and raged on relentlessly. Millennia flowed by like the waters of the sacred Ganges. ‘Our Lord Shiva would have maintained his yogic trance until the sun itself grew red and weak and the planets crumbled away to dust. Even the devas themselves dared not disturb his samabhavimudra, that sacred state where the eyes seem partially open but in fact the being sees nothing of this world with his physical vision. Shiva had accomplished this supreme state of existence, remaining barely alive enough to maintain his body in this world, yet achieving a perfect union with the inner self, or Brahman. He had passed beyond karma or the need for good actions, and had transcended the material realm

completely.

would take many nights.’

‘But one day, an event came to pass in the material world that would result in his return to this physical plane of karma and rebirth. A powerful Yaksi named Tataka had began to torment the inhabitants of a forest near the site where Shiva meditated.’

He hesitated, glancing at Vishwamitra. ‘To answer your question briefly, it was the Dark Lord of Lanka himself who turned the Yaksa race against mortals. Just as it was none other than Ravana who was secretly responsible for Tataka becoming the menace of her age. But that is another katha in itself. I am sure the esteemed brahmarishi will impart it to you at some appropriate time.’

‘Gurudev, shama. interrupting.’

Forgive

me

for

The rishi paused, and turned his gaze on Lakshman. ‘Aagya, shishya. Speak your mind.’ He addressed Lakshman as he would any student in his ashram. Here, there were no rajkumars or maharajas. ‘Pranaam, guruji,’ Lakshman said, joining his hands together and showing the customary respect accorded to any guru in his ashram. ‘You said a powerful Yaksi was tormenting people. By Yaksi, I take it you mean a female Yaksa, guruji. But the Yaksa race is benign and friendly to mortals as well as to the devas.’ He shrugged self-consciously. ‘Of course, that is what we learned at our guruji Vashishta’s gurukul. I don’t actually know if Yaksas really exist any more. My mother Sumitra-maa says they were only created to scare naughty young boys to sleep.’ There were a few surprised titters at that. Rama smiled too. So Shaivites did have a sense of humour after all. Rishi Adhranga stroked his beard. ‘What you say is not wholly incorrect, Rajkumar Lakshman. Once the Yaksas, like several other asura races, were benign and even friendly to mortals and devas. It was only a few thousand years ago that they became our bitter enemies. But to tell the story of how that came to pass

Vishwamitra acknowledged the reference with a slight bow of his head. Rishi Adhranga exhaled, his breath fogging as it escaped his lips, marking how much colder the evening had become. ‘To return to our katha. This Yaksi was a scourge on the face of Prithvi. Her ravages had turned the entire region around her into a haunted and cursed forest. Literally, Bhayanakvan. What we now call the Southwoods.’ Rama felt a chill spread through his chest. It had nothing to do with the gathering cold and the fading fire.

ELEVEN The palace grounds were dark and silent, but there were quads of guards everywhere, watching every square yard of the property with hawkish scrutiny. Outside the gates, a surprisingly large crowd of citizens waited, several of them seated cross-legged on the street, talking in soft whispers or praying to lit diyas. A flurry of hope swept through them as they saw the familiar faces of the guru and the prime minister approach. Several of them rose and came forward, inquiring eagerly after the maharaja’s condition. ‘He is much the same,’ Sumantra said. ‘He counts on your prayers.’ They subsided at once, disappointed. Sumantra and the guru left the palace, escorted by a whole platoon of PFs. Captain Drishti Kumar, back on duty after a brief respite, was taking no chances. They walked the two miles to the city jail, situated flush against the seventh wall on the north-east corner of the city. A series of gates, heavily guarded and barred, provided the jail with direct access to the outside world, effectively segregating the prison and dungeons from the city proper. Even so, the prison was heavily guarded. It had been decades since spies had been apprehended in Ayodhya, and most of the current breed of Kshatriyas had grown up unaware that such treachery could even be possible. Entire platoons had volunteered themselves for guard duty at the city jail. And had the palace permitted it, a crowd would have been gathered here as well, waiting eagerly to hear what treacherous revelations were forced from the tongues of the

conspirators. The guard acknowledged the three visitors and allowed them to pass unquestioned. They entered the compound, which was as heavily patrolled, and passed through the several gates that made escape an impossibility. Finally they were in the main prison building. They passed rows of empty cells filled with nothing more than bales of hay and chamber pots. Despite his misgivings, Sumantra had given the order to release all lesser prisoners that afternoon. It had felt strange to proclaim such a step in celebration of Rama’s forthcoming ascension when Rama himself was not present to join in. But tradition demanded it, and tradition was everything in Arya society. The warden of the prison, a man with a massive build that was well suited to his profession, was waiting for them at the portal to the dungeon stairwell. ‘Masters,’ he said. ‘I beseech you. Go no further. Great evil is at work down in those dungeons.’ ‘And our job is to root out evil and send it fleeing,’ Guru Vashishta said calmly. ‘Let us pass, good warden.’ He looked at the guru, then at Sumantra. Sumantra said firmly but without raising his voice, ‘In the name of the maharaja, let us through.’ The warden nodded slowly, his face drained of colour. His hands trembled slightly as he inserted the key into the portal lock. The lock snapped smoothly into place, and he swung the iron-barred door open. Sumantra followed the guru in, then turned to see Mantri Jabali still standing outside the portal. He had

begun shaking again. He clutched the bars of the portal gate, teeth clacking together. ‘I cannot go on,’ he said. ‘The warden knows as much as I do. I was only questioning them when . . . when they changed.’ Guru Vashishta said kindly, ‘Go home, good Jabali. Brew yourself some hot broth and cover yourself well. You are suffering from shock. We will deal with this matter. Tomorrow, in the light of day, we shall speak again.’ Jabali bowed, his head striking the bars inadvertently. ‘Thank you, gurudev. I shall pray for your safe return.’ As they went through the second portal gate, the one that opened directly on to the stairwell, and began their descent, Sumantra looked back. Jabali was clinging to the bars of the first portal with the desperate look of a man imprisoned for life. Or a man watching his best friend being imprisoned for life. The bars created a curiously confusing image: it was difficult to tell if they were keeping the prisoners within or barring those who lay without. The stairwell was barely large enough for a single man to pass through at a time. The warden, the tallest of them, led the way with a small diya in his hand to provide some light. The ceiling was so low, they had to bow their heads, and even so, Sumantra could feel the stones rasping against the back of his head all the way down. It was a safety feature typical of Arya military architecture: in the event of an outbreak, a single armed guard could contain an entire dungeon filled with criminals. It was impossible to fight one’s way upwards with one’s head

bent over and arms clasped on one’s chest. But under the circumstances, it felt even more unsettling, like a descent in some nightmare. After what seemed like a small aeon, they reached the dungeon level. Another door opened directly on to the stairwell, providing yet another point of defence. The warden unlocked this door and paused, glancing back at the guru and Sumantra, his face lit eerily from below by the flickering diya held in his palm. ‘I have vacated the guards from this level. After the first two were killed, I did not deem it necessary to risk the lives of any more. In any case, the prisoners . . . whatever that thing is . . . it does not seem to seek to escape.’ Sumantra frowned. Whatever that thing is. There were eleven spies taken prisoner that morning. What was this thing he spoke of? And what did he mean, it does not seem to seek to escape? What other problem could one have with a prisoner? He held his questions back as the warden led them out of the constricting stairwell and into a slightly broader and higher passageway. Still it was barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast—shoulder to shoulder—and the ceiling was a shade under seven feet high. The warden’s bulk almost filled the entire passageway as he led them down a sloping corridor that continued to descend in stages, like very long steps in some unending staircase. Sumantra tried to recall how low the dungeon was. About fifty yards below street level, if he remembered correctly. The architects had had to burrow this low to get well beneath the river’s bed.

Even so, the ceiling dripped in places, and centuries of constant seepage had formed a permanent patina of moss on most walls. The place smelled dank and wet. The small mashaals that hung on the walls at intervals sputtered in the drips from the ceiling. For a moment, Sumantra forgot what had brought them here and began to worry about the possibility of the whole place collapsing and the river coming roaring through. Gradually the passage broadened enough to allow them to walk slightly more comfortably two abreast. The seepage reduced. The walls seemed almost dry, although fingers of lichenous growth still poked their way through between stones at places. Finally they came to a barred door that hung open. The inside of the door was spattered with more of the same dark stains that had discoloured Mantri Jabali’s clothes. The floor was streaked with blood too, as if a bleeding carcass had been dragged across it. The warden stopped and turned to them, his face pale. ‘My second man dragged himself as far as this point. The key snapped off in the lock, as you can see here, so I had no choice but to leave this door open. That one, though,’ he pointed ahead, ‘is barred, bolted and locked shut. Not that it would do much good if that thing in there put its mind to getting through. I don’t think locks and doors would stop what’s in there.’ ‘Thank you, good warden. You may leave us now and return to your post. We shall proceed on our own now.’ The warden looked at the guru silently. Then he nodded. ‘As you please, masters. Vishnu bless you for allowing

me to save myself from entering that hell-hole again.’ He moved past them to return up the passageway they had come down. He handed his key-ring to Sumantra as he brushed past. ‘That will open the last door. Now when you come back,’ he added, his voice suggesting that the possibility was a remote one, ‘I’ll be waiting for you at the top of the stairwell. If you need any help—’ ‘Do you think you could help us if we get into trouble in there?’ the guru asked quietly, indicating the dungeon. The warden shook his head slowly. ‘I warrant not. But even so—’ ‘We shall send for you if required. Go now, good warden. Leave us.’ Sumantra stepped forward. ‘One moment. Are all the eleven prisoners in there together?’ ‘Aye, Pradhan-Mantri. But you may have difficulty counting them off.’ And with that cryptic reply, the warden shuffled up the passageway, fading out of sight. Sumantra flinched as Guru Vashishta’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Courage, Sumantra. Remember this before we go in. The power of Brahman is the essence of all supernatural and natural energy in the universe. Even those who seek to do evil deeds must use and pervert the same flow of Brahman to serve their heinous ends. Therefore, they can never be a match for we who serve the good side of Brahman. Good will always triumph over evil in this war.’

Sumantra nodded, unable to get any words past the lump in his throat. ‘Now, open the door and let us face whatever awaits us within this dungeon,’ said the guru. Sumantra moved forward to unlock the dungeon door. His hands shook a little as he turned the oversized key in the massive lock. The door swung open slowly on smoothly oiled hinges, exposing a dark maw as inviting as the open jaws of a gargantuan worm. The guru raised his staff, reciting a mantra under his breath. He struck the staff on the floor twice. With a puff, the top of the staff began to emit a dull but surprisingly effective blue light. Holding it before him like a mashaal, the guru stepped into the dungeon chamber. Taking a deep breath, Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra followed.

TWELVE The rishi’s voice was as soothing as the distant gurgle of the rivulet. Rama turned to it thankfully, immersing himself in the katha to shut out the chorus of thoughts, anxieties and emotions that were crowding the back of his mind. It had been a long and difficult day and it felt good to simply sit here and listen.’ ‘Tataka’s ravages were so terrible, the very land itself was blighted permanently by her forays. In time, she would have withered even the grove in which Lord Rudra sat meditating. Only his presence preserved this plot of land. On one occasion, she ventured as far as that cluster of cherry trees on the eastern edge of the grove, and—’ Vishwamitra spoke up, his voice quiet but firm. ‘I will tell them the tale of Tataka some other time, Rishi Adhranga. Pray, continue your tale of how Anangaashrama earned its name.’ The rishi inclined his head to the brahmarishi. ‘Shama, mahadev. I will try not to wander from my katha-path again.’ He stroked his beard a few more times, finding his rhythm once more. ‘As I was saying, Tataka’s atrocities soon grew too terrible for the devas to ignore. A day came when the extent of her devastation compelled an outcry on Prithvi and mortals began to appeal to the devas to intervene and put an end to her reign of terror. The devas sent the oldest and greatest of the Seven Seers, the great sage Narada himself, to investigate Tataka’s misdeeds. He returned quickly with a terrifying report. When the devas heard it, they unanimously decided that Tataka must be stopped.

‘But before anyone could take action, the devas were besieged by hordes of asura armies led by the Lord of Lanka, Ravana himself. After many wars and battles in which the asuras lost as much ground as they gained, their disparate races had finally united under the banner of Ravana. And his ambition was as great as the asura host he led. He sought to invade the very cities of the gods. The shining cities of Amravati and Vaikunta were both besieged, and mighty Indra, leader of the devas, as well as Kartikeya and Ganesha, senapatis of the armies of the devas, were hard-pressed to defend those mighty domains. Not a single deva could be spared to go down to the realm of Prithvi and deal with the intolerable menace of Tataka.’ The rishi paused for effect. ‘Except one.’ Young Dumma chirped up at once: ‘Rudra athwa Shiva.’ ‘Yes, young brahmacharya. Rudra also known as Shiva. Only Shiva himself possessed the power to face the fierce Yaksi. For he had tasted the poison of Sagara and survived. In doing so, he alone of the devas had experienced the corruption of an-atma, the opposite of Brahman, that darkest of darknesses that exist in the absence of the light of atma or the eternal soul. Shiva could use his power of destruction to cleanse evil things, preparing the way for their recreation by Brahma. He had only to open his third eye and Tataka would exist no more in her present form.’ ‘Jai jai Shiv Shankar,’ chanted the assembled brahmacharyas in unison. Lakshman blinked at the unexpectedly loud chanting, but Rama had seen it coming. He was still focussed as much

on the being in the grove as on the rishi’s katha. He wondered how Lakshman had failed to notice it. It was evident that the mahamantras Bala and Atibala were having different effects on him and Lakshman. A twinge of an insight flashed in his mind, a glimmer of an idea why this should be so. But it was gone before he could catch it and examine it clearly. ‘However, as you will recall, Shiva was deeply engrossed in his meditation and was determined to remain engrossed thus for the duration of all the remaining days of Brahma, until the end of existence itself. Such was his selfdiscipline. So it was decided by the devas that an emissary be sent to awaken him from his meditation. Sage Narada declined the mission, for reasons unknown. The devas then sent the beauteous Parvati, an incarnation of Sati herself, Shiva’s lost wife. Sati had chosen to be reborn once again in order to reconsummate her relationship with her beloved mate. This time, she made sure she picked a father and mother who would honour her husband, unlike the wretched Daksha, whose name was forever linked with his shameful misdeed. Sati in her new avatar as Parvati waited patiently for many thousands of our years in the grove where her lord sat meditating, gathering his favourite flowers and dressing her hair with their scented blossoms, and doing all she could to rouse him from his yogic trance. But even her sensual presence could not interrupt his samabhavimudra. So the devas resolved to send the god of desire, Kama, to help rouse Shiva.’ Rishi Adhranga paused, searching the far side of the circle for the face of his youngest acolyte. ‘Dumma, can you tell us what human quality Kama is the god

of?’ ‘Pranaam, guruji,’ replied the boy, struggling to speak calmly. ‘Kama is desire for good in any form. Be it love, procreation, or simply goodness on earth in all forms.’ The rishi nodded, satisfied with the response. ‘Well spoken. And yet, being the lord of sexual desire as well as all other desires, Kama was prone to some mischievous ways. When he saw Parvati clad so sensuously in anticipation of her husband’s amorous reawakening, he thought he could sling down two partridges with one throw. He would rouse Shiva by instilling in him sexual desire for Parvati, thus reuniting the lost lovers as well as fulfilling his mission. With this end in mind, Kama danced and frolicked in the grove around the tree beneath which Shiva sat.’ The rishi paused and gestured around at the clearing, giving them a moment to reflect and imagine the god of desire dancing in the very spot where they now sat. As they glanced around, casting back to that mythic time in their mind’s eye, several of them looked deep into the dark shadows of the grove itself, trying to recreate the events and time of which their guru spoke. Now someone will see the being in the grove. Or at least Lakshman will. But not a single one of them seemed to glimpse what Rama had seen. The two red eyes glowed as warmly as coals in a bed of ash. Only I, he thought grimly. It is my karma to see and deal with the being that awaits me in there. The others had turned back to the rishi, who was continuing his katha.

‘When Kama’s first frolics went unnoticed by Shiva, the god of desire grew bolder. He strung his bow, made of a sugarcane stalk and a living cord of honeybees, dipped an arrow into the centre of a red rose, and loosed it at Shiva’s heart. Pierced by the benign missile, Shiva awoke at last. But stirred as he was from deep meditation on his lost mate, he was angered to find the god of desire attempting to arrange what he thought was a new mating for him. Had Shiva only taken an instant to look closely at Parvati, he would have seen that Kama was only trying to reunite him with his own sweet Sati. But Shiva is not known for his patience. He opened his third eye and blasted Lord Kama into ashes. Bhasam kar diya Kamadev ko.’ Young Dumma shuddered and looked around fearfully, as if expecting Shiva to appear right there and then and blast them all to nothingness. ‘Kama was left bodiless. An-anga. He Who Has No Physical Body. From which word our hermitage is named Anangaashrama. Then Rati the wife of Kama ran to Brahma tearing her hair, beating her breast, and moaning inconsolably over the loss of her husband. Brahma, creator of all creatures great and small, promised Rati that when Shiva and Parvati were married, Kama would be restored to his body. Now the task of rousing Shiva fell to Parvati, who had to do so not only in order to regain her lost mate, but also to restore Kama, and to defeat the Yaksi Tataka. More determined than ever to succeed, Parvati began a severe penance abiding by the laws laid down by Shiva himself, the father of austerity. These ten laws, of course, are the cornerstone of our life here at Ananga-ashrama.’

Rishi Adhranga glanced at Vishwamitra, and Rama knew that he was tempted to spell out Shiva’s ten laws of penitential meditation. He was relieved when the rishi continued the tale instead. ‘After millennia of self-inflicted austerity, the lovely Parvati had lost much of her beauty. Her spirit was as lean and withered as her body in the wake of such great tapasya. Yet still she toiled on in her attempt to rouse her beloved. And still Shiva failed to heed her prayers. ‘Finally, when it seemed that Parvati must surely waste away to nothingness, a handsome young ascetic came to her and asked her why she inflicted such suffering on herself. When she told him the object of her penance, he laughed in disbelief and wondered if the strange and terrifying Shiva deserved the love of a woman so beautiful. The young ascetic then sought to arouse her desire for himself, promising to be a better husband to her than Shiva could ever be. Parvati was shocked to find herself responding to his caresses as she experienced an overpowering attraction to the handsome stranger. Disgusted at her own disloyalty, she resolved to take her own life once more rather than succumb to his advances. But just as she was about to reprise the self-immolation of her earlier avatar Sati, the ascetic revealed himself to be none other than Shiva, awoken at long last and only seeking to tease Parvati as she had teased and taunted him with her sexuality for so long in Kama’s Grove. The two of them then danced the tandav, the great and terrible dance of procreation, awakening the entire universe with their tantric sexuality, and at the moment of their joining, by using the formidable energies unleashed by their union, Lord Brahma was able to restore Kama to his body.’

Young Dumma heaved a great sigh of contentment. His fellows grinned and exchanged amused glances at his evident relief. Rishi Adhranga nodded indulgently and continued. ‘Shiva and Parvati were lost for aeons in love-making on the peak of Mount Kailasa, where they made their home. Eventually the devas began despairing of what they had done, for it seemed that Shiva would never leave Parvati’s arms long enough to slay Tataka. But Parvati was mindful of their need, and bore Shiva a young son, Kartikeya. It was Kartikeya who went forth to put an end to the scourge of Tataka. Later, as we all know, Shiva and Parvati’s blessed union would yield another equally illustrious son, the mighty Ganesha. He who had his head lopped off by his own father and had to make do with the head of a baby elephant.’ ‘But that is another story, for another time,’ said Vishwamitra hastily. ‘Thank you, Rishi Adhranga. Seldom have I heard the tale of Kama’s Folly told with such simple precision and accuracy. Truly, we are most pleased and honoured to have received the fruits of your katha-vidya.’ After Rama and Lakshman had added their own gratitude to the rishi, Vishwamitra steered the conversation back to the matter of their departure the next morning. ‘We shall require a raft to sail downriver. I am aware of the skill of your ashram in making balsa wood rafts. Perhaps your brahmacharyas could show my young companions how to make one tonight. We leave at daybreak.’ ‘Even better,’ the rishi said, ‘my brahmacharyas will be happy to make

such a vessel for your use. Of course, the young shishyas are welcome to watch and learn. We keep a supply of ready-cut balsa logs expressly for this purpose, and we are accustomed to lashing rafts together in an hour or two. My boys are quite happy to build one simply for the distraction it provides from their usual chores. I will see to it.’ From the ripple of excitement that spread through the brahmacharyas, it was evident that his acolytes agreed with this view. ‘We are indebted to you for your grace and hospitality, rishiji,’ Vishwamitra said. Lakshman spoke up. ‘Mahadev, may I ask the rishi one last question?’ Vishwamitra rajkumar.’

nodded.

‘Go

ahead,

‘The katha you narrated so eloquently was mainly about Shiva and his epic meditation on the loss of his consort. Kamadev hardly plays much part in the whole story. Then why is this spot named after Kama?’ Rishi Adhranga smiled, turning his face to his shishyas, all of whom were smiling as well. Lakshman looked around, puzzled. ‘Did I say something unseemly?’ ‘Not at all, shishya,’ the rishi replied. ‘It’s just that every time the katha of Kama’s Grove is narrated, the listener always asks this very same question. Who will answer this time?’ Dumma’s hand had shot up even before the rishi asked the question, Rama noted with amusement. Adhranga beamed at

the young acolyte.

said that? Show him to me!’

‘Tonight seems to be your night to speak, young Dumma. Very well, perform this last service to our guests.’

Young Dumma looked around at his fellows. They were all standing around with completely innocent expressions, as if they had no idea what had just transpired. He shifted uncomfortably, then hung his head, his babyish features curled into an appropriately contrite expression.

Dumma spoke rapidly, his words tumbling one over the other like a series of child-acrobats at a country mela. It was obvious he had this answer down pat. ‘The story is not just about Lord Shiva and Devi Parvati, but about their great love for one another. A love that neither samay nor karma could tear asunder. It was for this reason that the devas sent Kama, god of love, to try to awaken Shiva from his deep meditation. Hence this spot is named in honour not just of the god of love but for the epic love of Shiva and Parvati. Kama’s Folly, Kama’s Grove, this is the most sacred lovers’ rendezvous in all the three worlds.’ He stopped to catch his breath, glanced at his teacher, then went on unexpectedly: ‘And good sirs, some day when you find your own life’s true love, then you would be well advised to visit this grove with your beloved and seal your bond in this most romantic of spots!’ Rishi Adhranga’s face lost its beatific smile and he sputtered indignantly: ‘How many times have I told you, Dumma! That is not part of our katha-vidya. You are not to repeat that last part ever again! Am I understood?’

‘Perhaps I mistook their words, guruji. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’ Rishi Adhranga scanned the faces of his acolytes intently. ‘What are you all staring at? Go on and start fetching the material for the raft. You heard the brahmarishi. That raft has to be ready before daybreak. Get to work then, Shaivites. Om Namah Shiva. Praised be the name of Shiva.’ ‘Om Namah Shiva,’ they repeated, and scuttled about busily. Adhranga caught sight of Dumma standing alone, waiting to be chastised further. ‘You too, Dumma. Go on and make yourself useful.’ Dumma grinned with relief and sprinted to join his fellows. Rama had the distinct impression that the young acolyte wasn’t quite as contrite about his lapse as he had looked earlier.

Young Dumma’s face fell. ‘But guruji, they said you had changed your mind and I should make sure to tell our esteemed guests about this romantic side of our sacred shrine.’

Rishi Adhranga scowled and turned back to the princes and the brahmarishi. Vishwamitra seemed to be staring at a point high up on the trunk of a nearby jackfruit tree. Rama couldn’t tell if he was offended or amused by the young acolyte’s outburst.

Rishi Adhranga’s face turned dark. ‘Who

‘My apologies, brahmarishi,’ Adhranga

said, looking irritated. ‘I have told him several times before that it would not be in our best interests to spread that legend once again.’ ‘Once again, rishidev?’ Rama tried to keep his face straight and suitably serious. It took some effort. Rishi Adhranga sighed. ‘Until recently, perhaps just a hundred or so years ago, this place was a notorious lovers’ rendezvous. It was believed, you see, that couples who . . . um . . . consummated their relationship in this sacred grove would experience a bonding as eternal as the love of Shiva and Parvati.’ He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘It made things quite awkward for our order, as you can well imagine.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ Vishwamitra said, still keeping his eyes on the distant point. ‘We can well imagine.’ Rama and Lakshman looked at the brahmarishi curiously. Vishwamitra glanced at them, then added quickly: ‘We can imagine how awkward it must have been. Very, very awkward, no doubt.’ Adhranga nodded unhappily. ‘Couples sneaking through the grove all night, indulging in . . . grossly inappropriate behaviour . . . often while we were busy with our katha-vidya. And it would . . . distract some of our younger brahmacharyas while engrossed in their celibate studies. It’s hard maintaining celibacy when half the kingdom’s lovebesotted couples are rolling about and squealing all around you.’ He shook his head, sighing. ‘Thank Shiva we don’t suffer those distractions any more.’

‘Yes, thanks be to Shiva.’ The brahmarishi was staring at the jackfruit tree, Rama realised suddenly, with a touch more concentration than was needed. Rama and Lakshman glanced at each other and turned their faces away, to avoid the rishi seeing the gouts of laughter that threatened to burst free. Rishi Adhranga shook his head. ‘I can tell you one thing, my friends. One hundred and twenty years old I am, and for almost that entire duration I have known only this ashram as home, devoted to the service of Shiva. But in all these many years, one thing that never seems to change is the shamelessness of young lovers in heat. Why, on one occasion, I was walking through the grove at dawn in search of some berries for our ritual—’ ‘Excuse me, Rishiji,’ Vishwamitra cut in hastily. ‘But perhaps my companions could join your brahmacharyas and assist in preparing the vessel for our journey. And as we have to leave early, I have a few spiritual obligations of my own to perform before this night of Holi Purnima passes.’ ‘Of course,’ Rishi Adhranga said. He beckoned to a passing acolyte. ‘Shambhu, our guests wish to observe how we make our rafts. Take them and treat them with respect. Brahmarishi, if you will follow me, I will escort you to the mandir we maintain on the north wall of the ashram. That would be the most appropriate place for you to offer your prayers.’ Rama and Lakshman nudged each other as they followed Shambhu to the far side of the clearing. ‘Was the brahmarishi suppressing his laughter or was that just

my imagination?’ Lakshman asked. ‘I think he was straining to hold back the loudest guffaw ever heard in the seven nations!’ Rama replied. Both of them laughed as they were led to where a group of brahmacharyas sat amidst a pile of freshly cut balsa wood logs, a pot of tar slowly melting over a cookfire, and vines and creepers they were weaving into ropes to use as lashings. They looked up as Rama and Lakshman approached. All of them rose suddenly, bowing deferentially to the princes. ‘Be welcome, rajkumars of Ayodhya. We are honoured by your presence.’ Rama and Lakshman looked around, surprised. ‘I thought Shaivites renounced all worldly titles and hierarchies when they took their oaths,’ Rama said. The brahmacharyas looked at each other, grinning awkwardly. ‘That is so, rajkumar. But how can we ignore your royal stature?’ Rama went over and caught hold of the brahmacharya’s arm, taking him by surprise. ‘What is your name, my friend?’ ‘Shankar, my lord,’ the surprised boy replied. ‘Shankar,’ Rama said. ‘Feel my arm.’

turned back to Rama and looked at the prince’s hand. He reached out hesitantly and touched it. Rama nodded. ‘Go on, don’t be afraid. Squeeze it.’ Shankar squeezed Rama’s hand. ‘Does it feel any different from your own?’ Shankar shook his head. ‘You see then? I am flesh and blood, same as you are. A boy, same as you are. Mortal, same as you all. Treat me as any other mortal flesh-and-blood boy, then, please. Not as a prince or a lord or a deva. Just a boy. Is that understood?’ ‘The same goes for me,’ Lakshman said. ‘The next one to call me rajkumar or lord gets a whack on the back of the head. Samjhe?’ ‘Samjhe!’ they all chorused, looking surprised but happy. Rama nodded. ‘Now sit down and show us how you make your famous rafts.’ Dumma came and sat cross-legged beside the rajkumars. ‘I’ll show you, Prince Rama!’ He made a face, catching himself. ‘I mean, brother Rama!’

‘Go on, feel my arm. Squeeze it, bend it, pinch it if you like.’

‘That’s better,’ Rama said. ‘But I thought you, brother Dumma, were the expert on naughty stories rather than making rafts. That was quite a shock you gave your guru back there! I think he’s still recovering from the surprise.’

Shankar looked around at his fellows as if wondering if he was being made the butt of some practical joke. Finally he

Dumma grinned cheekily, all pretence of contrition gone. He leaned forward, speaking softly lest his guru should

‘Rajkumar?’

happen to overhear—even though the rishi was nowhere in sight. ‘If you like, I can tell you some more naughty stories. About Kama’s Grove. And the things that happened in there.’ ‘Watch out, brothers,’ the brahmacharya named Shankar called out. ‘Dumma’s stories will turn your ears red with embarrassment! Don’t be fooled by his cherubic looks. He’s a rascal of the first order when it comes to jokes and pranks!’ Rama looked at Lakshman. ‘Well, I think my brother and I wouldn’t mind our ears turning a wee bit red. Not purple, mind you, just a little pink, and maybe a bit darker too!’ Dumma grinned. ‘Then prepare yourselves, brothers. Because I’m going to start with the story of one of your very own ancestors and how he crept into Kama’s Grove one Shivratri with his new bride. It was a moonless night and your ancestor was amorous to the point of priapism . . .

THIRTEEN It was a sizeable chamber, perhaps ten yards by fifteen. But after a moment, as Sumantra’s eyes adjusted to the bluish glow from the guru’s staff, he began to discern another level, lower down. And beyond it, faintly outlined in the shadows, yet another level. He remembered from the rare past visits he had made to the dungeon that it had three levels in lengthwise sequence. The entire chamber was perhaps forty-five yards long and ten yards wide. Every fifteen yards, it fell by two full yards. The harder the criminal, the lower the level to which he was banished. The lowest level was usually waterlogged from seepage, he recalled. And the water tended to be cold, especially in winter, when the Sarayu’s temperature fell to a degree or two short of freezing. By the bluish light of the staff, he could see the chains and manacles bolted to the walls on this first level. They were all empty. There was nobody here. The guru walked slowly to the end of the first level and started down the stairs cut out of the rock. Sumantra paused a moment at the top of the stairs, peering ahead in a vain attempt to penetrate the darkness ahead. All he could see clearly was that the second level was also deserted. But there were dark patches and streaks everywhere, and he thought he could see something caught in the manacles. They look like hands, severed hands. Even as the realisation came to him, he caught the first whiff of the smell. The dungeon’s unforgettable rankness had reached him even before they had come through the second door. A combination

of mildew, rot, old stone and earth, and the various bodily emissions of generations of unfortunate traitors and criminals. But this smell was something new, something unlike anything he had smelled before. It was the smell of the deep forest, of animal sweat and fur, of leather and blood, ash and ghee. He couldn’t think of any single thing that smelt like this. Yet it aroused a churning in his guts that made his bowels turn to liquid fire. I should have stayed up there with Jabali. Why in Vishnu’s name did I come down here? Fool that I am! I’ll never see daylight again now. ‘Steady, Pradhan-Mantri. Keep your mind free of negative thoughts. Here, take my hand.’ The guru’s hand reached up to Sumantra. He stared at it dumbly for a second, then ventured down the steps. One, two, three . . . six. He stood at the second level and touched the guru’s hand, thanking him. ‘I can manage, gurudev. Pray, go on.’ Vashishta turned and began the descent to the third and lowest level. Halfway down the steps, he paused abruptly. Sumantra was forced to stop as well. The guru raised the staff as high as he could reach, and flexed his arm. The light blazed brighter than ever, turning almost pure white in intensity. Sumantra was straining to see beyond the guru’s head and shoulders when the door of the dungeon suddenly slammed itself shut with a clanging impact that hung in the air like the echoes of a temple bell. He turned to stare up through the darkness.

The door was barely visible at the top of the stone steps, only the iron bars gleaming faintly in the light of the staff. But the sounds coming from the far side were unmistakable. The door was being bolted and barred shut! He was starting up the steps when the guru’s voice stopped him. ‘Keys will not work on that door now, Sumantra. The force that bolted it shut wishes us to remain here until its work is done.’ Sumantra turned back, staring at the back of the guru’s head. From this height, three steps up, he could see a little of the third level now. The seepage that had accumulated at the bottom of the pit over the years was now a slimecovered pool of dark fluid. That was all he could see. Just black water. Nothing else. And nobody. The stench he had smelled was coming from that pit. From something within it. As if sensing his thoughts, a voice spoke from within the foul-smelling black water. Come, Brahmin. Come to me and see what gifts I have in store for you and your mortal companion. And with a sputter of sparks like a mashaal being extinguished, the blue light of the guru’s staff winked out, leaving them in pitch darkness. *** In the darkness of Kama’s Grove, the doe’s downy fur glowed golden as a gilded idol. Supanakha moved slowly between the close-growing trees, stepping nimbly and delicately. Her wound of that morning was fully healed and she moved with an almost dainty

gait, fully immersed in her role as a naïve forest-dwelling herbivore. She nuzzled the ground, as if searching for food or seeking the trail of her fellows. At times, she paused to raise her head, seeming to hear sounds inaudible to human ears, and shuddered briefly before moving on, away from the clearing. The light from the ashram lanterns faded gradually, and the sound of the brahmacharyas chanting Shaivite bhajans as they worked at the raft fell slowly behind, until they were mere murmurs on the wind, ghostly hints of human presence felt rather than actually heard. The floor of the grove was soft and mulchy beneath her hooved pads, as if it had drizzled lightly in the past evening. The scent of freshly dampened earth was rich in her nostrils, as were the smells of the berries of the grove and the overall pungent effervescence of botanical growth. The leaf-carpeted ground was pleasant and cool to walk on and she found several choice tidbits to munch on as she strolled leisurely. She had changed back into deer form before entering the grove. She had considered darkening her fur to blend in with her surroundings but the thought of changing her golden sheen to a dull, lacklustre brown or even a matted black offended her sense of aesthetics. What if she should come across Rama and he should see her in that unattractive form? Why, he wouldn’t even recognise her. It occurred to her that if he came across her in her natural rakshasi form he would hardly recognise her either, but she dismissed that thought impatiently. Rama would see her as she chose to be seen. She owed him that much at least for having saved her life. She slunk slowly through the grove,

moving from tree to tree cautiously. She had moved away from the clearing when the katha-vidya session ended. The minute Rama had risen and joined the other Shaivites, she had wished him good night silently, sighing as she watched his slender form move away. There had been many moments during the fireside tale-telling when she had feared being caught. After all, the brahmarishi had potent magic; surely he could sense the presence of one rakshasi so close by? Then again, her disguise had always proved quite effective. In this garb, she was a doe. Even a brahmarishi would be hard-pressed to perceive her as anything but.

of where she was going. She was deep in the heart of the grove, in a place where the trees grew so thickly, the moonlight could barely reach the forest floor. As she moved on, lost in her reverie, the trees parted and opened out into a small clearing evidently created by lightning striking a tree and burning away a few dozen square yards of the grove. The smell of burnt timber and leaves still hung in the air, and as she moved across the clearing, the moonlight shone down as bright as silvery daylight, catching the motes of ash that were churned up by her hoofs. She was so absorbed in her reverie that she failed to notice the strange disturbance taking place only yards away.

Still, she had shivered deliciously, thrilled by the magnitude of the risk she was undertaking. And yet nothing had happened. Not only had Vishwamitra failed to notice her, even Rama, who had been preternaturally alert and on guard the whole evening, hadn’t sensed her presence. Now that had been disappointing. At times, she had almost wished he would see her. Perhaps even leave those other mortals and come visit her in the grove. After all, this was Kama’s Grove and this was Holi Purnima, a beautiful full-moon night in the most romantic lovers’ rendezvous. And if he had come, she would have taken on the most gorgeous feminine form imaginable, more alluring than any of Indra’s apsaras, and she would have thanked him for saving her life. She would have spent all night thanking him, in fact.

The trees were shuddering violently. Twisting and bending apart. One particular tree, the same gnarled dead trunk that had been struck by lightning at some point in the recent past, was the centre of the disruption. Its bark rippled like the surface of a lake in which fish thrashed about just beneath the surface, unseen. The wind grew stronger in the windless grove, raising micro-tornadoes that caught up leaves and loose soil and spun them like dervishes up to several yards high.

But that was expecting too much.

As she stared at the unnatural storm-inthe-clearing, her eyes widened, her nostrils flared, and her heartbeat quickened to flight speed. A red eye began to grow in the centre of the storm

Now, miles away from the clearing, she shivered again. She had wandered aimlessly with her fantasies, hardly aware

A miniature storm cloud clustered into existence above the stump of the blasted tree, little bolts of lightning snaking out from its depths to strike at the stump. It was only when the lightning was followed by a deep ominous growl of thunder that Supanakha became aware of what was happening.

cloud, and she tried to back away slowly, her hind legs stumbling against the roots of a tree, her rear end striking the trunk of another. She shuddered violently, nostrils flaring, snout raised in that characteristic posture of a beast-of-prey confronted by a feared predator. The trunk of the blasted tree began to uproot itself with a groaning vibration that reverberated through her body. The dust dervishes grew fiercer and faster and rose higher into the air, cutting cylindrical passages through the leaves of the overhanging fruit trees. With a shower of red sparks and a flurry of lightning bolts, the stunted tree-trunk separated from the ground, its dead but deep roots clogged with clods of soil, and began to alter form. As it grew greater in height and slimmer in shape, Supanakha herself began to change back into her natural rakshasi form. With a snort she fought the change, unwilling to return to the world of her own kind. Let me stay a while longer, she pleaded silently, her eyes wide and round with desperation. Just long enough to meet him again, just once. The tree-trunk had become something obscenely unlike any natural tree-trunk. Unlike anything that could possibly grow organically from the rich belly of Prithvi Maa. It was a being almost nine feet in height, with its heads adding perhaps two feet more. The being’s body was surprisingly proportional, much like that of a human. It could have belonged to any Arya Kshatriya, one who had spent a fair amount of time in rigorous physical activities. It was a superbly formed masculine body, muscled and toned to perfection. The skin was the colour of

dark honey, almost blackish when seen in the darkness of the moonless grove, but glowing with a golden inner sheen on closer inspection. It reeked of good health and conditioning. This superbly formed body was clad in the minimum of clothing, just a warrior’s leather langot modestly concealing its maleness. Metalworked leather straps were lashed across the chest and shoulders and waist and thighs in a puzzling pattern that made sense only when you perceived that their purpose was to carry weapons, not clothe the body. And weapons they did carry, a dozen or more, sheathed or clasped on every limb of the magnificent body. Each an exotic artefact of a different, alien design, some clearly intended for combat against creatures not human, others capable of inflicting brutal wounds on mortal bodies, yet others of no discernible purpose. Supanakha knew that they were weapons designed to be used against all the three species: asuras, mortals and devas. This creature had only natural enemies, no natural associates. The ultimate predator, fighting everyone, trusting no one. Above the impressively constructed body was a massively thickened neck, easily thrice the size of a normal adult Arya’s neck. Veins and muscles stood out on it in bas-relief, testifying to the weight it was required to bear. Yet the unnatural girth of this part of the being’s anatomy seemed oddly proportionate to the exquisitely shaped body below. The neck had to be that strong to support the ten heads of Ravana, Lord of Lanka. Each of these heads were about half the size of a human male head, with all the normal features in the usual places. The heads were arranged side by side, four

extending beyond the creature’s right shoulder to about the point at which its right elbow would reach if that arm were held out. Five more heads extended over the creature’s left shoulder, just short of the left elbow if that arm were similarly held out. Each head grew out of the side of the previous one, joined at the place where the neck should have been, and joined at the ears as well. There was almost no gap between each head. Only those on either end had perfectly formed ears on their open sides. These were the auditory organs the creature used to achieve the task of hearing. In the centre of this row of nine smallerthan-normal heads, placed directly above the massive squat neck, was the creature’s primary head. This one was larger than normal size, as if to compensate for the relative smallness of its companions. Almost twice the size of a normal male head, it was unexpectedly striking. Though not exactly handsome by human standards, it had a masculine appeal that was unmistakable. This was a powerful person, its features insisted, a being accustomed to wielding and maintaining great forces. It had the arrogant, relaxed look of a being that had never known defeat and brooked no possibility of it. Each of the ten heads had a completely different face, none bearing the slightest resemblance to the others. Yet it was clearly the one in the middle that dominated the bizarre menagerie. It was evident from the glances of fear and hatred that the others shot at their central brother, and from the supreme indifference with which the central head regarded the world, ignoring its lesser associates to either side. Supanakha looked upon that massive

central head of her cousin Ravana and felt her insides turn to mulch. With a snort of terror, she released urine involuntarily, the hot, acrid emission spattering on the leaf-carpeted floor of the grove. The rancid odour filled the little clearing at once. The ten-headed being, now fully formed from the mass of the uprooted tree-trunk, sniffed the air with his ten pairs of nostrils and snorted derisively. Cousin. You don’t seem pleased to see me.

FOURTEEN The man with ten heads took a step towards the doe. Cousin, you have been in that wretched form so long, you have begun thinking and acting like a deer. Transform into your natural form. Supanakha shuddered as the last drops of urine squeezed their way out, but remained in her animal form. You defy me? I see that you have been corrupted by your contact with mortals. How many times have I warned you about this, foolish one? Why did you not report to me earlier as ordered? —I was injured, she replied, using the only language she could use, a kind of mental voicing that she shared with her cousin. — Some mortals attacked me while in this form. I was not prepared. She showed him the fast-fading scar of her wound. A scratch. I have seen you fight mortals. You can tear a dozen apart without thinking. Why did you not follow through on our plan when Kala-Nemi failed in his mission? —You know about that? She was surprised and guilty both at once. It had been her task to report back to him. Yet as always, somehow he had known everything that was going on. —I . . . I . . . was too disoriented. There were too many mortals about. They barred the gates. There was no way to enter the city. The creature with ten heads walked a few steps away, bowing to avoid touching the overhanging branches. His heads, displaying varying expressions, argued amongst themselves. Each offered a different set of opinions, different suggestions, ideas, orders. The

majority seemed to be advising killing Supanakha. She had been tainted from contact with mortals. Had been tamed somehow. Her lapse bordered on treachery. She must be destroyed. She shuddered again, wanting desperately to flee yet knowing that there was no corner of the three worlds where she could escape the wrath of the ten-headed one. She stood her ground, legs still splayed in that defeatist attitude of the cornered animal. When Ravana swung back to face her, his central head was smiling. You have slipped, cousin dear. But not fallen. I see a way in which you may fulfil your obligations yet. A brief pause, a flickering of disagreement and doubt across the ten bickering faces. You do wish to continue serving me, do you not? —Of course, my lord. You know my allegiance is to you alone. A flash of a smile on several faces. Scowls on the remaining ones. Good, I knew you would see reason. You are not the first of our kind to be seduced by the gentle glamour of these soft-skinned animals. They have a certain . . . how would you put it? . . . charm? —Nobility, she said, excited. Then caught herself. —I mean, not the same nobility that you possess, my lord. But a kind of crude, animal grace that is quite attractive. In a primitive, unasura fashion. The central head was watching her closely. Other heads were speaking to each other or looking elsewhere, disgusted by the conversation. Yes, I see. Another long pause, but all the heads were silent this time, contemplating the words issuing from

the lips of the central one. You have grown fond of them, in quite short a time. That is interesting.

—I understand perfectly. Cousin, thank you. Thank you so much! I promise you, this time—

—Not all of them, my lord. Just one. She struggled to express herself in a way that would explain her inner turmoil without winning her a punishment from one of those gruesome weapons. —He was . . . good to me. I find it pleasing to be near him.

But he was already turning away, finished. The ten heads were muttering agitatedly to one another again, speaking of other things, other matters. He stepped towards the spot where the trunk had risen, the exposed undersoil still gaping copper-red. The storm began again, the dervishes and cloud and lightning, and in moments he had morphed back into the tree-trunk and it in turn had settled back in its original location, the roots groaning as they found their places in the subterranean soil.

Again, that continued silence among all ten. A deceptive sense of casualness, almost indifference. The opposite of the rage and fury she would have expected. In that case, go on. Pursue this mortal. Stay as near him as you can. Indulge your desire. —Cousin? she said, too surprised to remember to use the more formal form of address. —You do not object to this?

Then the night was dark and silent again, and Supanakha was alone in the grove once more. ***

He waved a muscled arm derisively. The ears on either end-head twitched.

‘Ravana. Show yourself.’

As long as you do not seek to consummate this obsession. Not until I give you leave. Do you understand? That is a strict condition. Follow, observe, but no direct contact. And this time, I will brook no dereliction. Are we clear on this?

The guru’s voice was quiet, but in the deep silence of the lowermost dungeon, it reverberated like a temple bell in a stone tower.

—Yes, my lord. Her posture had changed to that of a doe in the throes of excitement, leaping in place, thrilling with shudders of delight. —You have my word. I shall not fail you again. I am to follow discreetly, observe, and report back to you.

You wish to gaze upon me. Very well. Here I am.

And when I order you to step in, you will do exactly as I command, no questions asked. No matter how much you dislike the command I issue. I have no time to waste. Even now, another pressing matter calls me. You understand? I can say this only one last time. When I command, you must obey!

A red flame grew in the depths of the pit. Within the black water. It grew more intense until the water itself seemed to have turned the colour of the flame. Then it rose from the water and hung suspended in mid-air, several yards above the pit. The ceiling of the dungeon was high at this point, perhaps twenty yards above. The red flame hung halfway to the ceiling, illuminating not just the pit but the entire dungeon. Within the pit, the water began to churn.

It boiled and seethed, roiling and circling faster and faster. Like a dervish, the water rose up into the air, still spinning madly. In the garish crimson glow, the dark water glowed like a spout of blood. Suddenly, the spout rose to the ceiling, then exploded into a million fragments, splattering across the dungeon. It cascaded across Sumantra and the guru, the liquid rubies shattering like manic raindrops against their faces, their limbs, their bodies. Sumantra cried out in horror and disgust as the foul stench of the pit-water coated him, clung to him, cloying, nauseating. This was how Jabali’s clothes were stained. In the pit, a figure had risen out of the water, raised by the dervish. Sumantra stared at it goggle-eyed and bit down on his fist to keep himself from screaming. His mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. It defied human logic, the logic of anatomy and wholeness. Once he had been unfortunate enough to see the offspring of a woman raped by a rakshas. The snarling, clawing infant that had lain in that crib, grinning through a mouthful of its dying mother’s life-blood, had not been half as monstrous as the creature he now faced. The beast before him was made up of the eleven spies who had been consigned to the dungeon. Somehow, through what dark sorcery he knew not, the wretches had been torn apart, limb from limb. And their separate parts had been reassembled to form this . . . this . . . abomination! The body was that of a single man, with an extra pair of arms grafted on below the wretch’s natural pair. The rest of the body was more or less normal, if you

could overlook the horrible gashes and wounds inflicted on its barely clothed flesh. The truly horrible part was the heads. All eleven of them. Somehow the obscene sorcerous power of the Dark Lord of Lanka had welded the flesh of the ears together, fusing the eleven heads of the doomed spies into one long line, arranged side to side atop the neck of the dead man. It was an impossible sight to behold, and one that made Sumantra’s mind reel in shock and disbelief. He understood now why Jabali and the warden had been so shaken. They must have seen this . . . thing being shaped before their very eyes. The spies being torn apart, then re-made in the unspeakable image of their master. The eleven heads opened their eyes, leering up at the guru and Sumantra. Does my flesh sculpture please you? ‘Obscenity.’ The guru’s voice was calm but hard. ‘You murder your own followers and defile their bodies.’ Murder? Defilement? These are mortal concepts, Brahmin. They have no meaning in the world of asuras. ‘Even asuras must obey the laws of nature. Such misuse of the power of Brahman will not go unchecked by the devas, Ravana. Your excesses go beyond endurance.’ The devas! I met their host on the battlefield and my colours ruled the day. Now they hide their heads in shame from me. No, Brahmin. This war is between me and these feeble mortals you seek to protect. And as you can see, mortal flesh is so easy to destroy. Or to corrupt. ‘Do your worst, rakshas. You will not

triumph. This transgression marks the beginning of your end. You hasten your own downfall with every evil act you perpetrate.’ You speak boldly now, old one. But you will not speak so when I ravage your mortal cities and lay waste to the civilisation of which you puny two-legged insects are so proud. I will triumph this time, and you will be the one to fall. I will crush you so low you will never rise again. The days of the Seers are past. The days of mortals are coming to an end. My time is just beginning. The guru’s voice thundered, echoing through the large chamber. ‘Speak no more to me, Ravana! I have no wish to hear your ill-thought boasts and see your cheap antics. Begone from this place. Begone before I cast you back into that furnace of agony where you truly belong. Back into patal, that lowest level of narak. And this time, even a thousand years of penance will not get you Brahma’s attention. Nor Shiva’s. The devas are wise to your ways now. Begone before I send you fleeing like a pariah dog!’ Watch your tongue, old one. Do not make threats you cannot carry out. Your days of threatening me are done. Now my sun rises in the blood-red sky of the west. You seek to banish me to the lowest level of hell again? Watch as I turn this mortal plane of Prithvi itself into Patal. Watch as I undo in a few mortal years all that you have done these past seven thousand. Watch and weep, Brahmin. For weep is all you will be able to do when I come to take Ayodhya. ‘Your threats do not scare me, rakshas! Already, your assassin has been exposed and dispatched. Your spies have been uprooted. And soon we shall strike a mortal blow at the heart of your forces. Your grandiose dreams are merely that, dreams. Your cloven feet shall never step on the proud avenues of Ayodhya.’ The creature laughed. It began as a low

chuckle from the head in the centre, but soon spread to all the other heads as well. All eleven laughed together, each in his own individual way. The sound clashed and echoed through the dungeon, reverberating off the stone walls, booming through the corridors and stairwell of the subterranean prison, wafting all the way up the stairs to where the warden stood sweating and praying for the safe return of the visitors. Fool! Brahmin, you believe these are victories? They are as flea bites on the rump of a dying mule. Merely nips to get your attention. You believe you rooted out all my spies? I have eyes and ears in the palace itself. My followers include the highest and mightiest in your puny Arya nations. To root out all my spies you will have to cut out the heart and lungs from the diseased body of mortal civilisation itself. And even if you have the courage to do so, it will start a civil war among your mortal nations. My uncle Kala-Nemi is alive and well and here by my side already, unharmed by your charlatan mantras. As for Ayodhya . . . The laughter went on longer this time, until Sumantra felt he would go insane at the sound. I am already in Ayodhya! The monstrosity reared back, all eleven heads still laughing manically. The red flame overhead grew brighter, dazzling white in its intensity. Guru Vashishta raised his eyes, shielding them with his hand as he peered up at the light. ‘Sumantra,’ he cried. ‘Leave this place! At once! Flee!’ Sumantra didn’t need to be told twice. He turned and stumbled up the slippery damp stone steps. He reached the second level and resisted the urge to look back.

‘Go, Sumantra!’ The creature’s laughter built in a crescendo, now as multifarious as eleven hundred separate voices, then eleven thousand . . . It was as if every dead atma roving nearby had been drawn into the dungeon by the charisma of the Lord of Lanka’s demonic presence. The laughter pierced Sumantra’s ears, searing his brain, threatening to immobilise him with its sheer intensity. He reached the uppermost level, then the door. But the door was locked and bolted! From outside! From below, the guru’s voice rang out, counterpointing the screeching hordes of laughing atmas, calling a mantra. With a burst of blue light, the dungeon door blew open, right off its hinges, tumbling over and over itself with a crashing and ripping. Sumantra blessed the devas and ran into the passageway, towards the stairwell. Then up, up he climbed, his legs pumping desperately, scraping his shoulders and head and hands innumerable times, shedding skin, breaking a fingernail, drawing blood, as he fought his way up the narrow stairwell. The laughter and the mantras followed him all the way. Finally he burst into the torchlight of the upper prison building, into the waiting arms of the warden. ‘Vishnu be praised!’ the warden said, grasping hold of Sumantra. The pradhan-mantri turned. ‘Gurudev?’ The seer was not behind him. Then he heard the sounds bubbling up from the bowels of the dungeons below. The guru’s voice was barely audible over the deafening cacophony of demonic laughter. But it was audible nevertheless.

A deafening impact shook the jail to its very foundations. A roaring red and blue flame—the colours intertwining like battling serpents, Sumantra saw—came racing up the stairwell, billowing out into the hallway. The warden cried out and was thrown back on to the floor. Sumantra was knocked off his feet by an impact like the hot breath of a furious dragon. Then, as suddenly as it had occurred, the explosion ended. And there was nothing but silence.

FIFTEEN The light in the eastern sky above the cliff was still soft and pink when the brahmacharyas carried the raft to the river. Rama and Lakshman were to the fore, marching in step with the Shaivites and joining in their cheerful working chant. In honour of the princes, the brahmacharyas substituted their customary ‘Om Namah Shiva’ with the traditional Kosala chant: ‘Dasa naam satya hai.” Literally, Dasaratha’s name is truth, or more liberally, Praise to the true king, Dasaratha. It was a short distance from the ashram to the riverbank, but the vigour and enthusiasm of the brahmacharyas once again made Rama feel suddenly nostalgic for his gurukul days. There had been a strong bond between his brothers and the other shishyas of the kul, regardless of their caste, varna, gotra, birth-rank or wealth-stature. Even now, he would still be willing to risk his life for any one of those friends; but where were they now? All scattered across the kingdom, some across the seven nations. As they emerged from the grove on to the gravelly bank of the river, Rama called a halt, eight pairs of bare feet crunching as they stopped as one person, then gave the order to lower the raft to the bank. All eight moved as one, as the raft settled without a whisper on the siltslippery lip. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra had followed with Rishi Adhranga and the older rishis, and they said their farewells now, speaking the customary ritual blessings and mantras. Rama and Lakshman had already said their goodbyes to the other brahmacharyas when they had gone down to the river together for their morning ablutions.

As he had recited the Gayatri mantra, standing waist-deep in the icy flowing water, taking his acamana, Rama had been aware of eyes on his back. It was little Dumma, more intent on watching the prince-heir of Ayodhya than on performing his own morning prayer. ‘I am not the sun-God, Dumma,’ Rama had said softly when he had finished his mantras. ‘Just a shishya who enjoys a good joke as much as you do. Always remember that. Respect all men, but worship none. Adoration is for the devas.’ He had heard the little brahmacharya’s sharp intake of breath and hissed whisper: ‘He has eyes in the back of his head! I told you, a prince of Ayodhya has powers!’ It had made him smile and wish yet again that Lakshman and he could linger here a while longer. Better still, if we could fetch Bharat and Shatrugan here too, it would be like old times again. He winced at the irony of how, when they had been at the gurukul, they had dreamed of nothing more than becoming active Kshatriyas, risking their lives, having adventures, fighting enemies and asuras. And now, when he was embarking on the most amazing adventure of his life, here he was, wishing for those gurukul days again. Guru Vashishta had said it best: To want what you have not, that is the eternal longing of the mortal heart. Now, as Lakshman and he checked the raft’s riggings one last time—only because the senior brahmacharyas insisted, proud of their craftsmanship— and waited for the brahmarishi to board,

he felt someone watching him again. He turned instinctively, a smile ready for Dumma. But there was nobody there, only the empty grove, its perfectly spaced fruit trees casting long shadows in the slanting light of dawn. He glanced around. Dumma was over there, up in a tree, tossing fruit down to his fellow brahmacharyas. Rama turned back to the grove. He had distinctly sensed someone watching from this direction. Even now, he was aware of a consciousness somewhere deep within the grove observing him intently. He shut his eyes, letting his mind travel where his vision could not reach. Behind the trunks of fruit tree; amongst the grapevines, swollen green bunches hanging pendulously, ripe for the picking; up in the leafy branches of a mango tree, its fruit still small and green, a month or two away from ripening— the sour-sweet taste of the kairees palpable on his tongue, filling his mouth with saliva; into a small open field of watermelon, dark green and growing fatter by the day; across a patch of tomatoes left to ripen in the sun; behind a cluster of— ‘Bhai?’ He opened his eyes, blinking in the brightening light as his pupils adjusted. It had been dark in the grove. Lakshman was staring at him. ‘At you all right?’ He nodded brusquely. ‘I’m fine, Lakshman. Just saying one last mantra.’ Lakshman grinned. ‘Staying with Shaivites has made you suddenly pious. I hope you won’t try to shoot down the

rakshasas arrows!’

with

mantras

instead

of

Rama grinned. ‘Actually, I thought I might try tossing tree-trunks at them!’ Lakshman raised his eyebrows. ‘Speaking of that, I’ve been wanting to ask you since last night. Have you felt anything else? Anything different?’ Rama shrugged. ‘Not really. Just better, stronger, healthier. But I thought it was because we had such a good time with the brahmacharyas last night.’ Lakshman grinned. ‘It was fun, wasn’t it? Wish we could stay a week or two! We never did get to celebrate Holi after all.’ ‘Well, maybe after we finish off the rakshasas and the brahmarishi completes his yagna, we can make a detour and stop by at Mithila.’ Lakshman frowned. ‘Why Mithila?’ ‘So you can smear a little Holi rang on your Urmila’s pretty face.’ Rama looked thoughtful. ‘Or maybe not just on her pretty face.’ Lakshman punched him on the shoulder. Rama punched him back. Lakshman fell off the raft, landing with a loud splash in the shallows. Mud splattered the other brahmacharyas standing around, staining their spotless white dhotis. Shambu got mud on his face. He wiped it off with a finger and put the finger in his mouth, sucking off the mud. Rama wiped mud and water from his own face, laughing at his brother. ‘You don’t have to be so touchy about her, little brother. I’ll ask the brahmarishi to speak to her father about your match, if

you like. Chacha Janak will be glad to have you as his son-in-law, I’m sure!’ ‘Shut up,’ Lakshman warned. ‘Okay, okay, peace,’ Rama said. He held out his hand. Lakshman hesitated, suspecting a prank, then took it. Rama heaved him up a little too fast, and Lakshman shot to his feet and stumbled towards the other side of the raft. Rama caught him with his other hand, balancing him. ‘See? You’ve fallen head over heels for that girl!’

raft, his pole rising out of water with a whoosh of splattered drops. The seer’s powerful hand gripped his shoulder and held him steady. ‘Sorry,’ Rama said, raising his free hand in apology. Lakshman shot him a warning look and stuck his pole back in the river. Rama used his own pole to stop their swinging momentum and slowly the sluggish current caught them and began pulling them downstream.

‘Ji guruji,’ they said at once, turning serious.

Rishi Adhranga and the other rishis raised their hands, bidding them goodbye and wishing them Shiva’s protection on their mission. The raft began to drift slowly downriver, the fresh logs still settling in the water with popping and cracking sounds. The brahmacharya acolytes ran alongside them, waving and yelling out words of encouragement. A small figure came sprinting down from the grove, barrelled through the watching rishis, weaved through his fellow acolytes, and ran along the lip of the bank beside them. His feet began to sink into the loam at once, almost tripping him up. His hands clutched something to his bare chest.

They picked up the three-yard-long balsa wood poles the brahmacharyas had carved for them.

‘Rajkumar Rama! Rajkumar Lakshman! I have fruits here for you, to nourish you on your journey!’

The brahmacharyas bent together and began shoving. The raft resisted for a moment, then broke free of the bank, floating out on to the water , bobbing from the shove-off. Rama and Lakshman stuck their poles into the river, and easily touched bottom. They needed to push the raft out into the middle, but Rama’s first push was much too hard, swinging them around in a complete west-east circle. Lakshman tottered and started to fall back on the

Rama and Lakshman exchanged a grin. Rama called out across the few yards of river that separated his side of the raft from the young acolyte: ‘You are a wise brahmacharya, Dumma. Warriors must eat to gain strength. Toss them across one at a time, and mind that you do not fall into the river.’

Lakshman grinned back at him. ‘Not as much as you’ve fallen for her sister Sita.’ Rama was about to respond when Vishwamitra’s voice cut through their horseplay. ‘If you have finished you tomfoolery, rajkumars, we might consider departing. We have other things to do besides pushing one another around in muddy riverbanks, if you recall.’

‘Prepare to catch,’ Dumma called back breathlessly, struggling to keep abreast of the raft. The current was slowly picking

up their pace and his first throw went astray, the small ripe papaya rising high above Rama’s head to smash across the cliff-side bank, bursting open on a rock and startling a jal murghi that rose squawking angrily into the air. Rama laughed, just as the little brahmacharya’s next throw caught him full on the neck, a sitaphal striking him wetly and bursting open to release its milky-white innards across his chest. Lakshman roared with laughter at that, while the young brahmacharya cried out in horror. ‘I’m so sorry, Rajkumar Rama! So sorry!’ Rama smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s okay. Just don’t throw any more sitaphal.’ The boy’s next throw was deadly accurate, the fruit flying straight to Rama’s outstretched hand. He snatched it out of the air without missing a beat in his steady poling. He caught the rest of the fruit one-handed too, using the other hand to continue poling to keep them in mid-river, away from the rocks on the north side and the silt on the south. Dumma managed to toss him three oranges, two pears, an apple and three small kairees in quick succession before the raft picked up speed. ‘Watch out!’ Rama cried. Dumma looked ahead just in time to see the fallen tree-trunk barring his way, and with a whoop leaped over the obstacle and landed in a pool of muddy water. His dhoti unwound itself at the impact, leaving him stark naked. He clutched at his sacred thread as if it

could cover his nakedness. The other brahmacharyas running behind him on the firmer earth of the upper bank broke into hysterical laughter at the sight of poor Dumma scrambling for his dhoti while belatedly trying to keep his groin covered with his other hand. Rama and Lakshman laughed too, and Rama thought he even glimpsed a flicker of a smile pass briefly across Vishwamitra’s face. Dumma cried out in frustration as his dhoti floated out of his reach into the river, and splashed furiously in a futile attempt to grab it. The dhoti dodged his hand and went drifting slowly downstream, racing the raft. He spat out a most unbrahmacharya-like string of curses at the escaping garment, driving his fellow acolytes to another paroxysm of laughter. He realised that the raft was about to turn a bend and waved frantically to Rama, forgetting for a moment to keep his nascent manhood covered. ‘Visit us again on your way back, Lord Rama! I’ll keep more fruit ready for you! Sitaphals!’ Lakshman giggled as the brahmacharya stepped back, lost his footing, and splashed down on his bare bottom in the mud of the bank. The raft went around the bend, and that was their last sight of the little acolyte. ‘That boy,’ Rama said, shaking his head. He lifted his pole out of the water and looked at the sage. Vishwamitra was standing with his legs apart, at a slight angle to the river, arms crossed across his chest. His eyes were open, yet he seemed to be looking at worlds beyond the one they were in right now. In the

growing light of the new day, he made an impressive sight, his statuesque muscled body dappled by the shadows of overhanging boughs. A bird cry distracted him then and he looked across the river again, past Rama. ‘Look,’ Lakshman called. ‘Chini kulang.’ They were passing a marshy pond close by the river. The pond was filled with a number of immaculate white cranes with bright red beaks. They shuffled together, shoulder to shoulder in the water, plucking greedily at tubers and stalks. ‘Burmuch,’ Rama corrected, using the name he had heard his mother call the birds on a journey a long time ago. ‘Same thing,’ Lakshman replied. ‘They’re known as kare kare west of the Indus, tunhi up north, and in Kausalya-maa’s desh, burmuch. But Father and Guru Vashisata always call them chini kulang, because they fly south to our land every year from North Chinn, to escape the harsh winter snows.’ Vishwamitra said: ‘From the frozen tundraland of Siber, to be accurate. Much further north of Chinn. There the Russis name them whitecrane or sibercrane. Mostly they seek out the warmer climes of Marwar and Gujjar, but some grow weary of the long flight and settle here. They will return home to their snowlands in a few days.’ Lakshman raised his hand, cupping his mouth, and emitted a loud piercing bird call. Thousands of red beaks rose in unison, seeking out the source of sound but not a bird took wing. Rama nodded in admiration at the immobility of the birds. They have never

known danger before; they live fearlessly under Shiva’s protection. Lakshman grinned, proud of imitation. ‘How was that, bhai?’

his

‘Pretty good,’ Rama replied, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Of course, it happened to be a jhilli’s mating call, rather than the chini kulang’s natural cry, but I’m sure they didn’t mind.’ Lakshman’s face fell. ‘A jhilli’s mating call?’ ‘Yes. Right now, those snowcranes are probably wondering since when marsh crakes grew so tall and poled rafts downriver.’ ‘Go catch long fish with your short beak,’ Lakshman retorted, then glanced at Vishwamitra. The seer seemed absorbed in his contemplation. They poled along in silence for a while. The current flowed gently, just strong enough to keep them moving at a steady pace. After a while, the river grew much broader, wide enough for the raft to float smoothly along without needing constant correction. They sat then, keeping their poles ready beside them, with not much more to do than watch the countryside scrolling past. To their left the cliff face rolled by relentlessly, a blurring blackish-grey wall scarred by jagged red veins of ore. It blocked the rising sun for the first few yojanas, keeping it from falling directly on them, and the cool wind and moist spray from the river kept them refreshed and alert. To their right, the fruit thickets of Kama’s Grove fell behind after less than an hour, giving way to fertile marshlands, which in turn gave way to a succession of wood-thickets. These were populated by common animals who watched them

boldly from the trees or banks without any sign of nervousness. Rama and Lakshman called out the names of trees, birds and animals as they came into view, arguing over the varied nicknames used for the species in different parts of the continent. When they fell silent, unable to identify a bird or a plant, the seer supplied its name, reeling off a succession of alternatives in a multitude of languages. After several yojanas, Rama began to realise that they hadn’t spotted a single predatory beast or heard any of the dreaded cries of the notorious forest hunters. No wonder the herbivores are so numerous and so bold; even their natural predators aren’t around to hunt them. Shiva’s umbrella of protection must extend right up to here. The sage remained standing the whole time, like a ship’s captain on his vessel’s prow, watching for signs of land. Or dangerous reefs. After the rajkumars tired of identifying species he fell silent too, and only the sounds of the river and the wildlife on its banks marked their passing. As the sun rose and found the centre of the river, the day grew warmer, losing its dawn chill. The water was warmer too, when they trailed their hands in it, and flowed much faster. The sound of the river, the calling of the birds and animals in the woods, and the placid calm of the whole landscape began to lull them. Finally, the landscape began to change. First to go were the woods, giving way to a strange semi-denuded habitat, neither wholly swamp, nor wholly forest. The trees here seemed malformed rather than destroyed, their trunks stunted,

branches and leaves withered, flowers and fruit absent. The ground became marshland, but oddly brownish marshland, with no lichen or moss or reeds. As they rushed along, even these stunted waterlogged half-woods ended, followed by vast open patches where the aborted trunks of dead trees struggled to rise above an unnatural purplish-blackish undergrowth. The stink of these patches was awful, reminding Rama somewhat of the organic stench of fields filled with compost, but much worse. After another few yojanas, even these stench-patches gave way and a new phase began. The riverbank became stony, jagged black lohit-stone boulders lining either side, some looming so high they obscured any view of the forest beyond. The forest itself was dense, dark, impenetrable, the direct opposite of the benign profusion and fragrant calm of Kama’s Grove. The trees were enormously tall, their twisted, writhing shapes lunging out at one another like snarling beasts. Deep within their thick undergrowth, the glittering dark eyes of unseen creatures watched them pass, reminding Rama of a rksa he had once seen caught in a trapper’s pit. The great black bear had stared up at him with eyes as dark and fathomless as these hidden creatures. He was so busy watching the woods that he didn’t see when the cliff ended. One moment it was there to their left, towering above them, capped by the late morning sun, then it was gone, falling rapidly behind. He looked back and glimpsed the fast-disappearing cliff between the clawing limbs. It veered away sharply then vanished from sight, their last link with the normal world.

The river slowed to a seeping sludgeflow, sluggish with thick undergrowth, covered with rotting logs, wormriddled limbs and mossy scum. The surface seethed with swarms of insects. The unnaturally sharp-edged boulders crowded in on either bank, and as the river grew narrower, they seemed to reach out to try and snag the travellers on the raft, looming above them like sullen elephants. The cries of predatory animals grew louder and more profuse around them: roars, howls, screams, maddened shouts and bestial yells. Angry screeches were countered by plaintive sounds of pain or fury; it was hard to tell which. Somewhere, a lone wolf howled mournfully, and was drowned out by a pack of completely different beasts, threatening savagely rather than answering his solitary plea. A terrified animal screamed and thrashed around in a futile attempt at escape, its cries fading to a desolate whimper as its hunter caught up with it and ripped it apart with liquid shredding noises. There were stranger cries too, unknown species calling out questioningly to one another, as if communicating or seeking out their fellows. The sky had vanished almost completely, glimpsed only in slices and sections viewed through the panoply of clawing limbs. They were enveloped in a twilight that was not quite night-dark; here and there, greenish-yellowish patches glowed faintly on the ground and on the bark of trees. The raft ground to a halt with a grating that set their teeth on edge. Rama stopped poling at once, but Lakshman was slightly slower in following suit and the vessel’s momentum carried it a half-

yard further. Rama felt the underside scraping over something yielding and fleshy, and a gut-churning stench rose from beneath the lashed logs: the waterswollen corpse of some unidentifiable creature. Lakshman turned his head and spat several times into the water, clearing his throat hoarsely. Rama resisted the urge to retch. Vishwamitra bent and picked up his staff. Rama noticed for the first time that the seer had wound a succession of coloured threads around the top of the staff, at the place where it was gripped: they were red ochre, parrot green and lemon yellow, wound tightly enough to form a knob. The colours seemed to glow faintly in the gloom of the forest as he raised the staff. The forest sounds died down slowly, as if aware of their presence, waiting to see their next move. In the stillness, the seer spoke softly, using the same calm tone with which he had named birds and trees earlier. ‘Rajkumars, welcome to Bhayanak-van.’

SIXTEEN ‘Rama!’ Dasaratha’s voice was hoarse but the panic in his tone was unmistakable. The maharaja sat up in bed, sweat pouring down his face, hands stretching out desperately as if trying to grasp someone just out of reach. ‘Rama, be careful! The Bhayanak-van—’ Kausalya was the first to reach his side, simply because she was closer. Bharat had snapped awake the instant Dasaratha uttered the first cry, but he was reclining in the baithak-sthan across the room and the comfortable nook had lulled him into a fitful doze. He blinked himself awake as he joined Kausalyamaa beside the maharaja’s bedside. ‘Rama!’ Dasaratha’s face contorted in a look of utter futility and despair. He clenched his fists tight and slammed them down weakly on his thighs. His body shuddered and he bent over, weeping. Kausalya offered a cloth to catch his tears, and was shocked to find them searing hot. The maharaja was still burning with fever. ‘It was just a dream,’ she said, caressing his shoulder, trying to soothe him. ‘Just a bad dream.’ He turned jaundiced eyes on her. ‘A dream?’ ‘Yes, Father.’ Bharat sat by Dasaratha’s feet, massaging them gently. ‘Just a fever dream.’ Dasaratha looked down at himself, then

at his surroundings, as if becoming aware for the first time of where he was. ‘A dream,’ he repeated dully, then pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. A cluster of serving girls appeared in a flurry at the doorway, alerted by the sound of the maharaja’s voice. Kausalya ordered one of them to fetch some freshly squeezed juice and fruits in case the maharaja was able to take some nourishment, and dismissed the rest. The room fell still and silent again, but after a moment or two, Bharat heard the distant sound of cheering from the avenue outside the palace. Word had reached the crowd: the maharaja had regained consciousness. ‘A dream,’ Dasaratha repeated for the third time. He looked up at Bharat, who was still massaging his feet. He reached out and touched his son’s hand as if unsure whether he was real or a figment of his nightmare. ‘Bharat,’ he said slowly, wonderingly. ‘My son.’ ‘Yes, Father, I’m right here.’ Dasaratha raised his eyes to Kausalya. A light of hope shone in his pupils. ‘It was all a dream. Rama and Lakshman are still in the palace. Playing Holi. They never went to the Bhayanakvan. They aren’t gone to fight asuras. They’re right here, safe and sound, in their beds, asleep.’ Bharat saw Kausalya-maa stiffen. He couldn’t see her face from where he sat but he could sense the pain in her heart. He didn’t know what he might have said had the question been posed to him. Might he have lied rather than tell his father the bitter truth? It was obvious that the maharaja was delirious and

intensely troubled. Kausalya spoke softly. ‘No, my lord. They have indeed gone to the Southwoods. To fight asuras. They are under the protection of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra and are well armed and equipped. They will return home soon, safely.’ Dasaratha cried out and put a hand up to his face, as if to ward off a blow. As he cringed in misery, Bharat’s eyes grew moist. He couldn’t bear to see his father like this. ‘Father,’ he said. ‘Rama is the best bowman in the kingdom. He’s better than even Shatrugan and I. He’ll come back safely. I know he will.’ Dasaratha stopped crying. He uneovered his face, his hands clutching his chest instead, and looked at his son. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said faintly. ‘He is best.’ Kausalya watched Dasaratha for a moment longer. The serving girl brought in some pomegranate juice and diced fruit. Kausalya told her to set it all down by the beside, then dismissed her. She went out backwards, starting in dismay at he maharaja. After a moment, Kausalya turned to Bharat. ‘Putra. Your father needs to be alone for some time. Why don’t you retire to your bedchamber and take some rest. You can come see him first thing in the morning.’ ‘And you, Maa?’ ‘I will stay with him a little while longer. To tend to his needs.’ Bharat wanted to protest, to stay and try

to nurse his father back to health, but he understood that Kausalya-maa wanted to be alone with his father for some reason. It was her right and privilege. He nodded and bent to touch her feet, taking her ashirwaad one more time before he left the room. She touched his head affectionately. ‘Ayushmaanbhav, bete.’ Kausalya waited until Bharat had passed out of hearing range before she leaned forward. ‘Dasa?’ He was staring dully at the far wall. Unseeing. ‘Dasa, what is it? What was the dream you just had? Why did it trouble you so?’ He turned slowly towards her. Still unseeing. She reached out and touched his cheek. His stubbled skin was fever hot and damp with sweat. ‘Look at me, Dasa. It’s me, Kausalya.’ He looked at her, focusing for the first time since he had awoken. ‘My beloved Kausalya.’ Tears welled up in his eyes again. ‘Tell me about it. It will make it easier to forget. Tell me your dream.’ He stared at her for a long moment, then looked over her shoulder at the tray the serving girl had brought in. She saw his line of vision and turned, picking up the juice and offering it to him. He took it and sipped, barely wetting his lips. It seemed to make him feel better. She waited for him to speak.

‘Satyakaam,’ he said at last. She looked at him. ‘The curse of Satyakaam.’ She scanned her memory. Who was Satyakaam? An asura whom Dasaratha had fought in the Last War? A mortal enemy? Some would-be usurper? A challenger to the throne? A noble who had betrayed him? But she couldn’t connect the name to any memory. She had no recollection of any Satyakaam. ‘Who was he?’ she asked gently. He looked at the juice as if surprised to find himself holding it. He gave her the bowl and she put it aside carefully. Perhaps later, when he had unburdened his mind, she would get him to take some nourishment. For now, he seemed to need to talk, to relieve his mind of this ugly dream, or memory, or mixture of the two. ‘I loved to hunt,’ he began. ‘Before I met you, when I was young and strong and brainless. I loved to hunt more than anything else in the world. Except maybe women.’ He remembered to whom he was speaking and hesitated. She shook her head, smiling. ‘I’m a woman too. You love me, that’s true.’ He smiled back tentatively. But the smile barely moved his lips. He went on after a moment, more rapidly now, as if eager to get the telling over with. ‘Once I was deep in the forest. Hot on the trail of a Nilgiri stag. A big one. I had been after it for the better part of a full day. It was evening, almost sundown. I was tired

and exasperated at not having downed it yet. My companions were searching for me; I could hear them calling faintly in the distance, miles away. There was a princess, I think. A beauty. I wanted to return with a trophy. Not emptyhanded.’ She listened. She saw how involved he was in the telling. As if the story was more than just a story. How his hands, face and body moved and jerked spasmodically, trying to participate in the telling. This incident meant something to him. Something very important. She had never heard him speak of it before. ‘Just when I thought I had lost it, I heard a sound up ahead. I went carefully through the bushes. It was thick and close there, the undergrowth. Tiger territory. I was on edge, my bow strung, my arrow ready to be loosed if I so much as breathed on the string. There was a waterhole up ahead. I could smell the water, and the odours of the animals that came to drink there. Many different animals. I heard an animal drinking, the wet slapping sounds, like a large stag’s tongue might make when slurping up water thirstily.’ He clenched a fist, drawing back his right hand, raising his left. ‘I judged its position, behind a berry bush. And loosed my arrow.’ He dropped his hands, his head falling forward. When he raised his face again, he was crying once more. ‘I went down to the waterhole, knowing I had hit it squarely. I found him there, his earthen pot fallen by his side, shattered into two halves. The arrow was in his throat, a mortal wound. He was clutching it, gasping for breath, for life. Life that I had stolen. Because I wanted a trophy.

For a princess.’

understanding her reaction.

He stopped. Kausalya felt her own tears welling now. She could see how much anguish it cost him to tell the tale. She suspected he had never spoken of it before to anyone, ever. Had bottled the knowledge in his chest all these many years where it had festered and seethed. Until today, when it had burst free, loosed like an ill-timed arrow in search of a victim.

‘Cursed. They said that they had little time left to live. The only thing that kept them alive was the knowledge that they had such a fine young son. That he would go on after their passing away, would take a wife some day, would continue their line. Now, with him gone, they had nothing left to live for. What good was my money? They wanted their son back.’

‘He tried to tell me something. I tried to beg his forgiveness. He pointed, unable to speak. Gestured at the water, at the broken pot. I held him until he died. He was a strong, handsome young man. In the prime of life. Like myself.

Dasaratha hung his head in shame. ‘I left there in mortal fear. Their curse rang in my ears. I found my hunting party. Returned to the hut, intending to take the old couple back to the palace with me, ask my father Aja to decide what to do next.’

‘After he had passed away, I tried to understand what he had been trying to show me. I went the way he had pointed. I found a small path, worn from use. From his daily trips to the waterhole and back. At the end of the path, I found a tiny shack. Barely a cottage. A hut. Inside the hut were an old couple, weak and ailing. Both were blind.’

He raised his eyes to the ceiling, desolate. ‘When I returned, they were both dead. They had taken their own lives by chewing on a poisonroot plant.’ Kausalya placed her hand on his. He gripped it tightly, taking comfort in the contact.

Dasaratha passed a hand across his eyes. It came away dry, but he squeezed his eyes intensely, as if trying to release more tears, unable to understand why more would not come. He shook his head, still grieving for the death of that young man he had shot, forty or more years ago.

Then he shrugged. ‘And that was the end of it.’

‘I told them what I had done. I tried to explain that I was a rajkumar of Ayodhya, heir to the sunwood throne. Money was no object. I would see to it that they were taken care of for the rest of their lives. They cursed me.’

He looked at her levelly. A strange kind of calm had descended upon him, as if the telling of the tale had burned out his anxiety and anguish the way a fever burned out a disease.

Kausalya reared back, like a child stung by a snake. Dasaratha nodded,

She shook her head. ‘Not the end. The curse. That was what gave you that bad dream, wasn’t it? What was the curse they laid upon you. What was it, Dasa?’

‘They said that one day I too would lose a son the way they had lost theirs.’

Kausalya’s hand flew to her mouth.

What’s in it?’

‘That it would happen when I was old and ailing like they were. When I needed him most. That he would be brutally murdered the way I had murdered Satyakaam, not even knowing or seeing the face of his enemy.’

Manthara smiled. If she told Kaikeyi what was in these paans, the second queen would vomit out the entire mouthful. She replied cryptically: ‘Everything you like. And a little special something of my own.’

Kausalya rose from the bedside. ‘No! NO!’

Yes, my dearest. A little Brahmin boy’s blood. Sanctified by our Lord of Lanka at my last yagna. Does that taste better now?

Dasaratha spread his hands helplessly. ‘My dream was of Rama in the Bhayanak-van. He was alone, separated from Lakshman and the brahmarishi. And that was when the asuras attacked him from behind, from above, from all around. He was surrounded, and torn apart by the beasts. Torn to shreds.’ ‘No, Dasa! That is not Rama’s fate! Rama will come back to us safe and sound. Alive!’ Dasaratha bowed his head. ‘I pray that you are right.’ He looked at her beseechingly. ‘But if you are right, then what of the curse of Satyakaam? What about my karma?’ *** Manthara offered Kaikeyi a thali full of paans. Kaikeyi looked at the little betelnut-leaf squares stuffed with an assortment of spices, and squealed: ‘Paan! I love paan!’ She took the largest, plumpest one and stuffed it into her mouth. Sticky sweet juices spilled out of the corner of her mouth, dripping on to the blouse of her sari. She wiped it away carelessly, spreading the stain further. ‘Umm, this is wonderful, Manthara.

She took a paan too. The smallest one, made specially for her. She hated having to eat a morsel more than was absolutely essential to survive, as her bony arms and limbs testified so eloquently. Kaikeyi watched her eat the miniature paan with wide, surprised eyes. ‘Manthara? You eating a paan? What’s the occasion? There must be an occasion if you’re eating paan!’ Manthara waited until she had chewed most of the paan. She resisted the urge to spit out the betelnut juice. If she spat, she would spit out the sanctified blood too. She forced herself to swallow the whole thing down, juice and all. Then she answered Kaikeyi’s question. ‘It’s been a very good day for us, my queen. A very good day indeed. And an even more fruitful night.’ She had just heard from her informants about the tamasha in the dungeons. It had been the perfect nightcap to an almost perfect day. Kaikeyi mistook Manthara’s meaning. ‘Yes, it went just as you said. I did as you told me to do. Confronted Dasaratha and Kausalya and gave them both a

piece of my mind. And I told them what you said to say, that Bharat would be the next king of Ayodhya, not Rama.’ She smiled, displaying a mouthful of redstained teeth. ‘You should have seen Kausalya’s face. She thought I was going to spear her!’ She chuckled, spraying flecks of paan leaf. ‘I almost did too!’ ‘A little more control next time,’ Manthara warned. ‘You must not use physical violence against anyone. You saw how much more effective it was to threaten the maharaja emotionally? It brought him to his knees more effectively than even a spear throw. And this way, nobody can blame you for what was after all just a family squabble. You were only venting your natural, inevitable reaction to your son being passed over for the coronation.’ ‘Yes,’ Kaikeyi admitted. ‘But I hope Dasa won’t really die. I mean, I was angry with him. But if he dies . . .’ Manthara’s voice was as sharp as a whip cracking across the flank of a wayward horse. ‘If he dies, then his successor will become maharaja at once. And that successor will be Bharat.’ At the mention of Bharat, Kaikeyi’s face lit up. ‘Yes! I understand that. But how exactly will it happen? I mean, as of now Rama is still crown-prince-in-waiting. And if Dasa passes away without changing his decision . . .’

But how? You don’t mean that we will— ’ Then understanding dawned on her face. ‘Of course! The Bhayanak-van. The asuras will kill him. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’ She frowned. ‘But what if he survives? What if he returns home safe and claims the crown? He’ll be a hero then. The people will support him over Bharat. So will the court.’ ‘The people and the court will support their maharaja. And as I said before, the maharaja will rescind his decision and declare Bharat his successor. Less than two weeks from today.’ Kaikeyi reached for another large paan, glancing questioningly at Manthara first. Manthara gestured. Kaikeyi thankfully stuffed the delicacy into her mouth, chewing steadily as she pondered Manthara’s words. ‘But,’ she said through the mouthful of spices and betelnut, ‘how can you be so sure? I mean, how can you guarantee that Dasaratha will rescind and declare Bharat?’ Manthara leaned forward. ‘Because we will make him.’ Kaikeyi stopped chewing. ‘How?’ Manthara told her.

‘Dasa will live a while yet. Long enough to change his decision.’ Manthara smiled, her lips curling up slowly in contempt. ‘And long enough to see the bloody, broken corpse of Rama laid before his eyes.’

Kaikeyi choked on her paan. She went into a paroxysm of coughing, spewing out pieces of paan and juice and assorted flecks and bits of various things. Manthara watched her, wrinkling her nose in disgust yet keenly aware that it was weaknesses such as Kaikeyi’s gluttony that gave Manthara greater control over her.

Kaikeyi’s eyes widened. ‘Rama? Dead?

Finally, Kaikeyi regained control of her

voice again. ‘Manthara,’ she said, hoarsely. ‘You’re a genius. You think the time is right to do it now?’ ‘Not yet,’ Manthara said. ‘But soon. Very soon.’

SEVENTEEN Vishwamitra raised his arms over his head, gripped his staff in both fists, and leaped off the raft. He landed in a flurry of dried leaves and dust that rose like a nest of agitated serpents. Rama and Lakshman followed his example, leaping together. At the instant their feet were about to leave the raft, it issued a groaning noise and shifted uneasily. Rama corrected himself in midleap, landing upright, but Lakshman lost his balance and landed on one foot, stumbling forward. Rama caught him just in time to avoid him striking his chin on his bended knee. Lakshman recovered and stood, darting a suspicious look back at the raft. Rama turned to find the seer staring in a southwesterly direction. Dust motes swirled around him, caught in a solitary thin shaft of sunlight that had somehow managed to penetrate the thickly webbed foliage. ‘Our presence has been sensed already. Soon she will get word of our arrival. At first, she will not deign to come herself, believing her minions to be more than capable of dealing with us. Only when they fail will she take serious note. Even then, we may have to go to her rather than wait for her to approach. Her power grows strongest at midnight, and is weakest at noonday, when the sun reaches its zenith. That is the time you must attack, and cleanse the earth of Tataka forever.’ Rama sensed Lakshman’s surprise before his brother spoke aloud. ‘Tataka? Parantu mahadev, just last night Rishi Adhranga told us the story of how Kartikeya killed her.’

Vishwamitra glanced at Lakshman. ‘The story he told was of the history of Kama’s Grove, Rajkumar Lakshman. Of how Kamadev and Parvati-devi interrupted Lord Shiva’s grief-stricken meditation to tempt him into creating a son who would be able to destroy the evil Yaksi. That son was Kartikeya and he was indeed created to kill Tataka, which duty he fulfilled to his great honour.’ Lakshman looked even more confused. ‘But if Tataka was killed . . .’ Vishwamitra held up a hand, motioning for silence. He listened carefully for a moment. Rama attuned his senses to the seer’s pitch, a level slightly below the normal range of human hearing, and heard what the sage heard: a distant thumping, like a giant hammer being struck on some unimaginably large anvil. But the sound was many dozens of yojanas distant, and was growing fainter rather than louder. Whatever was causing it was clearly travelling away from them. The seer returned his attention to Lakshman’s question. ‘Tataka is dead. Killed by Kartikeya. But as you know, matter can never truly be destroyed, only transformed. So when she died, she only left this mortal plane and was sent to the next plane, where she now belonged. Where would that be, Rajkumar Rama?’ ‘To the netherworld,’ Rama replied. ‘Narak. The third and lowest of the three worlds. Otherwise called Hell.’ The seer indicated the forest around them. ‘Behold. Hell.’ Lakshman and Rama looked around,

baffled. ‘But, mahadev, we are still on prithvi, are we not? How can hell be here?’ Lakshman pointed upstream in the direction from which they had just come. ‘This is very much our own world, the mortal plane of prithvi.’ The seer nodded. ‘This is the sorcerous power of Ravana, king of the asuras, young Lakshman. Listen.’ He leaned on his staff as he spoke. ‘After he was banished by the devas to patal, the lowest level of hell, Ravana the Terrible spent many thousands of years performing bhor tapasya so austere and awful to contemplate that even the devas were compelled to grant him many boons. Among those boons was his elevation to the stature of a master of Brahmanical power, a level of shakti comparable only to that which is wielded by the Seven Seers, the brahmarishis like myself who have been ordained by Brahma himself to oversee the smooth functioning and harmony of the three worlds. ‘But Ravana misused his shakti, performing terrible, barbaric sacrificial yagnas to achieve evil ends. One result of his efforts was the tearing of a hole between the realms of prithvi and patal. This was the very reason why he chose to build his capital, the Black Fortress, over the then submerged island of Lanka. Lanka was in fact not a piece of dry land at all, but a giant extinct volcano used by the devas to plug the entrance to patal deep beneath the Great Ocean. Ravana’s sorcery raised the island, resurrecting the volcano, with whose molten lava he built his impregnable fortress, creating a passageway through the heart of the volcano into patal.

Through this, he raises a constant stream of asuras, recruiting them directly from hell itself, to create the largest asura host ever assembled.’ The seer pursed his lips tightly. ‘As long as that portal remains open, Ravana has access to unlimited hordes to fling at the Arya nations.’ Rama felt rather than saw the seer’s fist clench the threaded knob at the head of the staff. The motes of dust caught in the shaft of sunlight swirled faster, rising in a flurry like a dust dervish although there was not a mite of wind in the still, unnaturally silent forest. Lakshman shook his head, bewildered. ‘That is shocking, mahadev. But, pardon my asking, what does it have to do with Tataka and this Bhayanak-van? Lanka is hundreds of yojanas distant from here.’ He corrected himself uncertainly. ‘Or at least, it should be, by the normal laws of geography.’ Vishwamitra was patient despite the deep anger that Rama sensed within the seer. ‘What you say is true, Rajkumar Lakshman. But Ravana’s ill-gotten Brahman shakti has grown powerful enough to enable him to punch holes in the fabric that separates realms. He has made another such hole here, releasing Tataka and her berserker sons into this beautiful land, and giving the evil Yaksi dominion over it.’ Lakshman looked around, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. ‘Beautiful land, mahadev? This accursed forest?’ Vishwamitra leaned on his staff. ‘This accursed forest you see was once the site of two great twin cities, named Malada and Karusha.’

Patalganga, the river of hell!’ ‘Malada, Karusha,’ Lakshman repeated. ‘Dirt and Impurity?’ ‘Indeed. So named because it was at this place that Lord Indra was washed clean of the terrible sin of Brahmin-hatya by the devas using the pure cleansing waters of the holy Ganga. The two places where his dirt and impurities fell to earth he named Malada and Karusha, blessing them with eternal fertility and prosperity for absorbing the detritus of his sin. In time they became two of the most prosperous cities in mortal history, great storehouses of wealth renowned for the fertility of their farmlands. But then Ravana released Tataka and her bloodthirsty sons from Patal and gave them this country to roam and dominate. ‘The Lord of Lanka did this with shrewd intent. Once, before even Lord Indra washed his sins here, this was the place where the great sage Agastya made his home and hermitage. It was here that originally Tataka was cursed by the sage and transformed by his shraap into the ugly wretched Yaksi she is now. By releasing Tataka into these same lands, Ravana could be certain of controlling her. For she can never leave this tract of forest to enter the world of Prithvi herself. This is her curse, to eternally haunt the Bhayanak-van, which, as you now know, was in fact once the blessed land Malada-Karusha.’

‘Indeed, young prince. That is why the Patalganga is so named, because it is that stage of the holy Ganga that traverses the netherworld. Once that sickly stream you see there was also pure and clear as the Ganga itself. Tataka’s foul presence has made it unclean.’ The sage raised his staff and pointed south-west, in the direction he had been staring earlier. ‘That way lies my ashram, where my fellow rishis await my swift return. Once we have purified this haunted forest and restored it to its earlier glory, it will become a place of the Prithvi once more, reclaimed from patal. The Ganga will flow clear and pure again, and this land will regain its former flowering beauty which it enjoyed after Indra’s blessings were showered upon it.’ Lakshman asked his next question in a tone that suggested he suspected what the seer’s answer might be. ‘How will we achieve this great and holy task, Gurudev? How will we convert Bhayanak-van back into a part of Prithvi once more?’ The seer looked at him impassively, then glanced at Rama. ‘By killing Tataka, of course. That is why we are here.’

The seer pointed at the scummy stream behind them. ‘And that is all that remains of the sacred waters of the holy Ganga which fell to earth when Lord Indra washed his sins.’

Before Lakshman could give voice to his reaction, the sage stiffened, gesturing for silence. He turned his head this way, then that, listening intently. With his new powers, Rama could easily see what the seer saw, hear what he heard.

Lakshman glanced in amazement at the filthy, choked stream. ‘The Ganga? That gutter of filth? It looks more like a

‘They’re coming,’ Rama said quietly to his brother, reaching for his bow and stringing an arrow.

Lakshman dropped to his knee in a shooting stance, drawing bow and arrow in the same action. ‘Tataka and her sons?’ ‘If it was them attacking all at once,’ the seer-mage replied grimly, ‘this fight would be over in moments, one way or another.’ He glanced up at the faint slices of sky visible through the intertwined branches high above. ‘It will be noonday in a few hours. We would do well to wait and face Tataka when the sun is at its highest point.’ He tilted his head, listening once more. ‘In the meanwhile, we must contend with Tataka’s horde of minions.’ ‘What are these creatures, mahadev? Rakshasas? Yaksas? Pisacas? Daityas?’ Lakshman licked his lips, his eyes flicking from side to side, bowstring stretched to its maximum. ‘None of the asuras you name, young Lakshman. Tataka was too proud to ask Ravana for reinforcements to maintain her dominion. Or perhaps she feared that the Lord of Lanka might station a great force here and usurp her power to command. So she created her own fighting force.’ ‘Created?’ ‘By crossing the animals of these woods with her own rakshas sons. Mutant beings, neither wholly animal, rakshas or human, but with characteristics of all three. She has been breeding these crossspecies monstrosities for a long time

now, and only recently, Ravana has commanded her to multiply her stocks as rapidly as possible. He wishes to send them as berserkers and reavers north of the Sarayu to terrorise the farmers in the outlying regions of Kosala and other border kingdoms. In less than a week, he will issue the command for these terror forays to begin. So we are here just in time to foil his plans.’ ‘What exactly do these creatures look like, gurudev?’ Lakshman asked. ‘How will we know them when they attack?’ Rama could see the grim smile on the seer’s face without taking his eyes off the dim shadows between the thickly growing trees. ‘You will know them, rajkumar. Do not be fooled by their somewhat familiar shapes and forms, or even their speech, for some are part-human and retain a vestige of their human qualities. These things are abominations of nature and creation, mules synthesised by a corruption of Brahman power and dark tantric acts of cross-species breeding. Destroy them all. Once they are decimated, we can get on with our main purpose: finding Tataka and her sons and killing them. Only then can I go on to my ashram and complete the yagna in time.’ A sound like a gust of wind through leafy branches rose slowly, gathering momentum and volume. But no wind rustled their hair or clothes. As it grew steadily louder, the sound resembled the moaning of some titanic beast. It raised the hackles on their arms and every pore on Rama’s body itched maddeningly as if the air had turned poisonous. He kept his hands on his bow.

Rama said quietly in Lakshman’s ear: ‘Bear scratches back against tree.’ Lakshman immediately put his back to Rama’s, assuming the classic two-warrior defensive stance. Now, their outwardfacing bows covered all four directions of the compass. The seer used his staff to draw a mandala pattern in the forest floor at the exact spot where the shaft of sunlight touched the ground. Leaves and dust swirled angrily at the staff’s touch, spiralling upwards like agitated cobras to disappear high above in a translucent golden column. The seer stepped on to the magic circle he had drawn. The mandala would protect him from any attack, physical or sorcerous, and would keep aggressors at bay as effectively as an impenetrable invisible wall. The Seven Seers were said to be indestructible, protected by the omnipotent hand of Brahma, divine ambassadors granted total immunity. The mandala was merely to remind those foolish enough to try that they were impotent to harm this man. It didn’t escape Rama’s notice that the seer had drawn no mandala to protect Lakshman and himself. They would have to fend for themselves. ‘Mahadev,’ Lakshman said in a voice that was steady but not entirely free of anxiety. ‘If I may ask one last question. How many of these mutant berserkers might there be in the Bhayanak-van?’ The sage took a moment to respond. ‘Thus far,’ he said with deceptive casualness, ‘Tataka has been able to create no more than a few hundred. Perhaps half a thousand at best. Surely no more than that.’

In the stunned silence that followed, the moaning sound grew louder, filling every molecule of air around the two princes, leaving no space to breathe. Now, it sounded not like wind but oncoming rain. The rattle of a sudden downpour on a tin roof. Blood rain, Rama thought. And then the forest erupted around them.

EIGHTEEN Bejoo’s men waited for his order. The chariot and horse stood in two neat rows, horses steaming from their rapid descent. He had never known that path existed before. But Bheriya had managed to sniff it out somehow. Bheriya always found a way. When they returned to Ayodhya, Bejoo decided, he would officially declare Bheriya as his successor. It was about time. Bheriya’s only failing, if you could call it that, was his obsession with his wife. Of course, she was beautiful. But that was beside the point. Along with soma, gambling and indebtedness, the fairer sex was one of the banes of the warrior’s existence. He’d seen many grown men hopelessly besotted with those soft chests and painted lips. Though Bheriya’s wife was probably just an honest woman seeking what everyone craved— affection and attention— Bheriya would have to be careful that he didn’t grow so attached to those slender arms and all that lay between that he forgot he was a Kshatriya, oathsworn to defend and die for his maharaja, clan and varna, in that order. Bejoo sighed. As he grew older, he found more to worry about. It was a condition of age, he knew, to fear that one’s legacy was insufficient. He had fought long and hard in the last asura war, he could barely count his battles on both hands— and both feet—yet he remained relatively unscarred (except for that nasty white curved mark across his right breast and shoulder) and still had the use of all his organs and limbs. He had a good wife, an enviable reputation, a fine house in a decent part of the city, and enough wealth to sustain

his family for another generation should he die today. And he had won more than praise and honour for his military service; he had earned what the sages called yash. A shining name. The problem was, he had nobody to leave it all to. No one who would carry on that shining name. And now Shakun had finally passed the age of productivity. She had told him the news just the night before last, on the eve of Holi, as they watched the effigies representing evil spirits burning on the parade grounds. Her monthly cycles had ceased, and with them, their last hope of producing an heir had burned away, like the towering wax-and-cloth effigies they were watching. ‘Bejoo,’ said Bheriya’s voice, cutting through his reverie. ‘The bigfoot are approaching. Should we ask them to keep their usual distance or close with us?’ Bejoo pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘What do you think, Bheriya? Look at the thickness of those woods. Do you think even the horse can get in there, let alone our wheel? I don’t fancy the notion of walking in either.’ Bheriya looked at him, surprised. ‘Are you asking my advice, sir?’ ‘Your professional opinion. Sooner or later you’ll have to start making command decisions. Might as well attempt a few while I’m around to catch you if you stumble.’ Bheriya shot him a look that said, Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on a low branch? Aloud, he said, ‘Well, if you want my honest opinion, I think we should bring the bigfoot up forward and use them to

punch a hole through those woods. It’s the only way we’ll get in there apart from walking.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Or crawling. Which seems more likely if we attempt to get in there on our own.’

insubordination!’

Now why couldn’t I have had a son or a daughter as quick-witted and upright as this young man? Was it too much to ask the devas for just one heir? ‘Very good, Bheriya. The same method we used in the Charakavan during the Kaikaya dasya uprising?’

Bejoo fell back to musing on how lucky they had been to find that path down the side of the cliff; an ancient wheelpath disused since the days of Aja, apparently. Disused because it led only to one place: the Bhayanak-van. If they hadn’t found that path, they would never have caught up with the rajkumars and the seer once they went downriver on that raft. The scouts had done their job well enough; their sighting the raft being built the night before had given Bejoo enough time to figure out the seer’s plan and take action accordingly.

‘Exactly, sir. Except . . .’ The young lieutenant frowned, warming to his task. ‘Maybe we could send a chariot or two ahead with those scimitars we got from the Moorish delegates as a gift last year. They might help to clear away some of that thornbush lurking between the trees. The trees themselves look reedy enough. I daresay our bigfoot could knock them down like shortstalks in a chaupat game.’ ‘Good, good. Make that three chariot though. Abreast. Give the order.’ ‘Yes, sir, Bejoo!’ Bheriya looked pleased with himself. He wheeled his horse around, then turned back again. ‘Bejoo?’ ‘Make it quick, boy. Our scouts haven’t seen sight of the rajkumars since dawn today. They could be halfway to Lanka by now for all we know.’ ‘I just wanted to say that it’s been a pleasure to serve under you these past four years. You’re the best, sir!’ Bheriya looked uncomfortable offering the compliment, but his sincerity was unmistakable. Bejoo snorted. ‘Your tongue drips honey sweeter than a beehive! Now get out of here before I whip you for

But as Bheriya rode back to the elephant in a cloud of dust, he whispered: ‘It’s been a pleasure to lead you too, my son.’

Still, he worried now that the river might not go very far into the woods—it seemed barely a trickle as it entered the thicket, a few hundred yards from where he sat. Tracking within the Southwoods might not be as easy as tracking elsewhere. As it was, his men were more than a little spooked about the prospect of entering the dreaded Forest of Fear. The last thing he needed was a bigger challenge. His mind was just starting to turn back to the possibility of talking his wife into adoption, something she’d been averse to all these years, when the chariot nearest to the edge of the forest vanished in an explosion of shattered fragments. *** At first Lakshman thought the ground itself was heaving and spitting up debris, like the tales he had heard of earthquakes. He realised his mistake

when what seemed to be a large clod of earth unravelled in mid-air to reveal long yellow talons, spotted flanks, and a face out of a daiimaa’s horror tale. ‘Shiva!’ he cried, loosing an arrow by sheer instinct. The missile struck the creature in the face, shattering its fragile cheekbones, and it dropped inches from his feet.

either. Soon the ground around him was piled thick with corpses, a natural barrier which new beasts had to leap over to attack, and that gave him yet another advantage. He began slicing off heads and loping off wings even before some of the attackers could launch themselves properly. A bear-faced monkey was crouched to spring when he shot it through one eye. It screeched in a throaty howl as it toppled back.

It thrashed, screaming in a voice that was neither bird call nor cat howl. Before Lakshman could shut it up with another arrow, three other shapes exploded from the forest floor, flying at him with claws outstretched and jaws bared to reveal slobbering fangs. He loosed three arrows in a blur of movement that was faster than thought, bringing down two and shearing the top of the other’s head. He ducked as it flew, dying, over his left shoulder, judged correctly that it would miss Rama by a hand’s breadth, and was stringing another arrow before he heard the thud of its fall.

Even in the thick heat of battle, he could see the grotesque mélange of breeds and species.

Then he was loosing arrows with the stubborn relentlessness of a meal-grinder crushing grain, arms milling relentlessly. He lost count of how many beasts he downed. Behind him, Rama was firing like a line of Mithila bowmen; he could feel his brother’s back muscles spasming rhythmically even through his rig.

Blind civets with the rump of an ass and sabre fangs.

For the next few minutes, life narrowed to the simple repetition of reach-backand-pull, string-and-loose. Aiming was secondary. The onslaught was so thick and furious, he would have hit them even if he was stone-blind. That was the disadvantage of their attacking from so close: it didn’t give him and Rama much time to string and loose, but then it didn’t give the beasts time to dodge

The world reduced to the arc of his vision: the half-circle covered by his lethal bow. The twanging of his bowstring became a melody to accompany the dhol-drumming of the blood in his head.

Leopards with raven beaks. Wolves with snake hoods and rattler tails. Elephant bodies with scrawny humanchild heads and forearms. Hairless brutes dripping green ichor and with hair growing inside their arrowexploded chests.

The list was endless. The stench and offal of butchery began to coat him as the slaughter went on. Gore splattered over his face and arms; steaming guts strung out over his right shoulder.

The stench of bestial offal and inhuman gore became a familiar perfume in his nostrils; he breathed it in and relished it.

Lakshman had never before felt the red rage of battle-lust but he intuitively knew that this strange new sensation was not unique to him. He let the wave wash over him, carrying away fear, trepidation, anxiety about the outcome, all those before-worries. He became one with the bow and the cord. Each loosing was like jabbing a finger. He tore apart breasts, pierced hearts, tore out throats, ripped open faces, shattered beaks, cracked open skulls. He drank the soma of slaughter, inhaled the drug-dust of violent death, tasted the primordial iron tang of lifeblood released by his own actions. He laughed, knowing what Kshatriyas down the ages had discovered in the thick of battle: after a point, all men were beasts. Two hands or ten didn’t matter. Civilisation was an illusion. Blood demanded blood. Life craved death. The arrow was born to kill, it didn’t care whom. When he lowered his bow at last, it was because the space before him was empty of enemies. There was nobody left to kill. He stood, feeling the blood rise to his head in a roaring flood. His heart still pounded; his tongue was thick with the scum of his own sour juices. He wiped off a thread of blood that hung from his brow. The jungle was deafeningly silent. The sage was in his mandala behind them, unharmed and complacent as ever. It was only when he turned and looked at Rama that he got the first real shock of the day.

Fortunately for him, the wheel was wooden and his breastplate bronze-iron alloy. Even so, the impact almost unseated him. What in Shani’s name was that? His horse, a Kambhoja stallion that had proved implacable even in the heat of battle, wheeled in startled terror, settling only after he whispered the mantra of Shani, his patron deity, in its ear. Other horses were neighing and rearing in shock as well, and at least three men lay unseated on their backs, either dead or seriously wounded. One horse had been cut in two by what seemed to be a fragment of the chariot’s frontplate, the metal embedded in its severed neck, its eyes staring up in stunned horror. Of the chariot itself, nothing more than debris remained; it had been shattered and flattened as effectively as a wooden toy beneath an elephant’s foot. What could possess the power to do such a thing? Bejoo rode through his men, who were shaken only by the unexpected nature of the attack, not by the deaths themselves. Death was the inevitable end of a Kshatriya’s duties; it was the nature of that death that brought honour or dishonour. In this case, it brought only puzzlement. There seemed to be no sign of how the chariot had been destroyed. One of his horsemen pointed up at the sky above the darkwoods, a bright blue upturned bowl capping the grim greygreen jungle. ‘Something came from there,’ he said, patting his horse reassuringly. ‘Like a siege-machine.’

*** Bejoo was struck on the chest by a fragment of the chariot’s wheel.

A siege-machine? Bejoo knew of giant catapult devices that shot large boulders over fortress walls, or at those walls, that

could easily destroy a chariot. But if the rakshasas within the jungle possessed and had used such a machine, then where was the damn boulder? All he could see were chariot fragments and the unfortunate remains of the chariot’s two horses and two occupants, gore and bodily parts strewn all over, everything covered with a thick layer of dirt. As he came closer to the site of the attack he wrinkled his nose. That stench! What was that? It smelt like an animal compost heap. And no animal he knew of produced manure of this kind. He frowned. What he had taken for dirt at first was too dark and claylike to be the loose iron-rich soil beneath his horse’s hoofs. Then suddenly he knew. Instinctively, with an unerring certainty born of years of battling strange species and even stranger humans, he knew what had struck the chariot. Wheeling his horse around, he shouted a command to his men, both horse and wheel. ‘Scatter! Scatter! Keep apart from one another! Do it now! Scatter!’ His men responded without question or hesitation. But they were hampered by the thick undergrowth that surrounded the path. Even the path itself was grassy and treacherous with holes and stones, and it was impossible to simply turn chariots and ride them through threeyard-high thickets of bramblebush and clumps of thornweed. Still, they did the best they could, as Bejoo rode back to the end of the line, shouting for Bheriya. Where were those elephants? If they had the elephants, they could bulldoze their way into the jungle, and there they might be safer from the menace that he felt

certain would strike again. After all, if the enemy knew they were out here, then they would hardly sit idle after that first blow. He was almost at the end of the line when he heard the sound. It had escaped his attention the first time because it had blended in with the usual forest sounds and he hadn’t known what to listen for. Now that he knew, it was distinct, if faint. It rose as the threat approached, and he wheeled about yet again, falling silent. He had already yelled to his men that the attack would come from the sky, but he saw now that the warning was of no use whatsoever. The missile that came arcing over the tops of the trees came into sight only a fraction of an instant before it fell sharply to earth, landing on the back of one horse and the front of another, striking a glancing blow to a third horseman a good five yards away—the thing was enormous, at least ten yards across—and the sound of its impact really was like an elephant thumping its foot on the ground. Except that this was no elephant foot, it was a giant pile of animal manure, packed tightly into a ball and flung at them from over the tops of the hundred-yard-tall trees with deadly accuracy. But flung by what? There was no time to think. He spurred his mount on with another mantra, riding to the aid of the fallen horseman, trapped beneath his own mount, its head hacked off and pumping gouts of dark blood, everything coated with a thick layer of brownish-black manure streaked with patches of mucousy slime. He leaped off his horse and began putting his shoulder to the fallen horse, which was still jerking spasmodically in its death throes, the gaping neck

notwithstanding. The stench was nauseating and it took all his self-will to avoid turning aside and retching. The man’s leg was crushed, he was saying, and Bejoo was bending over to pull him free, helped now by another half-dozen horsemen who had dismounted and come to their aid, when he heard the sound again. He raised his head, following the sound. It was a faint whistling, like the burring a wasp might make if flying quickly past one’s ear. But it was much louder this time. He stood, staring at the sky above the forest, and his blood ran cold. The sky was filled with the dark disgusting missiles, all headed directly for the clearing in which his Vajra milled about. He counted three, four, five, then blinked as a sixth one followed its predecessors belatedly. We’re all going to die, smashed to pieces by asura manure!

NINETEEN ‘Rama?’ Lakshman stared at his brother uncertainly. Rama was still in his drawing stance, down on one knee, his bow in his hands, an arrow in its cord. His back was still to Lakshman. But even so, his brother knew that something was wrong, something was terribly wrong here. Did he really do all this? The thought came to Lakshman not as a flash of jealousy. There had never really been envy between him and his oldest sibling, at least not the competitive urge to outdo which he felt when racing or competing against Bharat, or even Shatrugan. Only a desire to emulate; to do as Rama did. Or as his mother always put it: he wants to be Rama, he only settles for being Rama’s brother. So his first thought when he saw what Rama had wrought was not envy but desire. I wish I could have done that! The pile of corpses Lakshman had left strewn across his side was perhaps three deep and ten wide. Thirty, mayhap three dozen corpses in all. He had felt immensely proud when he had risen, heart still pounding with blood-lust, and seen how many of the foe he had brought down single-handed. Thirty bestial attackers! In perhaps as many seconds! With only a shortbow and no place to retreat. Yet he had come off with no wounds—except a scratch or two where a flailing beast had succeeded in pawing or clawing him as it went down in a dead heap—and the enemy had been daunted enough to retreat. It was a victory that bards in winehouses would fight for the right to compose ballads about; a heroic victory.

Or so he’d thought. The pile before Rama was at least seven or eight deep and perhaps twenty wide. It looked like a small hillock of corpses, piled by some marauding demon in his lair for future consumption. Like the piles of venison, goat and other corpses the royal huntsmen piled up before the kitchens for a royal banquet. There must have been a hundred and twenty, even a hundred and fifty dead lying there. The implication was staggering. For every arrow Lakshman had loosed, Rama had loosed five. But that’s physically impossible! I was drawing so fast, my arm and my cord were a blur. How could anyone draw faster, let alone five times as fast? Lakshman took a step towards Rama, coming into the periphery of his halfcircle sightline, and instantly found Rama’s bow turned to greet him, the notched arrow aimed directly at his throat. He moved like a hummingbird’s wing! Nobody can move that fast! The sight of his brother’s face was more shocking than the piles of enemy mounted before him. Rama was covered with the same gore and gristle that he himself was coated with, the inevitable spatters of animal blood and other bodily fluids. But there was so much more of it that for a moment all Lakshman saw was a gorepainted face with two bright eyes shining in the unnatural dimness of the jungle

light. Those eyes didn’t look like Rama’s. They didn’t even look human. Lakshman blinked, wondering if he was still intoxicated with the battle-lust, or whether the sight of so many monstrous aberrations and mutations had driven his imagination over the edge. Rama’s eyes seemed almost to glow blue. And in that distinct deep bluish glow, there seemed to float motes of golden light, like tiny shimmering stars suspended in a milky blue substance. As he peered at his brother, the golden motes seemed to be alive, moving with a precision and purpose that was alien, unlike anything he’d ever seen. Suddenly, the pile of corpses, the impossibility of Rama’s kills, was forgotten. All he cared about was Rama himself. And he could see that there was something wrong with him. He was about to take a step towards his brother when the seer’s voice cut through the deathly silence. ‘Stop where you are, Lakshman. He will not hesitate to shoot you down as he shot down all those monsters.’ Rama, shoot me down? Impossible! Yet he could see that it was possible. There was no hint of warmth in his brother’s eyes, no sign that he recognised him or cared for him in any way. And that arrow was still pointed at his throat, following his every movement, however tiny, as precisely as if a metal wire connected his jugular vein to the tip of the arrow. ‘Rama?’ he said uncertainly. ‘Put your bow aside. I want to examine you. I fear you may be wounded.’ There was no reply from Rama. The eyes remained fixed, unblinking, their bluish glow unmistakable now. The gold motes

swam in their alien patterns, celestial fish in a cosmic emptiness. A statue would have been as responsive. ‘He will not answer you, Lakshman,’ the seer’s voice said. ‘He is caught in the battle fever of Bala and Atibala. You felt some vestige of it too when you fought. The maha-mantras take you over at the moment of crisis and turn you into a perfectly efficient fighting engine. That is what Rama is now, a perfect weapon. Fixed in a state of stasis that will pass once the crisis is truly past. The only reason he does not shoot at you is because he senses your own Brahman flow and essential goodness.’ But he’s a man, a boy really, not a weapon. This is unnatural. Aloud Lakshman said: ‘But then why am I not in the same state? Why can I think and move freely while he sits there like a bowman’s dummy, aiming at me as if I am one of Tataka’s miscreations?’ The seer sighed. ‘The maha-mantras affect each individual differently. In Rama’s case, they have taken strong root. Fear not, young prince. He will be as you knew him once the danger is over.’ Lakshman looked around at the silent jungle, the masses of dead corpses. ‘But it is over, isn’t it? They attacked and we slaughtered them. There were no more left.’ Vishwamitra shook his head. ‘Sadly, rajkumar, you are wrong. These were only the weakest and least effective of Tataka’s clutch. She sent them first to test your strengths and weaknesses. It is a common battle tactic used when facing a new enemy. The next wave will comprise her best warriors and they will

not be as easy to slaughter, nor will they attack in any way you may foresee. Look for yourself. These are mere cubs, not fully mature even by their misshapen standards.’ Lakshman looked and realised that the seer was right. The deformities and bizarre combinations of species had distracted him from seeing this himself; now that he looked closely, he could recognise that the corpses strewn around resembled young beasts. By their colours, their stippling, their only partially formed talons and tusks and horns, he confirmed the truth of the seer’s observation. ‘You said there were no more than half a thousand of them,’ he said, glancing around cautiously now. ‘We faced and killed close to two hundred in that first attack. Almost half of their total numbers.’ The seer had seated himself for a while upon his mandala. Now, he rose to his feet, using his staff for support. ‘Numbers are not always a true indication of an enemy’s strength, rajkumar. These beasts you felled were immature and the weakest of the litter. Also, they were the lesser miscreations of Tataka’s unholy experiments. The berserkers that will attack you in this next wave will be more powerful than anything you have faced or heard of before. These will be mixes of the larger, more lethal predators. Elephant and hawk, lion and rhino, shark and falcon, panther and scorpion, piranha and tiger, vulture and hippo. And besides these hybrids, there will be tribrids and quatribrids and even pentabrids too, the engineering so complex and mangled that Tataka herself barely knows the full capability of those new breeds, and

keeps them caged. Even as we speak, they are being freed.’ Lakshman swallowed. ‘Parantu, mahadev, we do not have that many arrows in our quivers! How will we face such vast numbers?’ Vishwamitra gestured impatiently. ‘Arrows? Do not concern yourself with such trivial matters, Rajkumar Lakshman. I have seen to it that your quivers shall never go empty. This is the advantage of being in a place where the laws of nature are so disrupted. Even as it makes it possible for Ravana to work his vile sorcery, it also makes it easier to channel the flow of Brahman. I have used a mantra that ensures that your arrows are replaced faster than you can loose them.’ The sage fell silent for a moment, his eyes shut, listening intently although Lakshman could hear nothing. He saw Rama’s eyes turn sideways for an instant, as if sensing something approaching from that direction. Lakshman looked too, but saw nothing. The jungle stretched yojanas in every direction, seemingly devoid of life. Not even insects or birds stirred. At the very edges of his hearing, he thought he heard something, a very faint sound, like an intensely high-pitched drone. It was more an auditory disturbance than a sound. Rama’s bow turned away from Lakshman, aimed now towards the south-west. He hears it clearly, while I can barely sense anything. The motes in Rama’s eyes increased their pattern of motion, swirling faster. His eyes glowed bluer, seeming to send out twin searchlights into the gloom of the thick jungle. His lips parted, revealing blood-smeared

teeth in a snarl that was so wholly unRama-like that Lakshman wondered for a moment what creature this was that had replaced his brother. The seer opened his eyes and spread his arms wide, crying out. Lakshman saw that Vishwamitra’s eyes were bright blinding blue now, like Rama’s, and flecked with those same swirling golden motes. The motes rose into the air, in the pillar of sunlight that encased the seer’s mandala, spiralling towards the top of the towering trees, reaching for the sky. The sage began reciting a mantra in a piercing tone, shattering the silence of the forest. ||Andh tam pravishanti yeh avidyam upaste|| ||Tatho bhuya eeva tey tamo ya u vidyayam ratah||

As the last syllables of the mantra faded away, travelling with shrieking penetration into the depths of the jungle, Lakshman heard the ground-shaking thunder of the next wave approaching. He fell to his knee, bow in hand, arrow ready, and refocussed his attention on the battle at hand. *** The screams of dying men almost drowned out the screams of their horses. Almost. Bejoo saw horses and riders go down beneath the descending missiles, smashed into ragged fragments of bone, flesh and gore. Chariots shattered. A chariot struck at the back was upended like a child’s seesaw, the horses thrown backwards into the air, their rigging snapping like cheap thread. They landed with a ripping sound in a thicket of thornbush, impaled on a thousand needle-sharp thorns, and lay screaming

and flailing wretchedly, their skin hanging in flaps, crimson flesh bared and bristling with snapped-off thorns. Everywhere lay the stench of manure, the inhuman fetor of waste matter like nothing Bejoo had ever smelt before. He had his sword in hand, unaware of when he had drawn it. He almost tossed it away in angry despair: how could you fight missiles from the sky with a sword? Even Kosala steel was useless against this onslaught. Shaneshwara-deva, he cried silently, praying to his patron deity, the god of chariot and vehicle, ship and wagon, He whom the Greeks named Saturn after the great planet ringed by the dust of a thousand shattered worlds. Mighty Shani-deva, grant me a chance to fight the craven perpetrators of this onslaught. Give me death if you will, but a Kshatriya’s death. Not this defenceless butchery. As if in response to his plea, he heard a new sound from behind, accompanied by a trembling sensation in the ground. It was the trumpeting of elephants. He turned and saw Bheriya riding hard at the head of the elephant squad. The young lieutenant’s face was dark with fury as he surveyed the ruins of their proud Vajra. Behind him, the bigfoot squad’s lead elephant mahout spurred his beast on with a vigour rarely seen. Now we have a fighting chance! Thank you, Shani-deva! Bejoo leaped back on to his horse and raised his sword high, pointing it at the dense woods, shouting to be heard over the noise and confusion. ‘Bigfoot! Into the jungle!’

The lead bigfoot thundered past his horse, its eyes rolling, trunk swirling from side to side. It led its fellows in a headlong charge at the trees. The sound of it striking the first tree-trunk was almost drowned out by the crashing of a new wave of missiles. A razor-sharp fragment of a shield from some unfortunate charioteer whisked past Bejoo’s ear, nicking off the lobe. He wasn’t even aware of the blood pouring down the side of his head. He only had eyes for the elephants’ charge. Let it work, Shani-deva. Let the bigfoot break through. Much as I hate to die this way, yet I will choose to die here beneath this assault than retreat and leave my duty unfulfilled. The lead elephant struck the first trunk with a loud crack like a twig breaking, or a spine snapping. The tree keeled over easily, bringing down a ragged line of its fellows with it, raising a cloud of dust and leaves that enveloped the animal. Missiles continued to rain down, claiming more lives and limbs. Without waiting for the dust to clear, Bejoo raised his sword again and repeated his cry, this time for his horsemen and charioteers. ‘Into the woods! With me, into the woods!’ He rode into the cloud of dust after the bigfoot, into the Bhayanak-van. *** They came slowly this time, seething like a living, writhing carpet across the jungle floor. Lakshman saw how easily they clung to the soft rotting soil, their jagged claws and talons digging deeply without effort. They could have burrowed under like their siblings had done in the first wave, tunnelling down and then upwards again until they exploded from the

surface. But they chose to show themselves, seeping across the forest like a plague of termites. The seer had spoken truly: compared to these ones, the earlier beasts had been balaks, mere babes. These were much bigger, some towering three and four yards high at the head, their snouted grey heads reflecting their elephantine parentage. Even the smaller ones moved with powerful ease, their actions and features more mature, more sure. They seemed unafraid of his arrows, and even though he sent a flurry into their midst, most only snarled and kept on coming. He pierced both eyes of a beast that was part-stoat part-gharial, but it continued to writhe silently towards him, flicking its leathery tail from side to side, yellow pus-like emissions seeping from around the arrows embedded deep within its sockets. He downed a couple or three, aided more by blind luck than skill. But the wave of furred and carapaced monstrosities seethed on relentlessly, coming closer by the yard. He took a moment to glance over his shoulder at Rama. His brother was firing with deceptive calm, each arrow carefully aimed. His bolts unerringly found the vital spot in their targets, making the animals turn belly up and bleating, or fall gasping in their tracks. Every arrow ended a life. Rama shot with a patience that was marvellous to watch; as if the oncoming beasts were merely straw dummies on which to practise his aim. He seemed not to care or fear how little his accuracy was thinning their numbers. Lakshman glanced at the seer. The brahmarishi was silent now, as if waiting for something, his eyes staring at a point above the heads of the approaching

||Tan asthey preytyabhigshanthi yeh keych atmahanah janah||

beasts. They slowed to a halt. The entire line of bizarre hybrids stopped at a distance of about ten yards from where the princes and the seer stood. They formed a perfect unbroken circle around them. Their snouts, tentacles, trunks, faces, mouths, maws issued small grunts and moans and snarls of anticipation. Spittle dripped on to dry leaves. Lakshman realised with a start that the corpses of the earlier beasts had almost all vanished. When and how had that happened? He saw a creature pick up a fox-cat corpse in its mouth and fling it back overhead. It was tossed and passed back along the seething ocean of hybrids to the very back of the mass, where it disappeared, probably thrown back behind their line. They were clearing the circle in preparation for their attack. In moments, the ground around them was clear, the hundred-and-fifty-odd corpses disposed of. Then they were ready. Lakshman had already dropped his bow and reached for his sword. The steel glimmered faintly in the dim light, reflecting the blue glow that emanated from both the sage and his brother. He caught a glimpse of a reflection in the mirror-sharp blade and glanced at it quickly, alert to attack from above. Instead, he saw two blue eyes staring back at him. They were his own, glowing now like the eyes of his companions, though not as strongly. He felt the rage of blood-lust come over him again, and raised his sword as the seer began a new mantra. ||Asuryah namah tey loka andhyen tamasavratya||

Vishwamitra’s chant hung in the air for a moment, like a cloud of dust motes suspended in sunlight. Then, as its echoes faded away, the army of beasts charged on the two princes. *** The trees were as rotten as they looked. Their trunks shattered like dried gourds when struck by the charging elephants. The large bigfoot leader roared in exultation as he smashed and brought down one towering tree after another, clearing a swathe through the forest wider and more accessible than the overgrown pathway they had followed down the side of the cliff that morning. Bejoo rode his horse in the wake of the last elephant, careful to keep it close enough to use the bigfoot’s bulk as protection against falling trees and yet not so close that the bigfoot itself trampled them under. He slowed his horse as he saw Bheriya riding back to speak to him. The young Kshatriya’s face was still a mask of rage and shock; he hadn’t yet digested the sight of so many of their finest men and horses shattered like clay dolls. And for what? For nothing. They never had a chance to draw sword or bow. They died without taking down a single shatru. Ah, the shame, the shame. ‘How many?’ Bejoo’s voice sounded nasal and strange to his own ears, the peculiar fetid air of the jungle distorting it, corrupting his senses. He was asking how many of the Vajra’s number had survived the sky assault.

Bheriya’s face looked ten years older. ‘Sixty horse, eight wheel, and fifteen bigfoot. We lost one to a missile before she could enter the woods.’ Bejoo nodded grimly. The stinking assault had stopped the moment they entered the forest; the attackers, those craven wretches sitting in their cosy nooks, undoubtedly knowing that the tall trees would blunt and deflect their missiles. But the relief he felt when the shower ceased and his pleasure at penetrating the jungle were both cut short by the cold shock he felt on hearing the count of his survivors. ‘That’s more than half our horse and wheel lost,’ he said, his voice trembling with rage. ‘Someone’s going to pay for this. The cowardly bastards, skulking in their crannies!’ He roared a cry that rose above the trumpeting of the bigfoot and the shattering of tree-trunks. ‘Show your faces, you craven scum! Fight us face to face if you dare!’ There was no reply. Bheriya wiped sweat from his face, smearing a bloodstain. ‘What now? Our bigfoot are doing well enough, but they cannot maintain this pace much longer.’ Bejoo restrained his anger and thought his strategy through with icy determination. ‘We scout ahead to find the river. We follow its course until we find the rajkumars and the sage.’ He grabbed hold of Bheriya’s arm. ‘And hear me well. I don’t care if those bigfoot bash their bloody brains out breaking through these wretched woods. We stop only when we find the rajkumars. Or until we encounter the bastards who were pelting us. Do you follow?’

‘Perfectly.’ Bejoo watched him ride away and thought: Methinks we’ll find the rajkumars when we find the rakshasas. And we had better find them quick. Whatever that was, tossing those hardened shit-balls at us back there, it was no siege-machine. Those balls were shaped and pressed by hands, I saw that from the indentations and fingerprints. And if they were ten yards wide at the centre, how large a creature would it take to toss them one after another like confetti? And what manner of asura would it be? He had a grim feeling he would find out before too long.

TWENTY ‘Ayodhya Anashya!’ The battle-cry resounded through the jungle, rising above the bestial howls of rage and anguish. It came from Rama’s throat, booming and reverberating with superhuman force. Lakshman echoed it as he fought, although his voice sounded shrill and hoarse after Rama’s: ‘Ayodhya Anashya!’ Ayodhya the Indestructible. Behind them, the sage continued his chant, reciting sloka upon sloka, the mantras seeming to change the very texture of the air they breathed, infusing their lungs with raw pure energy, drawn down from the akasa to replace the foul atmosphere of the Bhayanak-van. As Lakshman battled on, his sword driven by a shakti beyond skill or training, he felt the energy gathering around them, growing. He could see the blue glow from his eyes shining on the faces of the hybrids he fought, gleaming back from their inhuman eyes. It didn’t seem to frighten them at first, but as the fight raged on, he sensed them growing warier, more cautious. They tried to sneak to the periphery of his vision, to attack from behind, from above, from below, while fewer dared to attack fullfrontal. He swung his sword like a farmer threshing, reaping a bloody harvest. Limbs, organs, guts, fur, talons, and items too alien to identify flew through the air as he confronted and slew one

creature after another. He lost count of how many he killed, the bodies tossed back by their fellows, roaring with rage as each new corpse fell. He felt the press around him grow thicker as the hybrids crowded harder and closer, seeking a way through his defences. Even the tiniest lapse would be enough to bring him down with a slash of a razor-sharp claw or beak, or the plunging point of a pointed tail dripping venom, or the fired barbs of a porcupine-lion. But he deflected, cut down, hacked away, sliced off and dealt with every oncomer without mercy or hesitation. He was a fighting machine, as the seer had said, a battle engine driven by the shakti of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala. And nothing could harm him. Or so he thought in those last moments of blind red rage. The first hint that he might not be as invulnerable as he assumed came when a cobra-bat swooped from a tree limb at the precise moment when he was battling a wildcat-boar and a bear-stag at once. He ducked in time to avoid the cobra’s lunging fangs and the creature swooped past, screeching in frustration as its venom splattered uselessly on the ground. But a searing pain raked his back and he realised belatedly that the batlike claws of the beast’s forelegs had scraped him. He felt blood oozing from the scratches and flowing thickly down his side. Still, it was a minor wound and he ignored the pain and fought on with greater vigour. ‘Ayodhya Anashya!’ But then a gharial-mouthed rhino impatient to have a go at him literally tore its way through the hybrid before

him— thrusting its long sword-like snout through the back of the bear-stag to emerge dripping from its belly— surprising Lakshman as it clamped its jaws on his sword hand. Lakshman struggled to free himself and for one suspended instant he wrestled furiously with the gharial-rhino, the dying bear-stag pressed between them, but then the wildcat-boar attacked him with the tip of its jagged horn, missing his abdomen but scratching his hip instead, and the gharial-rhino gained the advantage. It clenched its jaws together in a bonecrunching vice, shattering his wrist and severing two fingers. Lakshman’s sword fell from his broken hand, blood spurting from the severed arteries on to his face, blinding him momentarily. The next instant, the hybrids were on him, biting, clawing, slashing, tearing. He felt something cold and sharp punch through his back, cracking his ribs and driving their edges into his lungs.

with its blood-smeared forehead and shattered head-armour. He could barely recognise the river as such, it was so thickly carpeted with moss and rot. But the treeline stopped five yards or so from either bank, forming a pathway through the dense woods, and he could see clear down the course of its flow, into the heart of the jungle. He raised a hand, bringing the Vajra to a halt. There would be no need to keep the bigfoot up front. He would lead the way from here on. He was about to issue the order when he heard the sounds of battle. He had been in enough blood-fights to know one when he heard it. It was the sound of living creatures locked in a desperate struggle for survival, fighting to destroy each other by any means possible. Only the sound of coupling was as arousing. Sniffing the air like a black mountain bear, he smelled the salty tang of blood from downriver and pointed his sword in that direction, yelling to his dwindled but still determined force: ‘Speed! Our swords are needed!’

***

His horse needed no mantra this time. It galloped forward of her own volition, racing downriver in the direction of the sounds and the scent, her nostrils flaring as the odour of blood reached her. As he approached the scene, he peered through the forest gloom, seeking out the source of the noises. It was a battle, no doubt. But between what manner of creatures he couldn’t quite comprehend. The sounds were like a mélange of animal noises as varied as any he’d ever heard. What in the name of the devas were the rajkumars fighting?

Bejoo saw the gleam of water just before his horse broke through the shattered debris of the felled trees, past the bigfoot

He discovered the answer for himself a few moments later as he reached the site of the battle.

Blood gouted from his mouth even as the blunt-edged limb of another creature smashed into the side of his head, cracking his skull open. They devoured him, each beast attacking its own favourite body part, tearing him limb from limb, gobbling his organs as they steamed hot and fresh, crying out their exultation. He wasn’t indestructible after all, it seemed.

On the far bank of the rivulet, the most bizarre conflict he had ever seen was being waged. Rajkumar Rama was standing alone against an enormous mass of beasts. The creatures were so thickly crowded in their eagerness to get at him, Bejoo could hardly tell them apart. Then he realised that his first impression was not a trick of the dim jungle light; these were no ordinary predators. Bejoo’s face wrinkled in distaste as he made out the mutated shapes of the creatures his prince was battling. More amazing than the creatures he fought was Prince Rama himself. The rajkumar was alone, unarmoured, helmless, and armed only with a sword in one hand and a fistful of arrows in the other. Against him were at least a hundred unholy beasts, each lethal enough to strike terror into any regiment of armed and armoured soldiers. Yet Rama fought like he had an army behind him and a shield of invulnerability before him. His sword flashed with such blinding speed that he seemed to wield blue fire rather than forged steel. Everything his blade touched, it slew. The fistful of arrows in his left hand were as effective as any sword, shearing a swathe of bloody death through the pressing beasts. Encircled and outnumbered, he looked like a man wading into an ocean, parting it before him as easily as air. Behind him, the seer Vishwamitra stood within a column of blinding blue light that rose as high as Bejoo could see, disappearing above the tops of the trees. Golden motes of light swirled around him, like a fly trapped in amber held up to sunlight. He was chanting mantras

with the steady ferocity of a general chanting a war cry. To one side of the seer lay a prone form that looked like an animal savaged by a pack of hyenas. Bejoo recognised the golden armlet embossed with the emblem of the House Suryavansha lying amid the steaming remains and realised with a shock that that corpse was none other than Rajkumar Lakshman. Nobody could be torn up that badly and still be alive, could they? His heart sank as he realised that he had already failed in one half of his sworn duty. One rajkumar lay slain, and he was to blame for not being there in time to protect him. Bheriya was beside him, staring at the fantastic scene across the stream. The young Kshatriya’s eyes were wide with disbelief, horror and something else. Adoration, Bejoo realised, knowing at once that Bheriya’s eyes were fixed on Rajkumar Rama. He has never seen anyone fight like that. And neither have I. Nobody human at least. He could see the rajkumar’s eyes now, blazing with blue fire, filled with the same gold motes that surrounded the sage. Brahman power at work. What has the seer done to our prince? He didn’t need to understand or make sense of it all. His warrior’s mind needed only to know two things: whom to fight and how. Understanding never made a sword sharper or an arrow speedier. Bejoo turned the head of his horse, riding to the treeline to give himself room, turned again and galloped hard to the edge of the stream, leaping clear across the water, over the raft itself, landing on the far side with yards to spare. He didn’t need to wait to see if his men were following, Bheriya had turned his horse immediately after he had. The remaining chariot and bigfoot should be able to wade right through the stream; it

was only a yard shallow. He raised his sword and drove his horse forward, calling an invocation to his patron deity Saturn. ‘Jai Shree Shaneshwara!’ he cried, and joined the battle. *** ||Tasmin tvayi kim viryam ityapidan|| ||Sarvah daheyam yadindah prthivyamithih||

Within the cloud of Brahman, Vishwamitra vaguely sensed the battle raging around him. Such was the intensity of Brahman power: once unleashed, the user lost contact with the material realm. For Brahman was beyond space and time; beyond everything that ever was, is or will be. The sage had begun by chanting the sacred mantras of Vedanta; original slokas of his own composition, sacred verses composed in a metre and rhythm that infused them with the power to channel the flow of Brahman that sustained the universe. Vishwamitra was chanting the upanisad mantras in order to channel power to the rajkumars, who would use it to fight the enormous numbers of enemy ranged against them. They needed to achieve the fullest flow of Brahmanical power, and to have their atmas strengthened so they could contain and endure the rush of shakti, the way a river expanded its banks to accommodate a superior flow. And yet, some part of Vishwamitra’s atma, his divine deathless soul, knew that something had happened in the battle that demanded his attention. Something of great import. Something adverse. With a great exertion of shakti, he

struggled to maintain the channelling while freeing a small portion of his mind. With only as much consciousness as was needed to open his left eye he observed what was happening around him. What he saw was not wholly unexpected. Rajkumar Rama was glowing with Brahman shakti, his arms and weapons driven by the immense vidya of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala. The results were plain to see. Not one of the horrendous beasts that boiled around Rama like a plague of locusts could harm a hair on his head. He scythed them down like ripe wheat, mowing his way through the field of flesh. And now he was joined by Kshatriyas from Ayodhya, the remnants of the same Vajra they had encountered when leaving the rajmarg. The outcome of the battle had never been in question, but now it was certain it would be ended soon. Already, the hybrid monstrosities of Tataka’s creation were falling back step by step, unable to match the brutal perfection of Rama’s slaying as well as the courageous horsemen, charioteers and elephants of his fellow Kshatriyas. Soon it would be over. And Rama would be able to seek out and fight his real foe: Tataka herself. Even at the height of his meditative chant, the brahmarishi’s austere face softened in the ghost of a smile. Then his left eye turned and saw the figure that lay prone on the ground. So near the mandala circle in which he stood, he had ignored it at first, assuming it was just another hybrid corpse. Now he saw with rising disquiet that it was a human who lay there, brutally savaged. The pile of bones and flesh resembled something left on a butcher’s slab rather than a human being.

Yet there was no mistaking it for one of Tataka’s bestial monstrosities. That pile of butchered remains was all that was left of Rajkumar Lakshman. Bejoo had seen battle-rage before. But nothing like this. As he fought alongside Rama, he felt the raw power emanating from the prince. The rajkumar’s sword windmilled through the nightmare menagerie, and Bejoo was left with little to do except stick his sword into a few eyes and guts and lop off anything that came within his reach. He had time to glance at Rama as he fought—drawn by the eternal human fascination for all machines of violence—and what he saw chilled and awed him simultaneously. The look on Rama’s face was a grinning mask of exultation. He enjoys it. Loves the slaughter. He saw now that the rajkumar was no longer just hacking down creatures methodically as he had been doing before. He was aiming to inflict the most pain possible. Bejoo watched as Rama cut down two creatures in quick succession, leaving both with terrible mortal injuries, then moving on to other prey. Bejoo dispatched both beasts, wincing as one actually bared its pale white belly to allow him to finish it off. He’s not himself. This is not Prince Rama fighting beside me. This is a creation of the sage, a man possessed by some Brahmanical sorcery. The battle raged on around them. His horsemen and chariots had ridden into the thick of it and were happy to be able to have an enemy they could fight face to face. Bejoo caught glimpses of spears and maces working, smashing bones and piercing hides. Cries of ‘Jai Shaneshwara!’ rang out each time a Vajra Kshatriya downed a monster. The creatures took some lives too, their

bizarre anatomies momentarily catching his men unawares. In sheer numbers, the animals outnumbered the humans, but Rama’s relentless jagganath-like slaughter rate was fast equalling the odds. What had seemed at first sight an impossible scenario now seemed a winnable battle. And the elephants were joining in now as well. They had balked at first, seeing their own species and their cousinspecies among the mutated beasts, but their mahouts had used mantras to calm and convince the bigfoot and they were rallying now. As Bejoo glanced back in a respite between opponents, he saw the lead bigfoot smash his way into the thick of the fight, crushing beasts underfoot and wielding a specially designed weapon attached to his trunk: a lightning-shaped length of metal that sliced without snagging or sticking, identical to the vajra on their banner. Everywhere he looked, the asura monstrosities were being cut down and slaughtered. Rama was no longer the only one wreaking a savage toll. As if sensing their imminent defeat, the beasts had begun turning tail, cut down as they retreated step by step into the forest. Some were agile enough to dance back and lead their pursuers on individual chases, screeching in frustration when the Vajra horsemen or chariot caught up with them. They’re falling back. It’s over. Bejoo fought harder than ever, the wall of fur and claws breaking before him. Beside him, Rama blazed on remorselessly, chasing down and maiming and mutilating the unfortunate beasts that tried to flee. The creatures raised a volley of heart-rending cries, dying slow, agonising deaths. Bejoo followed in Rama’s wake, slaying

as many as he could reach. More creatures were turning now, the line moving back in a unanimous retreat. His men began to raise victory cries as they saw the foe leaving the field. He rested his sword hand a moment, secretly relieved. He had no stomach for this kind of fight. He was about to call to his men to fall back to the riverbank—they had drifted several dozen yards into the jungle—when he heard the booming. The next thing he knew, the ground shuddered with an impact so mighty he was thrown off balance. He slipped and fell in the slimy remains of some grotesque monstrosity, cutting the back of his sword hand on a protruding row of spine-knives on the back of the corpse. But he was hardly aware of the pain. His attention was riveted on the shadow that had appeared in the sky. Hai, Shani-deva. Save and protect us from all evil. What manner of asura have you sent against us now? Beside him, the slaying-machine that was Rama Chandra raised his head to glare at the thing that approached. ‘Tataka!’ cried the prince gleefully. ‘At last you show yourself!’

TWENTY-ONE Bejoo lay where he had fallen, staring up in stunned dismay. The ground shuddered and shook beneath him, tilting him this way, then that. He could feel tiny fissures opening and spreading like spidercracks in the forest floor with each impact. He forgot that he lay in the spilled ichor of the corpse, his sword hand bleeding from the accidental slash. All he could do was lie there and stare up at the apparition in the sky. He had heard the whispered legends of the Yaksi demoness Tataka, and the tales of the horrors that befell those foolish enough to venture into the Bhayanakvan. But no witness had faced the demoness and lived to describe her. Bejoo himself had always harboured a faint suspicion that Tataka might simply be some insane dasya woman, one of those cannibalistic thugs who had taken to waylaying travellers. Like the highway thugs who claimed to be acting on orders from the goddess Kali herself. He had held an image in his mind of a blackskinned tribal woman in a leaf skirt, body pierced in numerous places by carved bone jewellery, a stout nailstudded club in one hand, a necklace of infant skulls dangling over her naked pendulous breasts, roaring curses in her primitive tribal tongue, her rotted teeth easily mistaken for rakshasi fangs. But the being that bore down on them now was no dasya, highway thug or cannibal tribal. What was she? The human vocabulary had few words for something of such proportions. The term giant seemed laughably inadequate. Words like gargantuan, mammoth, titanic, mountainous came to mind. Surely the apparition before him was the result of some asura sorcery? Maya.

Illusion. A trick of the light. Anything but what his eyes claimed they saw. But there was no denying it. The creature that approached, making a path of her own through the Bhayanak-van, was all too real. Her head, shoulders and waist rose well above the tops of the highest trees, which were at least a hundred yards high. She towered above the whole forest, her immense bulk blocking out what little light managed to creep through the dense overgrowth. The sun was almost directly overhead, and when her head passed before it, it was eclipsed as effectively as a snuffedout mashaal. Her shadow was dark and unimaginably huge even in the nearnoon light, racing across the forest floor, casting them all into twilight darkness. She was still several miles distant, he realised. She strode through the Southwoods like a Nandi bull moving through a wheat field. The dense woods parted before her like wheatstalks, entire tracts collapsing beneath her strides. The dust of her wake rose like a cloud into the sky, and would probably be visible for a dozen yojanas in every direction. In fact, Bejoo thought, it was a wonder she had never been spotted from the rajmarg or from any place north of the Sarayu before. He watched her stride through the forest and suddenly felt foolish: the virgin denseness of this part of the woods was evidence she hadn’t been here before. The forest would have been reduced to splinters if she had. The battle around them had ceased. The surviving beasts had fled into the jungle, and his men had stopped to stare up at the new threat that approached.

Bheriya called out excitedly to Bejoo: ‘It was no siege-machine! It was her!’ It took Bejoo a moment to understand that he was referring to the manureboulders that had rained down on them on the outskirts of the forest. Silently, he agreed. This giantess could easily have thrown hillocks at them if she felt like it. Even a small mountain or two. Yes, there was no doubt that it had been she who had flung the balls, shaped by her own enormous hands. Tataka came to a halt, peering down at them. The cloud of dust created by her passage rose above her head, glittering in the sunlight like a corona of smoke. Her face and body were silhouetted by the bright sun directly above her, and although Bejoo squinted hard, he could only make out her features dimly. Tataka bent over, reaching down with hands as thick and long as wheelhouses—it was the only comparison Bejoo could summon to mind—and for a heart-stopping moment he thought she was reaching for him. But she stopped at the top of a cluster of trees, and parted them like a monkey parting the hair of a relative in search of ticks. She riffled through the trees carefully until she found what she was seeking. Bright sunlight shone down on Bejoo and his men as the giant exposed their part of the jungle. The Vajra’s horses reared and screamed in response, terrified by the appearance of the Yaksi. What did the bigfoot make of her, he wondered. Seeing the commotion caused by her appearance, Tataka emitted a grunt-like sound that Bejoo thought indicated satisfaction. Or hunger. Maybe she sees us as a tasty snack. Grasping hold of a clump of

trees, she pulled them up with little effort, uprooting and tossing them aside like a handful of straw. An elephant was caught between the uprooted trunks like an insect tangled in the rakes of a jhadoo broom, and squealed as its feet left the ground. Thick grey legs dangling, it exploded into terrified screams that faded as it was tossed aside with the handful of trees, flying miles away before falling to earth again. When the roots of a tree were yanked out of the ground, two horses were knocked down bodily, their riders violently unseated. Another warrior was killed when his chariot was upturned. An elephant panicked and broke into a headlong run back towards the river. With startling suddenness, the gloom of the dense jungle was dispelled and Bejoo and his men found themselves in a brand-new clearing, a circular open space about a hundred yards in diameter. The Yaksi peered down, appearing satisfied. The mortals were all exposed to her view, as puny as ants and just as helpless before her prodigious size and strength. She bent down, her teeth flashing white in her shadowed face. We’re lost, Bejoo thought, scrambling to get to his feet. There was no conceivable way he could lead his men to kill such a creature. His only prayer was that he be allowed to die on his feet, fighting. He struggled to an upright posture, his sword clutched in his injured hand, feeling impotent as he stared up at the giant Yaksi. Tataka took a single step into her newly created clearing. Her foot came down yards away from an elephant. The impact shook the earth hard enough to rattle Bejoo’s teeth. The bigfoot was thrown several feet into the air, and landed on its

side, screaming, but it struggled up at once, both beast and mahout dazed but apparently unhurt. Horses reared and wheeled, white-eyed. The surviving Vajra Kshatriyas stared up open-mouthed. The Yaksi bent again, and this time Bejoo was certain that his time on Prithvi was ended. He had no means of defending himself and his men against this mountain of an asura. He clenched his jaw and stood ramrod steady, legs spaced apart to prevent himself from being knocked on his back again, prepared for Tataka’s attack and his own death. The Yaksi turned her head from side to side, seeking out something. Or someone. ‘Rama,’ she said, parting lips large enough to swallow a pair of elephants whole. And still leave room for celery, Bejoo thought with dazed bemusement. Even though spoken from a hundred or more yards high, her breath was strong enough to reach Bejoo. He braced himself, expecting a stench a hundred times as foul as that which emanated from the grotesque hybrids of her creation. But as the giantess’s breath wafted across his face, he blinked in disbelief. She smells wonderful. The Yaksi’s breath carried the fragrances of a dozen pleasant things. Definitely clover. And mint. And honeysuckle maybe. More than the individual perfumes was an odour that he couldn’t begin to describe except to say that he knew it all too well. She smells feminine, like a woman. Like his wife even, although it felt insane to relate his wife to this towering mountain of an asura.

Tataka leaned down, her face looming above the clearing. As she came lower, her features grew more clearly visible, illuminated by the reflected sunlight from the ground. She crouched only a few dozen yards above the ground, her face as broad as the diameter of the clearing itself. ‘By the red tongue of Kali,’ Bejoo muttered to himself, sword clenched in his fist, the hilt slippery with his own blood. But it wasn’t just her smell. It was the Yaksi herself. Despite her size, despite the legends, despite everything he had heard about asuras in his forty-seven years on Prithvi, Bejoo couldn’t deny the evidence of his eyes. The Yaksi was neither ugly nor malformed. On the contrary, she was . . . ‘Atee sundar,’ he whispered aloud, as if speaking the words could help him believe the fact. Beautiful beyond comparison. So beautiful that it took an effort to wrench his eyes away and glance around the clearing. His men were as baffled as he was. Their weapons were raised and ready for battle, every last one of them willing to fight the asura to the death, however impossible or futile. But what they were not prepared for was this unexpected reversal. How could an evil demoness be as stunningly beautiful as one of Indra’s apsaras? To confound them further, she was making no hostile actions or gestures. If anything, Bejoo realised, she was being as gentle and careful as she could. If she chose, the Yaksi could simply raise a foot and stamp them down like splayed

beetles, reducing them to crushed and mangled corpses. Yet even when she had uprooted the trees and foliage to make the clearing, she had done so without directly inflicting any violence on them. All the injuries were accidental. After all, she can’t help her size. The thought made him aware of the absurdity of his situation: I’m justifying an asura’s actions! But the fact was as plain as the perfectly proportioned features of the Yaksi’s face and body. This was no hideous demoness with crooked fangs dripping infants’ blood, clad in human hides. In fact, the giantess wasn’t clad in anything. Her enormous body was completely naked of any clothing, apart from a small crown of mogra nightqueen flowers, so redolent they could only be fresh, placed on her bright red hair. This last touch was particularly unsettling. Even Bejoo’s wife put mogra in her hair, especially on nights when she knew he was in a particularly amorous mood. It made the Yaksi seem like nothing more than a very, very large and beautiful woman. ‘Rama,’ she said again, softer this time, her breath as fragrant as a spring field in bloom, her voice as delicate and feminine as a trained gayaka in Maharaja Dasaratha’s court. Her bright green eyes were perfectly proportioned, two almond-shaped pools of light and colour. A delicately shaped nose, long ears with pointy tips, a neck as graceful as a swan’s, and a body so slender—if that was the right word for a woman three hundred yards tall, and forty or fifty yards wide—that she could have driven any concubine in the maharaja’s

palace to blazing envy. Bejoo lowered his glance to her more private assets, and was shocked to find himself aroused by the beauty and perfection of her form. Gandharvas created to seduce the devas would have wept for such a body. He glanced around at his men and wasn’t surprised to see that several had lowered their swords and spears. But their level of arousal is rising fast. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and glanced away for an instant, unable to believe the stirring in his groin. This is impossible. There must be sorcery at work here. How can this . . . this . . . being possibly be Tataka? *** Rama came to his senses in stages, the shakti of the mahamantras reducing in intensity from a raging glacial torrent to a gushing stream and then a more placid thick-girthed flow, until finally it released its hold on him and he returned to normality. He blinked in the gaudy sunshine, in full command of his wits again, and remembered what had brought him back to his senses in the first place. Tataka. The giantess loomed above him, a sculpted idol of feminine perfection created on a massive scale. He was on his guard, sword still in hand, mind prepared to distrust the evidence of his senses as the result of maya. But Tataka’s beauty was overwhelming. It made him hesitate long enough to allow doubt to creep into his mind. This being can’t be an evil demoness, can she?

‘Tataka,’ he said softly, staring up at the giantess. She smiled at the sound of her name on his lips. Her smile was a wonderful thing, warm and innocent and full of relief and pleasure at hearing him acknowledge her presence. Except for her size, she might have been any woman, only her ears, the pale whiteness of her skin, the bright redness of her hair, and the faint dotting of freckles on her face marking her as different from other Arya women. That, and the very distracting fact of her utter nakedness. Beware, Rama. Remember who this is. ‘Tataka,’ he said again. ‘At last I meet you face to face, legendary demon.’ The smile faltered. ‘Demon? Is that how you see me, my prince?’ ‘Rama!’ The brahmarishi’s stentorian voice boomed angrily through the clearing. ‘Do not be deceived by Tataka’s shrewd ingenuity. She seeks to distract you with maya. asuras are masters of illusion. Turn a blind eye to her beauty and femininity and fulfil the duty with which I entrusted you. Slay the monster at once!’ Every pair of eyes in the clearing turned to look at the sage. Vishwamitra still stood on the mandala, but the column of Brahman light had vanished. The seer raised his longstaff and pointed up at the giantess, calling out to Rama: ‘Do not delay, rajkumar. Remember what I told you: her power is weakest when the sun is highest. This is why she uses this alluring disguise to delay and entice you. Hold fast to your dharmic duty and slay her at once.’

Rama looked at Tataka once again, then at the brahmarishi. ‘Parantu, gurudev, she appears to be a woman rather than an asura. Kshatriya honour forbids me to kill a woman.’ The sage shook his staff in fury. ‘Do not be fooled by appearances, Rama. This Yaksi is guilty of a thousand crimes. The devas themselves have sought her destruction time and time again. Remember the tale of Kama’s Grove! Of how the devas sought for millennia to rouse Lord Shiva from his million-year tapasya. It was to destroy this very being. Resurrected by Ravana’s sorcerous evil, she assumes this bhes-bhav to confuse you. Neither listen to her honeyed lies nor pay attention to her womanly attractions. Take up your weapon now and strike her down!’ A wisp of hair fell across Tataka’s face. It hung there for a moment, obscuring her right eye and cheek, lending her an air of allure. ‘Would you kill me, my prince? A mere woman?’ Rama looked around, his mind in a turmoil. ‘Rama, do not fear her gargantuan size. Even though she has the strength of a thousand elephants, she is no match for you and the shakti of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala.’ Rama looked at the giantess then at the sage. He scarcely knew whom to listen to or believe now. ‘Gurudev,’ he said. ‘Please, I beg you, do not force me to violate dharma by killing a woman. I have done all you asked and will do all you ask in future. But this command is beyond my ability to fulfil.’

Vishwamitra brought his staff down in fury. Where it struck the ground, the earth itself split wide open with a blast of light and thunder. The elephants and horses, skittish and wide-eyed in the presence of the Yaksi, reared and trumpeted.

such lofty ideals. But it must be done, and it must be done now.’ The sage paused and then added: ‘If not for yourself and your people, then do it for your brother.’

‘Rajkumar Rama! Dharma is duty performed for the greater good. This duty you must perform for the welfare of all the four castes, for the sake of all mortalkind. A king must do what serves his subjects best, even if it seems unrighteous and distasteful, for such is his dharma. Hear me well, rajkumar. Lord Indra, most honourable of devas, was compelled to kill the daughter of Virocana because she sought the destruction of Prithvi herself, the very planet we inhabit. Lord Vishnu the Preserver killed Bhrigu’s wife, mother of Kavya, because she plotted to murder Indra. In ages past, other Kshatriya kings and princes such as yourself have committed this painful duty of streehatya and they suffered the same doubts and hesitation you are experiencing. You are not the first and you will not be the last warrior to kill a woman. It must be done. Suppress your pity, swallow your misgivings, take up your bow and kill Tataka while the sun approaches its zenith. Kill her now, Rama!’

The sage raised his staff and pointed to an object on the ground nearby. ‘See for yourself and weep, brave prince of Ayodhya. There lies your courageous brother, Sumitra-putra Lakshman, reduced to a heap of shattered bones and tattered flesh, a victim of this same Tataka. Look at his remains and tell me now, do you still believe this demoness to be nothing more than a beautiful woman?’

Tataka rose to her feet, blotting out the sun again. The giantess awaited Rama’s decision with a passiveness that was almost heartrending. If she was a fanged and clawed monstrosity rushing to tear my heart out, would I have hesitated this long? And yet, something stayed his hand. Vishwamitra spoke again, his tone softer and filled with compassion for Rama’s plight. ‘Rama, listen to me, boy. I know your pain. You are noble indeed to have

Rama frowned. ‘My brother?’

Rama was across the clearing and by the side of the corpse with a speed that left the watching Kshatriyas blinking in surprise. He bent and tried to collect the heap of gristle and bones that was all that remained of his brother—my brother in arms. It was less than nothing, neither a whole corpse nor a bone-white skeleton. Even as the maha-mantras worked their feverish power and the shakti flooded his brain and body, he still retained the ability to recall something of his other identity, the Rama Chandra he was when not under the influence of Bala and Atibala. That Rama brought to this moment a sackful of memories, images, emotions, sensations, halfremembered phrases and words that had seemed insignificant at the time and were more precious than a prayer now. Years growing together, scraping knees and bruising hearts, mastering arts both martial and mortal, learning to kill and learning to love, the importance of family, the necessity of duty, the meaning of dharma, the cycle of karma. It all flashed through with the white-hot

intensity of a bolt of lightning leaving the heart of a thundercloud. A clap of thunder followed, deafening. The wheel of time, that great samay chakra which stopped for no man, deva or asura, revolved another fraction of a fraction of a notch of a turn. He raised the heap of his brother’s remains and cried his anguish to the skies.

Brahman, a tributary of the great river of celestial power. ‘Mahadev,’ he said, his voice strange and terrible. ‘You are supreme in your knowledge of the divine shastras. Brahma himself gave you vidya of all mantras governing life, death, rebirth and resurrection. No task is too great for your shakti. I implore you, return my brother in arms to the world of the living.’

‘Lakshman!’ The Bhayanak-van reverberated with his grief. Rama rose and walked with the bundle of his brother’s mangled body in his outstretched arms, an anguished devotee bringing a strange offering to a heartless god. He stopped before the sage, bending his knee. He lowered the remains to the ground carefully, as tenderly as a mother laying down her sleeping infant. Then he bent and touched his forehead to the ground. Grit and dry leaves rubbed against his feverish skin, grinding against the bone of his skull like spices in a silbutta. When he raised his face, his forehead was marked with the grey soil of the haunted jungle, like a Shaivite adorned with ash. The rage returned with a suddenness that was terrifying as well as thrilling. Pure emotion surged through Rama’s veins, rising like a flash flood to overcome his anxieties, guilt and doubts. His fist clenched, seeking weapons, any weapons. His nostrils flared, sucking in air greedily, and he lowered his head to allow the blood and oxygen to reach his brain unimpeded, like a bull preparing to charge. Even the Vajra Kshatriyas took a step back, frightened at the transformation of Rama. Once again he was a being of

Vishwamitra shifted his hand higher on the staff, gripping the knob of wound thread at the top. ‘There is a price to be paid for every spell that alters the balance of life and death. The Lord of Death, Yama, keeps precise accounts. The scales must ever be balanced perfectly. There are no exceptions. If you would have me apply to him to restore Rajkumar Lakshman to his former state, you must pay the price for his life with another.’ Rama’s eyes flashed blue and gold, burning bright even in the light of high noon. ‘I will pay the price with my own life if need be.’ ‘That will not be enough. The price for resurrection is dear. One mortal soul will not meet Yamaraj’s bill.’ ‘Then I will offer a dozen souls. A hundred. A thousand! Name the price, Sage, and I will pay it. I will reap a harvest of blood such as was never seen in all the three worlds.’ ‘Hear me then. Even all the mortal souls in the world are not enough to satisfy Lord Yama. You could cleanse the world of all mortalkind as Parasurama cleansed Prithvi of every last living Kshatriya thrice over, and yet it would not pay the bill for your brother’s soul. There is only one life that the god of death will accept

in exchange for your brother’s.’ ‘Name the unfortunate wretch and he will not live to see the sun set today.’ ‘Nay. Even sunset would be much too late. Already, Yama is halfway back to Patal on his red-eyed black buffalo, your brother’s soul cached in his leopardskin pouch. If he consigns Lakshman to one of the many levels of Hell, it will be impossible to buy him back at any price. The exchange must be done quickly enough to make Yama retrace his steps at once. Within moments.’ ‘It will be as you say, seer. Now name the victim who will pay for my brother’s resurrection.’ Vishwamitra raised a hand. ‘It is no mystery. There she stands behind you. The one responsible for your brother’s death. Kill the Yaksi demoness Tataka, and I will buy back your brother’s life from the Lord of Death. Do it now, for the sun is at its zenith, or let the moment pass and go about collecting sandalwood for his funeral pyre.’ Rama stared at the seer. Then slowly he bowed his head once more. ‘So be it. Begin the mantra, rishi, I will fulfil my part of the bargain.’ He rose to his feet, and turned. He strode to the spot where Lakshman had fallen and picked up his brother’s rig. He slung it over his shoulders and fitted an arrow to the cord. Then he raised the bow and took aim at the giantess looming above the clearing.

TWENTY-TWO Tataka reared up with a cry. ‘Sage! You seers have been my bane for too long. Today I shall destroy you and your mortal accomplices. Your kind can never resist the might and fury of the Lord of Lanka! In the name of Ravana!’ Tataka raised her foot, preparing to stamp down on the seermage. Vishwamitra stood his ground impassively, reciting his mantras without heed for the Yaksi. Rama loosed his arrow. The thin wooden bolt shot up into the sky, and for an instant it was lost to sight, obscured against the blazing noonday sun. Then the giantess cried out with rage and slapped at herself, as if at a mosquito. Bejoo saw the tiniest of pinpricks appear on the giantess’s fair skin, high up on her left breast, a faint red dot. She pinched the arrow with her thumb and forefinger and pulled it free. Against her gargantuan bulk, the bolt was a barely visible sliver, like a needle in a grown man’s hand. Tataka tossed it aside. ‘Foolish mortal. Do you really believe you can harm me with your weapons? I am Tataka! I have the strength of a thousand elephants. It is not for nothing that I am known as gaja-gamini, the elephant-footed!’ ‘An elephant can be killed too, as can a thousand,’ Rama replied, notching another arrow. ‘But you can try fleeing with the speed of a thousand gaja if you like. It will not save you, demoness.’ Something came over her face then, an

awareness that the puny human standing before her was no longer the scrupulous dharma-driven prince of Ayodhya who feared committing the mortal sin of stree-hatya, woman-murder. This was a different being altogether, and there would be no arguing with him. ‘So be it,’ she said, and raised her hands as Rama lifted his bow again. She spread her arms as wide as she could—wide enough to encompass most of Ayodhya, Bejoo thought—and brought her palms together with all her force. The effect was like the most powerful thunderclap he had ever heard. The wind from the impact blasted him and his men off their feet, throwing some up into the air to slam against trees and elephants. The horses shuddered and fell over. The bigfoot shuffled sideways, struggling to keep their footing. At the exact same instant, Rama loosed his second arrow. This one flew straight to the palm of her left hand, piercing the mound of Shukra below the thumb. Tataka hardly seemed to feel it; she was already bending down in preparation for her next move. But suddenly she exclaimed, her voice loud and crashing, no longer modulated gently for their benefit. She raised her left hand and examined it closely. She pinched out the arrow and stared at it for a moment before tossing it aside. Then she rubbed the spot where it had struck, dismissed the prick and turned back to the clearing. Rama loosed a third arrow. This one struck her right forearm, Bejoo saw, just above the wrist. This time the giantess ignored it, wincing as it pierced her but continuing to reach down into the clearing. She picked up an elephant in one hand, clutched between

two fingers like a squirming grub, and raised it to her mouth. With a single nip, she bit it in half, letting the front half fall to the ground in a mass of bloodied flesh. The back half she aimed and threw at another bigfoot. It screamed as its dead brother fell on its flank with force enough to crush its hip, going down in a heap, bleating helplessly. The lead bigfoot reared up into the air, his eyes white, trumpeting with fury. This is one battle you can’t win, old friend, Bejoo thought sadly. Even a thousand elephants couldn’t face her and live. Still he gripped his sword tightly, ready to go down fighting. The Yaksi raised her foot, causing a riot in the clearing. The horses were reeling and turning, suddenly terrified. They scent the Yaksi’s hostility now. And he smelt it too, a low, sour odour that was as distinct as the earlier fragrant aroma had been. This was the Yaksi’s true body odour, not the sweet scent she had deceived them with earlier. Tataka brought her right foot down upon three of the Vajra riders with a wordless cry of rage, just as Rama shot his fourth arrow at the same leg. She hardly seemed to notice this one. But Bejoo observed with a start that something strange was starting to happen at the spot where Rama’s first arrow had struck. On the Yaksi’s left breast, where there had been the tiniest of pinpricks and a droplet of blood so minute it was barely visible, there was now a dark red patch the size of the Yaksi’s thumb. A tiny plume of smoke rose from the patch, and as Bejoo watched, the skin itself seemed to pucker and peel away from the centre of the wound.

What wound? A thistle-poke would cause more harm. Yet even as Bejoo watched, raising his free hand to shield his eyes from the overhead sun, he saw the dark patch growing, expanding outward. His first impression of smoke was no sun-haze illusion; the wound was starting to catch fire and burn! The Yaksi frowned, distracted from her stomping and smashing of the Vajra Kshatriyas and their beasts. She bent her head and attempted to look at her left breast. She peered at the wound, now the size of her palm and growing with astonishing rapidity, smoke curling up from its puckering edges like a scroll of paper set afire by a piece of glass and sunlight. She touched the wound tentatively with her fingertips and cried out as the fire singed her fingers as well. Then a curl of smoke emerged from her left hand and she spread the palm, staring at the spot where Rama’s second arrow had struck. It was growing too, burning blackly. Bejoo suddenly began to comprehend what was happening and turned his head to look at the Yaksi’s right forearm where the next arrow had struck, then the left foot and finally the right foot where Rama had just shot his fifth arrow. Each wound was behaving in exactly the same way. It’s as if the arrows were pitch-missiles fired into a thatched roof, burning up the skin and flesh like straw. How could such a thing happen? He turned to look at Rama again, and saw the answer at once.

The prince was preparing to fire a sixth arrow, and this time Bejoo watched him closely enough to see everything he did. Just before stringing the arrow, Rama poked it lightly into his own abdomen. Lightly, but hard enough to break the skin and draw blood. Bejoo’s eyes widened as he saw the tiny pinprick of fresh blood welling up on the rajkumar’s flat abdomen. Then he saw that there were identical drops of fresh blood on the prince’s arms and legs and chest. He dipped every arrow into his own blood before loosing it. Bejoo had no idea how that could cause the arrows to act on the Yaksi the way they did, but he suspected it had something to do with the mahamantras he had heard spoken of earlier. Somehow the rajkumar’s own blood was filled with the power of Brahman, and by smearing his blood on to each arrowtip, he was using not just arrows but the very force of the celestial power against the Yaksi. Tataka’s scream diverted his attention back to her. Bejoo looked up and saw the giantess’s five wounds burning freely now, the fires tinged with edges of unmistakable Brahman blue, literally eating up the Yaksi’s flesh. The one in her chest was a roaring flame now, and Bejoo saw that her chest itself was exposed, the heart and ribcage clearly visible. As she raised her burning left hand in terror and pain, he saw the fire eat right through the palm, exposing sky and a glimpse of the sun on the other side. It was an incredible sight. Rama’s blood, rich with the Brahman shakti of Bala and Atibala, is eating the Yaksi alive.

And the sun god Surya, progenitor of Rama’s dynasty, is at the peak of his power, giving the rajkumar the combined strength of mortal and immortal shakti. Rama loosed his sixth arrow, this time piercing the Yaksi’s belly. She screamed, understanding at last what the puny human was doing to her. She pinched out the arrow at once, but already the pinprick was on fire, spreading as rapidly as water seeping across a sloping floor. And then Rama took a seventh and last arrow and pricked his own forehead with it. ‘Now die, Tataka,’ he said. And shot the giantess between the eyes. Bejoo sent up a prayer to every deva he could think of. With a scream that pierced his eardrums, the Yaksi cried out. Then, with a sound like a waterfall striking a rock, she went up in flames, ringed blue at the edges. She fell to her knees, the impact shaking the earth hard enough to rattle every bone in his body and every tooth in his head. For one heart-stopping instant, Bejoo was sure she would fall forward, crushing them all. But she groaned, her face a blazing candle oozing molten flesh and running blood, and fell sideways, crashing to the ground in an enormous cloud of dust. After a moment, the forest began to burn around her, a fitting funeral pyre.

TWENTY-THREE

looked like he had been in a fierce battle.

Lakshman opened his eyes, blinking as he found himself looking up at a bright afternoon sky.

The grizzled Kshatriya blinked at last and looked away, at the road. ‘The sage told me to take you ahead. He and your brother follow us on foot.’

The ground below him shuddered convulsively. A rattling and roaring filled his ears. From the position of the sun, he guessed it was late afternoon. He sat up slowly, wincing in anticipation of pain, and found himself staring at a curved metal plate not unlike the inside of a battle shield. He realised he was in a chariot. The sandalled feet of the charioteer were behind his head, stippled with dried blood and cuts and bruises. Blood stained the charioteer’s hoary right hand as it held the reins tightly. From the steady rhythmic rocking of the twohorse, Lakshman intuited that they were on a path less smooth than the raj-marg yet not as rough as open countryside.

Lakshman looked around. He saw they were on a rough but passable dirt path running through lightly wooded scrubland. Another two chariots followed them, both badly battered and one wobbling dangerously. Perhaps two dozen horse followed the chariot, riding in single file, and through the cloud of dust rising in their wake, he thought he could make out the raised trunks of two or three bigfoot. He turned back to the commander, surprised. ‘Your Vajra? Is this all that remains of it?’ Bejoo’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes.’

He tried to sit up and lost his balance, keeling over to the open rear of the chariot, towards the brown earth rushing past at a great speed. A muscled hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him.

‘Why did you carry me in your chariot? Why did Rama and Gurudev not rouse me and let me walk? My place is with them, not riding like this.’

He turned and looked into the sunburned battle-scarred face of a grizzled veteran, recognising the man as the same Vajra commander they had encountered on the cliff south of Sarayu just after they left the raj-marg.

Bejoo glanced at him, his eyes flicking up and down as if examining Lakshman carefully. ‘You were . . . injured in the battle. Unconscious. Unfit to make the journey on foot. I was ordered to carry you ahead to the sage’s ashram.’ He added belatedly, ‘Rajkumar.’

‘Bejoo-chacha,’ he said, surprised. ‘What am I doing here in your chariot?’ Bejoo stared at him silently in response. Lakshman frowned, wondering if the man had failed to hear him above the noise of the chariot. Perhaps he was deafened temporarily by some injury; he

‘I feel fine,’ Lakshman began, irritated. ‘I could have walked easily. Stop the chariot, let me off here. I will wait by the road for my brother and Guru Vishwamitra and continue on foot with them.’

The commander rode on without slowing. ‘Shama, my prince. I have strict orders. You are to be allowed to disembark only when we reach Siddhashrama.’ Lakshman frowned. ‘But we can’t be going on to Siddhashrama yet. We still have to kill the Yaksi Tataka and her rakshas sons Mareech and Subahu.’ A sudden chill gripped him despite the heat of the afternoon sun. ‘What happened to me, Commander? I was wounded, wasn’t I?’ He patted himself all over. ‘But where was I wounded? I feel no injuries on my person. I feel healthy, invigorated, fighting fit . . . and hungry, very, very hungry.’ Bejoo glanced at him curiously, steering the chariot around a bend in the path beside a clump of cherry trees. ‘I am sure the rishis at the ashram will provide for your needs, rajkumar. We should reach it soon. The sage said it was about eight or nine yojanas ahead. We have already covered half that distance.’ Lakshman thumped his fist on the dashboard of the chariot. ‘I don’t understand. Why was I unconscious for so long? What happened after I lost my senses? Speak to me, Commander. Tell me!’ The Kshatriya evaded his eyes. ‘All I know, rajkumar, is that when my Vajra and I caught up finally with the three of you, you were in the Bhayanak-van and had fought a great battle against Tataka and her minions. We joined forces with you and eventually, by your brother’s great valour, Tataka was killed and the Bhayanak-van set ablaze. If you look back, you will see the fire even now.’

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Lakshman peered in the direction the commander had mentioned, and saw the plume of smoke that rose in the distance, several yojanas away. He had missed it earlier because the dust of their wake had obscured it. ‘Jai Shiv Shankar! Hail Lord Shiva!’ he said, unable to believe it. ‘Then we won! We fought them all and we won! You said you saw Rama kill the Yaksi?’ Bejoo nodded, looking away. ‘I did.’ ‘Was she as terrible as the tales say? A towering, blood-thirsty, rapacious demoness with the strength of a thousand elephants?’ Bejoo continued to keep his face averted, looking at the road ahead. ‘She was the largest living being I have ever seen or heard tell of.’ ‘And you say my brother downed her? How did he achieve this, commander? Give me the details!’ Lakshman slammed a fist into his open palm. ‘If only I had been awake to see it. Why did I have to be knocked unconscious at such a time! Rama had to do it all on his own.’ He glanced apologetically at the Vajra commander. ‘Although I am sure you and your Vajra must have fought hard alongside him. I can tell that from the extent of your losses.’ ‘Yes,’ Bejoo said shortly. ‘Rajkumar, perhaps you would take some rest for a while and allow me to concentrate on steering us safely. I am sure your brother and the sage will answer your questions once we reach the ashram.’ ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Lakshman said. He felt like singing and clapping his hands.

But the commander’s obvious depression dampened his enthusiasm. He sympathised with the man’s losses. ‘You must have lost some fine men in the Southwoods.’ Bejoo was silent for a moment. When he replied, his voice was gruff and hoarse. ‘All fine men, some finer than others.’ Lakshman shook his head regretfully. ‘When we return to Ayodhya, I will tell my father you fought bravely. He will raise a stone to the memory of your lost men.’ He sighed, folding his arms across his chest, his body rocking with the rhythm of the chariot. ‘It could as easily have been me lying back there on the floor of the Bhayanak-van, dead.’ He wondered why Bejoo started suddenly, almost losing control of the horses, and stared at him in wide-eyed shock. Battle-weariness, Lakshman thought. The man needs time to recover, that’s all. *** They reached the ashram not long after, the sun still high in the western sky. It was not unlike Ananga-ashrama, except that the rishis were devoted to Brahma instead of Shiva, and the ashram seemed more recently built, in relative terms, which meant only that it was a few centuries old to Ananga-ashrama’s millennia. Lakshman refused to take water or food, and would not accept arghya or set foot within the shaded ashram hut until Rama arrived. He sat on a hummock beside the road, waiting. He wished he could take a

chariot and ride back to pick up his brother and the guru. The hours passed with agonising slowness, but despite his earlier pangs of hunger, he felt more than able to bear the heat and the lack of food or water. If anything, he felt refreshed and alert. He attributed it to the time he had spent unconscious. The Vajra Kshatriyas tended to their horses and elephants but seemed to avoid him nervously for some reason. Lakshman didn’t mind; he was in no mood for talk and he wanted time to try and remember what had happened before he lost consciousness. All he could recall was fighting the hybrid monsters, the blue glow from his own eyes, and Rama’s incredible speed, strength and skill during the battle. The sun was an hour from the horizon when he finally spied the flowing white locks of the brahmarishi and Rama’s crowblack hair. Both men were approaching at a pace that was equal to a brisk trot. Lakshman’s heart thudded as he saw that Rama was unmarked by scars or wounds. Even the ichor and blood that must have coated his body after the battle with the hybrids seemed to have been washed away. As Rama came closer, his body glistening with a rich sheen of sweat, Lakshman saw something in his brother’s eyes that was visible even from afar, something not like Rama, and a faint uneasiness crept down his spine as he recalled the blood-madness of the battle. But he ran forward excitedly, waving. Rama’s face lost its grim expression as his mouth opened in that familiar teeth-flashing laugh, and he ran to meet him midway. They embraced and Lakshman squeezed his brother’s sweat-slippery body as

tightly as he could. ‘Bhai,’ he said, fighting back tears. ‘It’s good to see you again.’ Rama disengaged himself from his grip and looked at him. ‘And you too, little brother. So good to see you again.’ There was a strange expression to his voice, as if he was trying to choke back sudden tears. Lakshman turned to the brahmarishi as he approached, joining his hands and bowing his head respectfully. ‘Pranaam, gurudev. I apologise for not being in my senses during the battle with the Yaksi and her sons.’ The seer laid a hand on Lakshman’s head. ‘No need to apologise, rajkumar. You fought bravely, doing more than your share. We all play our own part in each conflict, and oftentimes we serve the purpose of Brahman in our own individual ways.’ Lakshman raised his head. ‘I look forward to serving you now during your yagna, mahaguru. When will it begin?’ The sage glanced back at the sun hanging low in the evening sky. ‘This very evening, Lakshman. I am afraid you and your brother will have no sleep for the next seven nights. You must stand guard and ensure that the rakshasas do not violate the ritual or the altar as they have done at earlier poojas. This is no ordinary havan. It is a maha-yagna that must be completed without interruption.’ ‘We will not fail Lakshman replied.

you,

mahadev,’

The seer turned to look at him. ‘No, you

will not,’ he said kindly. ‘I am confident in your ability to fulfil your duty to the fullest extent.’ He glanced over Lakshman’s shoulder, exchanging another look with Rama. ‘I am sure you will be more than a match for Mareech and Subahu when they arrive. ‘And now, I will go and purify myself in preparation for the yagna, and you and your brother must do the same. You may perform your sandhyavandana and take your acamana in the sacred confluence of the Ganges and Sarayu. For this is Siddh-ashrama, built on the sacred site where the great Sage Vamana once resided, who as you well know was the famous dwarf avatar of Lord Vishnu descended to earth to regain Prithvi from the demon Bali.’ He smiled. ‘But that is a katha for another time. Perhaps when we are done with our yagna and are on the road back to Ayodhya, I may tell it to you. Now, time is short, and much work remains.’ The sage strode towards the ashram, the rishis waiting at its boundaries with arghya jugs and phool malas and all the customary honours. Lakshman turned to Rama. ‘Did he say Mareech and Subahu? But I thought you fought and killed them back in the Bhayanak-van when you killed Tataka?’ Rama’s eyes were distant and distracted. ‘They fled.’ ‘Oh,’ Lakshman said, wanting to hear more. ‘About the fight with Tataka, bhai. After I was knocked unconscious . . . how was I knocked unconscious, by the way? All I remember is—’

Rama put a hand on his shoulder, silencing him. ‘Lakshman, my brother. We have work to do. It will be dusk in minutes, and we still haven’t completed our evening prayers. Come. We’ll talk later.’ ‘Of course,’ Lakshman replied. ‘Later.’ They walked together.

towards

the

ashram

TWENTY-FOUR The first six days and nights passed without disturbance. The yagna went on round the clock uninterrupted, and by the afternoon of the fifth day, Lakshman could tell from the expressions and manner of the rishis and acolytes that everything was going well. Even he could see that the omens were all auspicious, and began to relax. On the morning of the sixth and final day, Rama woke him with the quiet warning: ‘Today, be on your guard.’ The day passed uneventfully. That night, as dusk began to fall, Lakshman sensed a change in the atmosphere. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle, the harsh, plaintive cawing of a crow broke the chirringchirping sounds of sparrows and insects, and as twilight deepened, he knew that things more dangerous than wolves or cats were abroad. They came from the sky, appearing out of thin air and flying with no clear means of support. The first was a demon with skin so fair it took him only a moment to recognise it as an albino. Its colourless white eyes were filled with a hatred that was more frightening than the jagged-edged mace it held. Why does he hate me so much? Then he remembered and felt foolish. Because we killed his mother. That one was Mareech, Rama told him quietly, speaking in the wordless voice that they both had begun to use when under the

influence of the maha-mantras. The second one was completely unlike his brother-rakshas: dark and short and thick-waisted. He carried a weapon that Lakshman had never seen before, a peculiar round astra like a hollow metal ball which covered his fist and most of his forearm. This one was Subahu, Rama said. As Subahu approached, he raised his hand and swung it in an action similar to swinging a sling. The metal ball unfolded into overlapping layers, each finely honed to razorsharpness, and from between the layers spikes on thin metal rods emerged, spinning in a synchronous motion that was mesmerising to behold. Lakshman tore his eyes away from the lethal beauty of the astra and concentrated on his own astras. The brahmarishi had given them their weapons before beginning the yagna. It had been a simple but significant ceremony, attended by the ashramites as well as the Vajra Kshatriyas. ‘To honour your valour in the Bhayanakvan, for cleansing the dread Southwoods and razing it to the ground with purifying fire, for killing the demoness Yaksi Tataka and ridding the world of her menace, I grant you, Rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, the divine astras of the devas. These mantras I communicate directly to your minds will give you the shakti to call upon any one of a hundred great astras. Despite their name, these are not mere weapons. Each of these astras is in fact a celestial being, a shining demi-god from swarga-lok, the highest of the three worlds. The mantras compel them to serve you at your will. Speak any

mantra and the corresponding shining one will be at your command instantly. Accept these divine weapons now as reward for your triumph in Bhayanakvan.’ Lakshman had suffered a pang of guilt. He felt he hardly deserved this recognition after being unconscious through most of the fight in the Southwoods. But when he said as much to the brahmarishi, Rama interrupted and insisted that he should not refuse such gifts. He had agreed only to avoid spoiling the ceremony, but now he was glad the guru had armed them with the astras. As the rakshasas swooped down from the sky, riding through the air by some strange shakti, he stepped forward. He knew what to do. He would use the Manava astra to dispel them both in one blow. It would be ironically appropriate to destroy the rakshasas with the shakti of his ancestor Manu Lawmaker himself. But as he released the astra at the approaching asuras, Rama moved in front of him, shielding him. Lakshman cried out in frustration and diverted the astra at the last minute. It went astray, striking Mareech a glancing blow on his shoulder. Even so, it was powerful enough to fling the rakshas back with the force of a catapult launching a pebble. The demon was thrown a hundred yojanas distant, landing in the Great Ocean, his shoulder shattered. But he was still alive. Lakshman knew this because the astra returned in a flash to him and showed him the result of its action. Before Lakshman could cry out to Rama to move from his way, Rama had unleashed one, two, three astras in rapid succession. Lakshman stared in disbelief

as the astras of Agni, Vayu and Indra struck the rakshas Subahu simultaneously in a magnificent display of coordinated shakti. The rakshas was quartered to the four winds, burnt alive, and his remains reduced to charred ashes by the three astras of fire, wind and lightning. As suddenly as it had begun, the assault was over. Lakshman blinked, unable to believe the fight had ended so quickly. Around them, the Vajra Kshatriyas looked around uneasily, their swords and maces still unsullied, their arrows unshot. They muttered nervously, glancing at the two princes. When the yagna ended at dawn the next morning, Lakshman turned to Rama and broke the ritual silence. ‘Why did you block my way, bhai? I would have destroyed both of them with Manu’s astra. They would both be dead now. Instead, you let Mareech escape.’ Rama looked away. ‘His injury was grave. He fell far out in the ocean. He won’t survive.’ ‘But why did you do it?’ Rama looked at him. ‘I didn’t want to lose you again.’ Lakshman felt a surge of anger. ‘Just because I was knocked unconscious once doesn’t mean I’m helpless, bhai! I can fight as well as you can. I don’t need your protection, big brother!’ Rama nodded. ‘I did what I thought was right at the time. I’m sorry if I hurt your pride, Lakshman. It won’t happen again.’ Lakshman’s anger faded. There was

more to this than Rama was telling him, he knew.

Bejoo acknowledged the sage’s generosity with a namaskar and a bow.

‘Rajkumars.’

‘His associate Bheriya will ride back to the capital to inform Maharaja Dasaratha of the good news, so that when you return home, you will be welcomed back with full pomp and ceremony as befits two victorious princes of Ayodhya.’

Vishwamitra’s face glowed with a new intensity. The brahmarishi had visibly gained strength during the yagna and now he looked and moved like a man who had shed fifty years— or five hundred, considering his age. He fed them both the prasadam from the yagna with his own hands. Lakshman let go of his questions and doubts as he received the sanctified fruits of the sacrifice and repeated the ritual thanks. ‘Your service has come to an end, rajkumars,’ the brahmarishi said with a smile. ‘You have fulfilled your dharma with great success.’ He glanced at Lakshman. ‘And great sacrifice. Soon, we will return to Ayodhya where you will resume your lives as royal princes of your illustrious line. Your father will be proud of how well you conducted yourselves on this your first spiritual mission. And the people will rejoice in the knowledge that you accomplished the cleansing of the dreaded Bhayanakvan. No more will Aryas fear to enter those fearsome woods again. In a generation or two, they will be the site of cities as great as Ayodhya and Mithila. And you made all this possible, my young shishyas. You have done me proud.’ The sage beckoned to the Vajra commander, who was standing in line awaiting his turn to receive prasadam. ‘Vajra Commander Bejoo insists on accompanying us back on our return journey, and I have consented to allow him to fulfil his orders.’

He gestured to his rishis, who handed the prasadam to Bejoo. ‘Kshatriya, on behalf of all at Siddh-ashrama, I thank you for your service in the duty of your rajkumars. Even though you disobeyed my wishes by following us, your sacrifices in Bhayanak-van more than absolved you of your error.’ Bejoo seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. He bowed his head as he accepted the prasadam. ‘You are too kind, mahadev. Will the rajkumars and yourself start your return journey today?’ ‘Yes, good man. But we shall not be returning directly to Ayodhya. We shall be visiting Mithila first.’ Bejoo blinked. ‘But that will take us a full two days out of our way. Rajkumar Rama Chandra is to be crowned princeheir on his sixteenth naming day, less than eight days from now.’ ‘And he shall return in time for the coronation. But this detour is unavoidable. I have important business in Mithila and I would prefer that the rajkumars attend me. After all, do not forget that they are still oathsworn to me until such time as I hand them over personally to their father the maharaja.’ The commander wrestled with his

thoughts for a moment, then sighed. ‘As you say, mahadev. With your permission, I shall dispatch my associate to Ayodhya at once with this news as well as the earlier information. Aagya, gurudev?’ He bowed to the brahmarishi, then to the princes. ‘Thank you for your service, commander,’ Rama said formally. To Bheriya, standing to one side deferentially, he added: ‘Good journey.’ Bheriya thanked them with a namaskar and both Bejoo and he retreated to the waiting chariots. Bejoo put his arm around the younger man, giving him his last instructions. ‘Rama,’ Lakshman said. ‘Why does Bejoo-chacha look at me so strangely, as if I’ve grown four ears or something? I just don’t understand it. He used to be so nice to me back when we were boys.’ Rama shrugged. ‘People change.’ Lakshman wanted to argue that point but Rama had already turned back to the seer. ‘Gurudev,’ Rama asked. ‘If you will pardon my asking, what business requires your presence in Mithila?’ The brahmarishi nodded agreeably, relaxed and contented after the yagna. ‘I must attend a marriage.’ ‘A marriage? Whose marriage, gurudev?’ Vishwamitra smiled cryptically. ‘Yours.’

SAMAPTAM

ONE Bheriya sensed the attack an instant before it came. He and his men were on the dirt path that led up to the cliff. A few yojanas and they would reach the plateau overlooking the Sarayu valley, within sight of Ayodhya. The path was narrow and overgrown, his arms and face criss-crossed with scratches inflicted by some of the more intrusive branches and bushes, yet he rode as fast as the available light and the way would permit, eager to reach Ayodhya and convey his news. The rajkumars are safe; their mission was a success. All of Ayodhya would cheer when they heard his tidings; the maharaja would be overjoyed. Then Bheriya could go home to his new bride and they would resume where they had left off celebrating their suhaag raat. He was thinking of just how that particular celebration would go when he saw the movement on the boulder up ahead. The path wound uphill and turned sharply, following the curve of the cliffside. At the turning, a large lohitstone boulder protruded, looming over the path. The ambush came from atop the boulder. At first Bheriya thought it was a deer of some sort. He glimpsed speckled downy fur and large doe-like eyes. Then the creature rose up to its full height, silhouetted against the light of the almost full moon, and he saw its skin ripple, changing in seconds to something quite un-deer-like. ‘Rakshas!’ he shouted instantly. ‘Savdhaan! Enemy above! On the rock!’ His men reacted at once. The moment

he yelled, they left the path and began to fan out, separating and encircling the boulder in question, arms at the ready. Bheriya stayed on the path, his spear ready and poised even before the creature moved. As the rakshasi leaped off the boulder, roaring with rage, Bheriya threw the spear. It sped through the air headed directly for the creature’s chest. But at the last instant, the rakshasi twisted and dodged the flying missile in mid-air. She fell into the thick undergrowth, vanishing from his sight. ‘Surround and destroy!’ he ordered. ‘Be alert for more enemies!’ He reached for another spear, hefting it expertly as he guided his horse forward. It had been a rakshasi, he was sure of it. He had seen the ugly horned head and the gaping teeth and the unmistakable bulge of its feminine chest. But why had he mistaken it for a deer at first? It didn’t matter. What concerned him now was finding the beast and killing it swiftly. And making sure it was alone. He assumed it was a straggler that had survived the battle in the Bhayanak-van. The Southwoods had been still blazing fiercely when he had left Siddh-ashrama earlier this afternoon, and his party had had to take a wide detour to avoid the enormous swathe of the fire. This creature had undoubtedly escaped both the battle and the fire and was crazed and confused, blindly seeking to avenge its fallen companions. He would soon dispatch it to join those companions. The sounds of bestial howls and human cries exploded from the thick undergrowth up ahead.

He had seen a pair of chariot cutting through the bush on his orders, running to the right. Those were four of his best men. Then the human cries broke off with chilling abruptness, and he knew that the rakshasi had drawn first blood.

He wheeled about, trying to get a fix on her position. He crashed through the undergrowth, finding men unhorsed, their throats slashed, bellies cut, horses disembowelled. All around him, from every direction at once it seemed, the cries of terror continued unabated.

‘Jai Shani-deva!’ he cried, riding into the bush. His horse thrashed through the scrub and trees, and he swatted aside flailing tree limbs.

‘To me, Vajra!’ He was angry now, furious at being duped so easily by a single asura. How had she known they would separate and fan out? Could a rakshasi know a Vajra’s military tactics? Surely that was impossible!

He came upon the chariots and stopped. They were all dead, slaughtered. Not just the chariot riders and the bowmen; the horses too.

He broke through the bush, finding the path yet again. And stopped.

Cursing, he backed his horse to the path, calling to his men to regroup around him. He realised too late that the tactic he had chosen had been the wrong one under the circumstances. It would have worked had there been a whole herd of rakshasas. But because there was only one, the thick brush gave it cover from which to strike and flee, while blocking his men. ‘To me! Vajra, come to me!’ He found the path again and turned his horse around, reeling round in circles, trying to find his men or the rakshasi, either of them. All about him, the undergrowth was exploding with screams and cries of pain and terror. Could one rakshasi be doing so much damage? How could she move so fast? She had been relatively small, barely seven feet high, and slender, lithely muscled. But then he remembered her bared fangs as she had leaped from the boulder, gleaming in the moonlight. And those claws, yes, those claws.

She was standing in the middle of the path, waiting for him. Her talons and mouth dripped dark viscous fluids in the silvery moonlight. She was crouching like a bear in a river waiting to catch a fish. The sounds of his men had ceased. They were all dead, he realised. He hefted the spear in order to judge the throw perfectly. He waited for her to make the first move, determined this time to strike his target. A Vajra Kshatriya never missed twice. Yet he did miss. And she didn’t. *** Supanakha licked herself clean. The mortal blood tasted salty and acidic. She spat it out in disgust. She had lost the taste for blood long ago. But there was no way to avoid swallowing some when ripping out throats and slashing bellies. It was that part about killing mortals she

disliked, the vile saline taste of them. The whole ambush had taken only a few minutes. It had been easier than she’d expected. The Vajra Kshatriyas had been ill-prepared for the attack, and their leader was disoriented by her part-doe part-rakshasi appearance at first sight. He had acted exactly as she had known he would; she had fought Vajra Kshatriyas before. For all their so-called unconventional tactics, Aryas were far too predictable for a truly experienced asura. She had seen Vajra Kshatriyas try the same separate-andsurround tactic as much as three hundred years ago. The outcome of that fight had been the same as this one. She climbed back up on to the boulder, her claws rasping on the craggy lohitstone. The moon illuminated her bloody fur, making it glisten wetly. She would sit here a while and bask in the moonlight. Her cousin would probably contact her again tonight, to find out if she had carried out his orders. Just a few hours away from Rama, and she already missed him. She had followed him down the river yesterday, all the way into the Bhayanak-van. During the battle she had transformed into a langur and climbed a tree, staying high enough to be hidden, low enough to watch. Seeing him slaughter her fellow asuras had aroused her powerfully. It had been a thrill to watch a mortal who could stand up to so many of her brothers and sisters and slay them so efficiently. While staying alive and unharmed himself, of course. She had watched and grown more attracted to him than before. She had a plan. She would speak to her

cousin when he contacted her later tonight. Convince Ravana that Rama was now immune to any assassination attempt. That even Kala-Nemi wouldn’t be able to get close to him now. With the power of the maha-mantras, the guidance of the sage, and the dev-astras in his possession, Rama was all but invulnerable. But he could be reached by a woman. Because of her part-mortal parentage, Supanakha could take the form of a mortal woman so convincingly, even the brahmarishi wouldn’t know for certain that she wasn’t one. That was how she had been able to follow them so closely all the way to the Bhayanak-van. And before that, she had been able to observe them in Anangaashrama undetected. Yes. Where an assassin would surely fail, a woman might succeed. A beautiful young Arya woman who was in some distress, whom they happened to come across while on their journey to Mithila. She already knew they would set out tomorrow at daybreak. She could race ahead of them, just as she had raced ahead of this Vajra company tonight. And ambush them just as effectively. Using deception and disguise rather than surprise and shock. Supanakha smiled, her teeth flashing brightly in the moonlight. Yes, that was a fine plan. Now all she had to do was convince Ravana. Her smile faded. That was easier said than done. But she would manage it somehow. She simply had to get close to Rama, touch his smooth young body again, feel his heart beating against her breast once more. Even if she had to tear out that heart a moment later.

After all, she was a rakshasi. And among her kind, there was very little difference between mating and murder. In fact, she had often found that the latter was far more pleasurable than the former. She raised her head and howled at the moon, exulting in her recent victory and her forthcoming conquest. The sound carried for yojanas on the still night air. She waited for Ravana to come to her and hear her plan.

TWO Sumitra-maa was the last to arrive. She had never been to the seal room before and had taken two wrong turns getting here. She scurried in, murmuring apologies for her lateness, and took a seat between Kausalya and Bharat. Shatrugan was the only one standing, his axe slung at his waist even though it was the middle of the night and he was indoors. Sumitra frowned at him, trying to show her displeasure at his wearing a weapon beneath his father’s roof. He shrugged. She sighed and looked around at Kausalya. ‘Why did the guruji call us here?’ she asked, whispering. Kausalya shook her head. ‘I wish I knew. All Sumantra would tell me was that the guru had something important to discuss with us.’ Sumitra looked around. Except for the four of them, there was nobody else in the room. The seal room was an administrative chamber; the kingdom’s official seals were stored here. By day, clerks worked at these tables, copying out official writs and proclamations in preparation for the maharaja to apply his official royal seal. Of course, it was usually Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra who did the actual applying, but he consulted with the maharaja. To Sumitra, who had little interest in administrative matters, it was just a large musty room full of big desks covered with scrolls and parchments and writing materials. ‘Where are they then?’ she asked. ‘Guruji and Sumantra, I mean?’

Before Kausalya could answer, the doors swung open again and Guru Vashishta entered, followed by Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra. The guru was clad in his customary white robes, a rudraksh mala around his neck, but was without his trademark staff. Sumitra marvelled at how the guru’s clothes could appear so clean and fresh even at this hour of night; surely he couldn’t have donned fresh clothes just for this meeting? Vashishta waited for Sumantra to shut the doors, then he gestured in the air with one hand, reciting a mantra very quickly. Sumitra felt a strange dampening sensation in her ears, as if she had been listening to very loud bells clanging and they had abruptly fallen silent. She saw Shatrugan and Bharat put their fingers in their ears and shake them, as if they felt the exact same sensation. ‘A masking mantra,’ the guru explained shortly. ‘To keep our words from being overheard.’ ‘You suspect spies within the palace, gurudev?’ Kausalya sounded shocked. Vashishta looked at Kausalya grimly. Even by the light of the mashaals, Sumitra thought she saw new lines of age on the guru’s face. He looked as though he had aged several years since she had seen him last. But that was just this afternoon, when we bade goodbye to Rama and Lakshman. The thought of Rama and Lakshman brought a lump to her throat and she tried to keep her mind clear of all thoughts, the better to concentrate on what was being discussed. ‘Not just spies, First Queen. Traitors too.’ He turned to look at each one of them in turn.

Sumitra shifted uncomfortably as his hawklike eyes stayed on her a moment. ‘This is why I have called you here tonight. To warn you.’ ‘Who are these traitors?’ Shatrugan’s voice was soft but his tone was unmistakably angry. ‘Show them to us, guruji. We’ll cut them down like ripe wheat.’ The guru nodded kindly at Shatrugan. ‘Your eagerness for action is understandable, Rajkumar Shatrugan. But these traitors cannot be dealt with as easily as you would like.’ ‘Why not?’ Bharat asked. ‘After all, they’re mortal, aren’t they? We caught and imprisoned thirteen spies in the city dungeon. Why can’t we root out and imprison these ones as well?’ Guru Vashishta raised a hand. ‘Patience, good Bharat. Hear me out first. I have just had a very disturbing encounter in that same city dungeon. And that is what prompts my speaking to you at this unearthly hour.’ Sumitra noticed Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra shuddering at the guru’s words. ‘What happened in the dungeon, guruji?’ she asked mildly. ‘We have heard all sorts of rumours. Is it true that those prisoners melted into milky fluid and vanished down a crack in the floor?’ The guru sighed wearily. ‘Rani Sumitra. The truth might be more than you can stand to hear. Especially at the end of a day fraught with so much stress. I understand that the maharaja has regained consciousness.’ ‘Yes,’ Kausalya replied.

‘But he is not yet fully in his senses?’ Kausalya paused before replying. ‘He is disturbed. It is probably a result of his deteriorating condition. He has been having strange dreams.’ The guru nodded grimly. ‘I will go to him when we are done here. But I wish you all to promise me that not a word of what we speak here will reach his ears.’ They all looked at each other uncertainly. ‘Guruji,’ Bharat asked respectfully. ‘How can we conspire behind my father’s back?’ ‘Conspire?’ The guru issued a wan smile. ‘This is not conspiracy, young Bharat. Conspiracy is what our enemies are brewing right now, even as we speak. But to set your mind at rest, let me remind you that with your father incapacitated, the onus of the kingdom falls on the shoulders of Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra, First Queen Kausalya-maa, and yourself.’ ‘Me?’ Bharat looked incredulous. ‘Yes, Dasaratha-putra. For until your brother Rama returns home safe and sound, you must be regarded as the prince-inwaiting.’ The guru paused. ‘I would not like to explain that part further; I believe you understand it well enough.’ ‘What did you learn in the dungeon, guruji?’ Kausalya’s voice was quiet but urgent. ‘You learned something from the spies that made you call us together, is it not so? What was it?’ Guru Vashishta turned his ancient eyes on the first queen. ‘You are wise beyond

your years, Kausalya. The devas have gifted you with an acute analytical mind. Kosala could do worse than to have you reigning as regent after the maharaja passes on.’

Bharat and Shatrugan looked bewildered and angry, respectively. Shatrugan had kept his hand on the shaft of his axe all through the discussion. Now he lifted it helplessly.

Kausalya blinked several times, clearly taken aback at this unexpected compliment. ‘I only use common sense, guruji.’

‘But that would mean . . . that one of us is a traitor!’ Shatrugan looked around. ‘How can that be possible?’

‘And you use it wisely.’ The guru became suddenly businesslike. ‘You are quite right. I learned something in the dungeon that alarmed me greatly. I thought I had the measure of the current crisis. I regret to say I had only part measure of the whole situation. The rot that Brahmarishi Vishwamitra and I sensed is riper than we believed. The Demon Lord of Lanka has his claws far deeper in the body of this great Arya nation than either of us thought.’

Guru Vashishta spread his hands. ‘And yet it is so. After my encounter in the dungeon, I know this to be true. One of the royal family is a traitor to the Arya nations and a supporter of the king of the asuras, plotting and conspiring to destroy us all and aid Ravana in his scheme to ravage and conquer the mortal world.’

Bharat and Shatrugan exchanged glances.

Sumitra’s hands flew to her chest. Her heart was thumping so loud, she was certain everyone else could hear it clearly in the dead silence that followed the guru’s words.

Shatrugan shuffled his feet uneasily. ‘Shama, guruji. I don’t understand your meaning.’

She looked around the room. ‘But how could any of us be—’ She broke off, realisation dawning.

‘I mean only to say that Ravana’s influence is far greater than any of us suspected. Not only has he planted spies in the royal court, he has gained influence over the throne of Ayodhya itself!’

‘It’s not one of us! None of us would do such a thing. That’s why you called us here tonight, to take us into your confidence and warn us. That means that the traitor must be—’

Sumitra rose to her feet, gasping. ‘Impossible! That would mean—’ ‘That one of the royal family is secretly loyal to Ravana,’ Kausalya said slowly. She reached out and caught Sumitra’s hand, firmly drawing her back to her seat. ‘Can it be true then, guruji? Can such a thing really have happened?’

‘Kaikeyi-maa,’ Bharat said. His face was an inscrutable mask. ‘She’s the only one left. And the only one with a motive to conspire against the throne. Because she seeks to overturn Rama’s ascension and make me maharaja after my father’s passing.’ He waved a fist in the air. ‘And I would sooner die than see her succeed in her intentions. My mother she is and for that

I shall always show her respect. But on this matter I will not support her. Either Rama will become maharaja or Ayodhya will remain kingless. This I swear in the presence of my guru.’ Guru Vashishta spoke quietly. ‘Bravely spoken, young Bharat. But you have all jumped too quickly to your conclusions. I fear that the greatest threat to the kingdom and to the mortal world at large shall come not from your mother or any other member of the royal family. The danger shall come from Maharaja Dasaratha himself!’

THREE Jatayu’s wings had never ached so much. But then, the vulture had never before flown such a great distance without a break. It would demand a feast from the lord of the asuras for flying so long without rest or nourishment. The bird descended from the thick moisture-laden clouds, its inbuilt sense of direction and distance telling it that the destination was close by. As the vulture emerged from the bank of dark monsoon clouds into the clear sky above the ocean, it screeched happily. Its instincts had been correct as usual. Lanka lay directly below. As it circled lower, descending by stages on the wind currents it needed to support its enormous bulk, its keen eyes flickered with disbelief. The sight before it banished even its screaming hunger. A war fleet was massed offshore of Lanka. Jatayu had spent half a thousand years scouring the air above Prithvi and had seen countless wars and battles. But never before had it seen a fleet this vast and impressive. There were ships reaching far out to sea, in endless anchored lines, linked closely to one another with cleverly wrought ladders, like an enormous chain stretching to the horizon and beyond. Jatayu estimated tens of thousands of them, perhaps hundreds of thousands— what did the humans call a hundred thousand? Ah yes, lakhs. More than lakhs, millions. It was impossible to take in the entire size of the fleet; even a

bird’s yojanas-long gaze couldn’t see the end of the chains. And each ship was large enough to carry hundreds of asuras. Different-shaped ships for different species, hence the variety of sizes and structures of the vessels. As it flew lower, Jatayu saw something even more mindnumbing than the sheer size of the fleet. The ships were loaded. It could see the dark, inhuman shapes of rakshasas, Yaksas, Pisacas, Nagas, Uragas, gandharvas and every other asura species, crowded on those endless decks, all armed and armoured for battle. Jatayu wheeled barely a few hundred yards above the island now, hovering in the dark thundercloud-shadowed gloom of the Lankan sky, all eagerness to land forgotten. The shores of the islandkingdom were seething with hordes of asuras waiting their turn to board the remaining ships. The embarking was nearly done. The fleet was almost ready to set sail. As the wind changed, the sound of the hordes came up to the vulture, an overwhelming roaring, like a typhoon at sea. And the stench, the unbelievable, indescribable stench. There was no doubt about where this vast armada was headed, and Jatayu spoke the name of the place aloud, adding its own voice and foul breath to the malodorous cacophony of the largest asura army ever assembled. ‘Ayodhya.’ Its voice was a shrill piercing cry that cut through the gloom of the stormy night. As if in response, at just that moment the clouds huddled above thundered and

began to release their burden of rain. In an instant, the ocean was besieged by a brackish downpour that seemed almost crimson in the gaudy light of the nearly full moon. It was a fitting metaphor for the rain of hordes that would soon besiege

Ayodhya. And the ocean of mortal blood that would be spilled by Ravana’s invasion. Jatayu cawed in exultation, and began a slow, victorious descent to the fortresskingdom of its lord and master.

The epic adventure continues! THE RAMAYANA SERIES® PRINCE OF DHARMA

PRINCE OF AYODHYA & SIEGE OF MITHILA

PRINCE IN EXILE DEMONS OF CHITRAKUT & ARMIES OF HANUMAN

PRINCE AT WAR BRIDGE OF RAMA & KING OF AYODHYA

KING OF DHARMA

VENGEANCE OF RAVANA & SONS OF SITA only from

AKB eBOOKS www.ashokbanker.com

SIEGE OF MITHILA

Ashok K. Banker

RAMAYANA SERIES® Book 2

AKB eBOOKS

Invocation

Ganesa, lead well this army of words

Dedication For Biki and Bithika Banker, The Gemini twins. One saved my life, The other gave me Two new ones. For Ayush Yoda Banker, Friend, son, Jedi Master. When you were born, I was born again. For Yashka Banker, Devi, daughter, princess. You made me believe in luck again, And, more important, in love.

Epigraph

Om Bhur Bhuvah Swah: Tat Savitur Varenyam Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi Dhiyo yo nah prachodayat Maha-mantra Gayatri (whispered into the ears of newborn infants at their naming ceremony)

INTRODUCTION Adi-kavya: The first retelling

Some three thousand years ago, a sage named Valmiki lived in a remote forest ashram, practising austerities with his disciples. One day, the wandering sage Narada visited the ashram and was asked by Valmiki if he knew of a perfect man. Narada said, indeed, he did know of such a person, and then told Valmiki and his disciples a story of an ideal man. Some days later, Valmiki happened to witness a hunter killing a kraunchya bird. The crane’s partner was left desolate, and cried inconsolably. Valmiki was overwhelmed by anger at the hunter’s action, and sorrow at the bird’s loss. He felt driven to do something rash, but controlled himself with difficulty. After his anger and sorrow subsided, he questioned his outburst. After so many years of practising meditation and austerities, he had still not been able to master his own emotions. Was it even possible to do so? Could any person truly become a master of his passions? For a while he despaired, but then he recalled the story Narada had told him. He thought about the implications of the story, about the choices made by the protagonist and how he had indeed shown great mastery of his own thoughts, words, deeds and feelings. Valmiki felt inspired by the recollection and was filled with a calm serenity such as he had never felt before. As he recollected the tale of that perfect man of whom Narada had spoken, he found himself reciting it in a particular cadence and rhythm. He realized that this rhythm or metre corresponded to the warbling cries of the kraunchya bird, as if in tribute to theloss that had inspired his recollection. At once, he resolved to compose his own version of the story, using the new form of metre, that others might hear it and be as inspired as he was. But Narada’s story was only a bare narration of the events, a mere plot outline as we would call it today. In order to make the story attractive and memorable to ordinary listeners, Valmiki would have to add and embellish considerably, filling in details and inventing incidents from his own imagination. He would have to dramatize the whole story in order to bring out the powerful dilemmas faced by the protagonist. But what right did he have to do so? After all, this was not his story. It was a tale told to him. A tale of a real man and real events. How could he make up his own version of the story? At this point, Valmiki was visited by Lord Brahma Himself. The Creator told him to set his worries aside and begin composing the work he had in mind. Here is how Valmiki quoted Brahma’s exhortation to him, in an introductory passage not unlike this one that you are reading right now:

Recite the tale of Rama . . . as you heard it told by Narada. Recite the deeds of Rama that are already known as well as those that are not, his adventures . . . his battles . . . the acts of Sita, known and unknown. Whatever you do not know will become known to you. Never will your words be inappropriate. Tell Rama’s story . . . that it may prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist.

Valmiki needed no further urging. He began composing his poem. He titled it, Rama-yana, meaning literally, The Movements (or Travels) of Rama. Foretelling the future

The first thing Valmiki realized on completing his composition was that it was incomplete. What good was a story without anyone to tell it to? In the tradition of his age, a bard would normally recite his compositions himself, perhaps earning some favour or payment in coin or kind, more often rewarded only with the appreciation of his listeners. But Valmiki knew that while the form of the story was his creation, the story itself belonged to all his countrymen. He recalled Brahma’s exhortation that Rama’s story must prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist. So he taught it to his disciples, among whose number were two young boys whose mother had sought sanctuary with him years ago. Those two boys, Luv and Kusa, then travelled from place to place, reciting the Ramayana as composed by their guru. In time, fate brought them before the very Rama described in the poem. Rama knew at once that the poem referred to him and understood that these boys could be none other than his sons by the banished Sita. Called upon by the curious king, Valmiki himself then appeared before Rama and entreated him to take back Sita. Later, Rama asked Valmiki to compose an additional part to the poem, so that he himself, Rama Chandra, might know what would happen to him in future. Valmiki obeyed this extraordinary command, and this supplementary section became the Uttara Kaand of his poem. Valmiki’s Sanskrit rendition of the tale was a brilliant work by any standards, ancient or modern. Its charm, beauty and originality can never be matched. It is a true masterpiece of world literature, the ‘adi-kavya’ which stands as the fountainhead of our great cultural record. Even today, thousands of years after its composition, it remains unsurpassed. And yet, when we narrate the story of the Ramayana today, it is not Valmiki’s Sanskrit shlokas that we recite. Few of us today have even read Valmiki’s immortal composition in its original. Most have not even read an abridgement. Indeed, an unabridged Ramayana itself, reproducing Valmiki’s verse without alteration or revisions, is almost impossible to find. Even the most learned of scholars, steeped in a lifetime of study of ancient Sanskrit literature, maintain that the versions of Valmiki’s poem that exist today have been revised and added to by later hands. Some believe that the first and seventh kaands, as well as a number of passages within the other kaands, were all inserted by later writers who preferred to remain anonymous.

Perhaps the earliest retelling of Valmiki’s poem is to be found in the pages of that vast ocean of stories we call the Mahabharata. When Krishna Dwaipayana-Vyasa, more popularly known today as Ved Vyasa, composed his equally legendary epic, he retold the story of the Ramayana in one passage. His retelling differs in small but significant ways. Sometime later, the burgeoning Buddhist literature, usually composed in the Pali dialect, also included stories from the Ramayana, recast in a somewhat different light. Indeed, Buddhist literature redefined the term dharma itself, restating it as dhamma and changing the definition of this and several other core concepts. In the eleventh century, a Tamil poet named Kamban undertook his own retelling of the Ramayana legend. Starting out with what seems to have been an attempt to translate Valmiki’s Ramayana, Kamban nevertheless deviated dramatically from his source material. In Kamban’s Ramayana, entire episodes are deleted, new ones appear, people and places are renamed or changed altogether, and even the order of some major events is revised. Most of all, Kamban’s Ramayana relocates the entire story in a milieu that is recognizably eleventh-century Tamil Nadu in its geography, history, clothes, customs, etc., rather than the north Indian milieu of Valmiki’s Sanskrit original. It is essentially a whole new Ramayana, retold in a far more passionate, rich and colourful idiom. A few centuries later, Sant Tulsidas undertook his interpretation of the epic. Tulsidas went so far as to title his work Ramcharitramanas, rather than calling it the Ramayana. By doing so, he signalled that he was not undertaking a faithful translation, but a wholly new variation of his own creation. The differences are substantial. In art, sculpture, musical renditions, even in dance, mime and street theatrical performances, the story of Valmiki’s great poem has been retold over and over, in countless different variations, some with minor alterations, others with major deviations. The tradition of retellings continues even in modern times, through television serials, films, puppet theatre, children’s versions, cartoons, poetry, pop music and, of course, in the tradition of Ramlila enactments across the country every year. Yet how many of these are faithful to Valmiki? How many, if any at all, actually refer to the original Sanskrit text, or even attempt to seek out that text? Should they even do so? So many Ramayanas

Does a grandmother consult Valmiki’s Ramayana before she retells the tale to her grandchildren at night? When she imitates a rakshasa’s roar or Ravana’s laugh, or Sita’s tears, or Rama’s stoic manner, whom does she base her performance on? When an actor portrays Rama in a television serial, or a Ramlila performer enacts a scene, or a sculptor chisels a likeness, a painter a sketch, whom do they all refer to? There were no illustrations in Valmiki’s Ramayana. No existing portraits of Rama survive from that age, no recordings of his voice or video records of his deeds.

Indeed, many of the episodes or ‘moments’ we believe are from Valmiki’s Ramayana are not even present in the original Sanskrit work. They are the result of later retellers, often derived from their own imagination. One instance is the ‘seema rekha’ believed to have been drawn by Lakshman before leaving Sita in the hut. No mention of this incident exists in Valmiki’s Ramayana. Then there is the constant process of revision that has altered even those scenes that remain constant through various retellings. For example, take the scene where Sita entreats Rama to allow her to accompany him into exile. In Valmiki’s Ramayana, when Rama tells Sita he has to go into exile, and she asks him to allow her to go with him, he refuses outright. At first, Sita pleads with him and cries earnest tears, but when Rama remains adamant, she grows angry and rebukes him in shockingly harsh terms. She refers to him as a ‘woman disguised as a man’, says that ‘the world is wrong when they say that there is no one greater than Rama’, calls him ‘depressed and frightened’, ‘an actor playing a role’, and other choice epithets. It is one of the longer scenes in Valmiki’s Ramayana, almost equalling in length the entire narration of Rama’s early childhood years!

Tamil poet Kamban retells this incident in his more compressed, volatile, rich style, reducing Sita’s objections to a couple of brief rebukes: ‘Could it be that the real reason [for Rama not taking her into exile] is that with me left behind, you’ll be free to enjoy yourself in the forest?’ By the time we reach Sant Tulsidas’s recension, Sita’s rebukes are reduced to a few tearful admonitions and appeals. Were these changes the result of the change in the socially accepted standards of behaviour between men and women in our country? Quite possibly. Tulsidas’s Ramcharitramanas depicts a world quite different from that which Valmiki or even Kamban depict. In fact, each of these three versions differs so drastically in terms of the language used, the clothes worn, the various social and cultural references, that they seem almost independent of one another. Perhaps the most popularly known version in more recent times is a simplified English translation of a series of Tamil retellings of selected episodes of the Kamban version, serialized in a children’s magazine about fifty years ago. This version by C. Rajagopalachari, aka Rajaji, was my favourite version as a child too. It was only much later that I found, through my own extensive research that my beloved Rajaji version left out whole chunks of the original story and simplified other parts considerably. Still later, I was sorely disappointed by yet another version by an otherwise great writer, R. K. Narayan. In his severely abridged retelling, the story is dealt with in a manner so rushed and abbreviated, it is reduced to a moral fable rather than the rich, powerful, mythic epic that Valmiki created. English scholar William S. Buck’s nineteenth-century version, dubiously regarded as a classic by English scholars, reads like it might have been composed under the influence of certain intoxicants: in one significant departure from Indian versions, Guha, the tribal chief of the Nisada fisherfolk, without discernible reason, spews a diatribe against Brahmins, and ends by kicking a statue of Lord Shiva. To add further confusion, in the illustration accompanying this chapter, Guha is shown kicking what appears to be a statue of Buddha!

If you travel outside India, farther east, you will find more versions of the Ramayana that are so far removed from Valmiki, that some are barely recognizable as the same story. In one recent study of these various versions of the epic across the different cultures of Asia, an ageing Muslim woman in Indonesia is surprised to learn from the author that we have our own Ramayana in India also! The kings of Thailand are always named Rama along with other dynastic titles, and consider themselves to be direct descendants of Rama Chandra. The largest Rama temple, an inspiring ruin even today, is situated not in India, or even in Nepal, the only nation that takes Hinduism as its official religion, but in Cambodia. It is called Angkor Vat. In fact, it is now possible to say that there are as many Ramayanas as there are people who know the tale, or claim to know it. And no two versions are exactly alike. My Ramayana: a personal odyssey

And yet, would we rather have this democratic melange of versions and variations, or would we rather have a half-remembered, extinct tale recollected only dimly, like a mostly forgotten myth that we can recall only fragments of? Valmiki’s ‘original’ Ramayana was written in Sanskrit, the language of his time and in an idiom that was highly modern for its age. In fact, it was so avant garde in its style—the kraunchya inspired shloka metre—that it was considered ‘adi’ or the first of its kind. Today, few people except dedicated scholars can understand or read it in its original form—and even they often disagree vehemently about their interpretations of the dense archaic Sanskrit text! Kamban’s overblown rhetoric and colourful descriptions, while magnificently inspired and appropriate for its age, are equally anachronistic in today’s times. Tulsidas’s interpretation, while rightfully regarded as a sacred text, can seem somewhat heavy-handed in its depiction of man–woman relationships. It is more of a religious tribute to Lord Rama’s divinity than a realistic retelling of the story itself. In Ved Vyasa’s version, the devices of ill-intentioned Manthara, misguided Kaikeyi and reprehensible Ravana are not the ultimate cause of Rama’s misfortunes. In fact, it is not due to the asuras either. It is Brahma himself, using the mortal avatar of Vishnu to cleanse the world of evil, as perpetuated by Ravana and his asuras, in order to maintain the eternal balance of good and evil. My reasons for attempting this retelling were simple and intensely personal. As a child of an intensely unhappy broken marriage, a violently bitter failure of parents of two different cultures (Anglo-Indian Christian and Gujarati Hindu) to accept their differences and find common ground, I turned to literature for solace. My first readings were, by accident, in the realm of mythology. So inspired was I by the simple power and heroic victories of those ancient ur-tales, I decided to become a writer and tell stories of my own that would be as great, as inspiring to others. To attempt, if possible, to bridge cultures, and knit together disparate lives by showing the common struggle and strife and, ultimately, triumph of all human souls.

I was barely a boy then. Thirty-odd years of living and battling life later, albeit not as colourful as Valmiki’s thieving and dacoit years, I was moved by a powerful inexplicable urge to read the Ramayana once more. Every version I read seemed to lack something, that vital something that I can only describe as the ‘connection’ to the work. In a troubled phase, battling with moral conundrums of my own, I set to writing my own version of the events. My mind exploded with images, scenes, entire conversations between characters. I saw, I heard, I felt . . . I wrote. Was I exhorted by Brahma Himself? Probably not! I had no reader in mind, except myself—and everyone. I changed as a person over the course of that writing. I found peace, or a kind of peace. I saw how people could devote their lives to worshipping Rama, or Krishna, or Devi for that matter, my own special ‘Maa’. But I also felt that this story was beyond religion, beyond nationality, beyond race, colour, or creed. Undertaking to retell a story as great and as precious as our classic adi-kavya is not an enterprise lightly attempted. The first thing I did was study every available edition of previous retellings to know what had been done before, the differences between various retellings, and attempt to understand why. I also spoke extensively to people known and unknown about their knowledge of the poem, in an attempt to trace how millennia of verbal retellings have altered the perception of the tale. One of the most striking things was that most people had never actually read the ‘original’ Valmiki Ramayana. Indeed, most people considered Ramcharitramanas by Tulsidas to be ‘the Ramayana’, and assumed it was an accurate reprise of the Sanskrit work. Nothing could be farther from the truth. For instance, Valmiki’s Ramayana depicts Dasaratha as having three hundred and fifty concubines in addition to his three titled wives. In keeping with the kingly practices of that age, the ageing raja’s predilection for the fairer sex is depicted honestly and without any sense of misogyny. Valmiki neither comments on nor criticizes Dasaratha’s fondness for fleshly pleasures, he simply states it. When Rama takes leave of his father before going into exile, he does so in the palace of concubines, and all of them weep copiously for the exiled son of their master. When Valmiki describes women, he does so by enumerating the virtues of each part of their anatomy. There is no sense of embarrassment or male chauvinism evident here: he is simply extolling the beauty of the women characters, just as he does for the male characters like Rama and Hanuman and, yes, even Ravana. Even in Kamban’s version, the women are depicted in such ripe, full-blown language, that a modern reader like myself blushes in embarrassment. Yet the writer exhibits no awkwardness or prurience in these passages—he is simply describing them as he perceived them in the garb and fashion of his time. By the time we reach Tulsidas and later versions, Rama is no less than a god in human avatar. And in keeping with this foreknowledge, all related characters are depicted accordingly. So Dasaratha’s fleshly indulgences take a backseat, the women are portrayed fully clad

and demure in appearance, and their beauty is ethereal rather than earthly. How was I to approach my retelling? On one hand, the Ramayana was now regarded not as a Sanskrit epic of real events that occurred in ancient India, but as a moral fable of the actions of a human avatar of Vishnu. On the other hand, I felt the need to bring to life the ancient world of epic India in all its glory and magnificence, to explore the human drama as well as the divinity that drove it, to show the nuances of word and action and choice rather than a black-and-white depiction of good versus evil. More importantly, what could I offer that was fresh and new, yet faithful to the spirit of the original story? How could I ensure that all events and characters were depicted respectfully yet realistically? There was little point in simply repeating any version that had gone before—those already existed, and those who desired to read the Ramayana in any one of its various forms could simply pick up one of those previous versions. But what had never been done before was a complete, or ‘sampoorn’, Ramayana, incorporating the various, often contradictory aspects of the various Indian retellers (I wasn’t interested in foreign perspectives, frankly), while attempting to put us into the minds and hearts of the various characters. To go beyond a simple plot reprise and bring the whole story, the whole world of ancient India, alive. To do what every verbal reteller attempts, or any classical dancer does: make the story live again. In order to do this, I chose a modern idiom. I simply used the way I speak, an amalgam of English–Hindi–Urdu–Sanskrit, and various other terms from Indian languages. I deliberately used anachronisms like the terms ‘abs’ or ‘morph’. I based every section, every scene, every character’s dialogues and actions on the previous Ramayanas, be it Valmiki, Kamban, Tulsidas, or Vyasa, and even the various Puranas. Everything you read here is based on actual research, or my interpretation of some detail noted in a previous work. The presentation, of course, is wholly original and my own. Take the example of the scene of Sita entreating Rama to let her accompany him into exile. In my retelling, I sought to explore the relationship between Rama and Sita at a level that is beyond the physical or social plane. I believed that their’s was a love that was eternally destined, and that their bond surpassed all human ties. At one level, yes, I believed that they were Vishnu and Lakshmi. Yet, in the avatars they were currently in, they were Rama and Sita, two young people caught up in a time of great turmoil and strife, subjected to hard, difficult choices. Whatever their divine backgrounds and karma, here and now, they had to play out their parts one moment at a time, as real, flesh-andblood people. I adopted an approach that was realistic, putting myself (and thereby the reader) into the feelings and thoughts of both Rama and Sita at that moment of choice. I felt the intensity of their pain, the great sorrow and confusion, the frustration at events beyond their control, and also their ultimate acceptance of what was right, what must be done, of dharma. In my version, they argue as young couples will at such a time, they express their anger and mixed emotions, but in the end, it is not only through duty and dharma that

she appeals to him. In the end, she appeals to him as a wife who is secure in the knowledge that her husband loves her sincerely, and that the bond that ties them is not merely one of duty or a formal social knot of matrimony, but of true love. After the tears, after all other avenues have been mutually discussed and discarded, she simply says his name and appeals to him, as a wife, a lover, and as his dearest friend: ‘Rama,’ she said. She raised her arms to him, asking, not pleading. ‘Then let me go with you.’

And he agrees. Not as a god, an avatar, or even a prince. But as a man who loves her and respects her. And needs her. In the footsteps of giants

Let me be clear.

This is not Valmiki’s story. Nor Kamban’s. Nor Tulsidas’s. Nor Vyasa’s. Nor R.K. Narayan’s. Nor Rajaji’s charming, abridged children’s version. It is Rama’s story. And Rama’s story belongs to every one of us. Black, brown, white, or albino. Old or young. Male or female. Hindu, Christian, Muslim, or whatever faith you espouse. I was once asked at a press conference to comment on the Babri Masjid demolition and its relation to my Ramayana. My answer was that the Ramayana had stood for three thousand years, and would stand for all infinity. Ayodhya, in my opinion, is not just a place in north-central Uttar Pradesh. It is a place in our hearts. And in that most sacred of places, it will live forever, burnished and beautiful as no temple of consecrated bricks can ever be. When Rama himself heard Luv and Kusa recite Valmiki’s Ramayana for the first time, even he, the protagonist of the story, was flabbergasted by the sage’s version of the events—after all, even he had not known what happened to Sita after her exile, nor the childhood of Luv and Kusa, nor had he heard their mother’s version of events narrated so eloquently until then. And in commanding Valmiki to compose the section about future events, Rama himself added his seal of authority to Valmiki, adding weight to Brahma’s exhortation to recite the deeds of Rama that were already known ‘as well as those that are not’. And so the tradition of telling and retelling the Ramayana began. It is that tradition that Kamban, Tulsidas, Vyasa, and so many others were following. It is through the works of these bards through the ages that this great tale continues to exist among us. If it changes shape and structure, form and even content, it is because that is the nature of the story itself: it inspires the teller to bring fresh insights to each new version, bringing us ever closer to understanding Rama himself. This is why it must be told, and retold, an infinite number of times. By me. By you.

By grandmothers to their grandchildren. By people everywhere, regardless of their identity. The first time I was told the Ramayana, it was on my grandfather’s knee. He was excessively fond of chewing tambaku paan and his breath was redolent of its aroma. Because I loved lions, he infused any number of lions in his Ramayana retellings—Rama fought lions, Sita fought them, I think even Manthara was cowed down by one at one point! My grandfather’s name, incidentally, was Ramchandra Banker. He died of throat cancer caused by his tobacco-chewing habit. But before his throat ceased working, he had passed on the tale to me. And now, I pass it on to you. If you desire, and only if, then read this book. I believe if you are ready to read it, the tale will call out to you, as it did to me. If that happens, you are in for a great treat. Know that the version of the Ramayana retold within these pages is a living, breathing, new-born avatar of the tale itself. Told by a living author in a living idiom. It is my humbleattempt to do for this great story what writers down the ages have done with it in their times. Maazi naroti

In closing, I’d like to quote briefly from two venerable authors who have walked similar paths. The first is K.M. Munshi whose Krishnavatara series remains a benchmark of the genre of modern retellings of ancient tales. These lines are from Munshi’s own Introduction to the Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan edition of 1972: In the course of this adventure, I had often to depart from legend and myth, for such a reconstruction by a modern author must necessarily involve the exercise of whatever little imagination he has. I trust He will forgive me for the liberty I am taking, but I must write of Him as I see Him in my imagination.

I could not have said it better. Yuganta, Iravati Karve’s landmark Sahitya Akademi Award-winning study of the Mahabharata, packs more valuable insights into its slender 220-page pocket-sized edition (Disha) than any ten encyclopaedias. In arguably the finest essay of the book, ‘Draupadi’, she includes this footnote: ‘The discussion up to this point is based on the critical edition of the Mahabharata. What follows is my naroti [naroti = a dry coconut shell, i.e. a worthless thing. The word ‘naroti’ was first used in this sense by the poet Eknath].’

In the free musings of Karve’s mind, we learn more about Vyasa’s formidable epic than from most encyclopaedic theses. For only from free thought can come truly progressive ideas. In that spirit, I urge readers to consider my dried coconut shell reworking of the Ramayana in the same spirit.

If anything in the following pages pleases you, thank those great forebears in whose giant footsteps I placed my own small feet. If any parts displease you, then please blame them on my inadequate talents, not on the tale.

ASHOK K. BANKER Mumbai April 2005

PRARAMBH

ONE ‘Rama . . .’ He twisted on the straw pallet, battling nightmares. A merciless giant tightened her grip on his heart, squeezing harder . . . harder . . . He thrashed, his naked torso flayed by invisible lashes. Sweat beaded on his muscled limbs, dripping through the crushed darbha blades on to the mud floor of the hut, staining it the dark vermilion hue of heart-blood. Beside him, Lakshman slept deeply, too deeply, unnaturally still, curled like a Sanskrit symbol. His chest barely rose and fell, his body’s rhythm slowed to the verge of stasis. ‘Rama . . .’ Softly, like a gandharva whispering a coy secret. Rama moaned, burying his face within the darbha pallet. Reeds of straw scratched his face, pricking his tightly shut eyelids. He fought invisible phantoms. Lakshman slept on, his breath ragged, heartbeat irregular, on the knife edge between dreams and eternal dreamlessness. Still softly, but with a sense of growing urgency. ‘Rama . . .’ He grew still, then utterly motionless, remaining that way for a long frozen moment. A vein pulsed steadily on his neck, the only sign of life. Beside him, Lakshman’s breathing stopped too, his fluttering pupils slowing behind his eyelids, growing deathly still. Rama opened his eyes. They glowed icy blue, their inhuman light reflected off the curved glass of a lantern suspended from the thatched roof. Slowly, like a swan rising up from the surface of a lake, he got to his feet. On the floor, Lakshman resumed breathing with a harsh intake of breath. Rama went to the open doorway of the hut, stood limned against the faintly lighter darkness of the doorway a moment, then stepped outside. The ashram lay quietly asleep. At the far end of the sprawling compound, in the northernmost hut, brahmacharya acolytes tended the sacred yagna fire, keeping the chain of mantra recitation unbroken. Except for them, Siddh-ashrama was deserted and still, the rest of its hundred and six male occupants deeply asleep. They all dreamed the same shared nightmare that Lakshman was now dreaming. In an hour or two, the compound would swell with the noises of a hundred Brahmins, sadhus, rishis and brahmacharyas, going about the daily chores of a forest retreat. But for now, it may as will have been a graveyard.

Not a soul saw Rama emerge from the southernmost hut, pause a moment as if listening to some unheard voice, then turn to walk away from the ashram, through the vegetable grove and bamboo thicket that lay behind; and then, several hundred yards later, enter the deep, forbidding Vatsa jungle. The darkness parted like black velvet folds, enveloping the slender form, then closed around him. No sign remained of his passing. In the hut, Lakshman’s breathing resumed a natural sleep pattern. His pupils began swirling behind closed lids again. He descended into the arms of familiar nightmares. She was waiting for him in the darkness beneath a peepal tree. Silvery moonlight shrouded her like an enormous gauze veil. Her hair and eyes were raven black, her skin the shade of chalk. She stood amongst the wild peepal tendrils, singing softly in the still, silent jungle. A pair of lions nuzzled at her hand, feeding docilely on the savouries she held in her palm. He looked closely and saw that they were tiny squirming beings, perhaps an inch high apiece. He could hear them screaming tinnily. She fed them into the whiskered mouths of the lions. The beasts licked spots of blood off her milky fair hands. She was naked, clothed only in the moonlight. There was something about that which disturbed him; it disturbed him more than the other things, but he could not understand why for several moments. Then it came to him: Holi purnima was eight nights ago. The moon couldn’t possibly be this bright and full tonight. It bothered him more than anything else about this dreamlike scenario. She raised her head, as if noticing him only now, and smiled. Her teeth were as white as the pearls gifted to his father last winter by southern fishermen, pearls gleaned from the depths of the Banglar ocean. They gleamed dangerously in the moonlight. The lions parted their jaws sleepily, mirroring her smile. Their fangs were flecked with blood. In the maw of one, Rama could see the half-chewed bodies of those little beings– what were they?–still wriggling feebly. The lion growled softly and snapped its jaws shut, jerking its head as it swallowed down the remnants. Her tongue was black as coal, Rama saw. Her teeth, despite their pearly whiteness, were jagged and misshapen. It was a terrible smile, filled with the dark promise of certain destruction. A smile foretelling the end of all creation. She gestured, calling to him. He took a step forward. Then stopped. She smiled. ‘Do not fear me. If I wished to harm you, the lions would know. They know everything that has been, and everything that will be.’ In perfect unison, the lions lowered themselves to the ground, resting their great heads on their paws, whiskers frisking her bare feet. He saw that each lion was old, beyond the measure of human reckoning. Almost as old as time itself. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And almost as old as I. For we three are one. Now come. There is something I wish you to see.’

He remained where he was for another moment. Then he looked up at the moon pointedly. She laughed. A tinkling laugh, like the tiny silver bells of a woman’s anklet. Her belly shook, and a bright orange bird with yard-long yellow and green plumage emerged beakfirst from her navel. It flew up screaming and was lost in the treetops. A chilli-green feather drifted down slowly, bobbing. ‘Do you fear the moon? You, Rama Chandra? He Who Has The Face Of The Moon Himself?’ He waited. She inclined her head, exposing the delicate line of her long slender neck to the wash of moonlight. ‘This is true. It should not be a full moon tonight. Awamas is almost upon us. Yet I wished to have light by which to see you more clearly. Does it trouble you? I should change it back if it pleases you.’ She raised her hand, prepared to reduce the moon to a sliver. He shook his head slowly. Then he shrugged. She lowered her hand, then held it out to him, beckoning again. ‘Come then. You have nothing to fear from me. I do not hate all men. Only those who . . . but that does not concern us, here and now. Come.’ When he still didn’t respond, she lost her smile. Her eyes so dark in the shadows of the peepal boughs, flashed. Their light was the light of distant stars that have long since burned to white dust yet remain suspended in the trap of time and space for millennia uncounted; it was like looking into the heart of the sun at noonday. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. She remained motionless. The lion to her left began to growl softly, its tail stiffening in warning. Rama saw her eyes sparkle softly, dangerously, in the shadows, glinting with a cold colourless light, like a fire trapped in obsidian ovals. A raven, jet black to the point of blueness, emerged tail-first from her navel, walked up her belly, and perched on her left breast, regarding Rama sullenly. Then, as the fire in her eyes died down, the raven rose without flapping its wings and shot directly upwards like an arrow aimed at the belly of the sky. The lion ceased growling and began swirling its tail slowly in lazy circles. It lowered its jowls to its paws again, eyes half-hidden by the wrinkled folds around them. She replied, ‘What do you wish to know? My name? I have more names than there are words in any tongue. Some have been forgotten aeons before you people were created, some will not be spoken for aeons yet.’ He did not say anything. She tossed her head, her hair glinting with flame-bright sparkles. ‘The people of Eric the Norseman named me Frejya. The Inuits of the land that is always clothed in ice call me Sedna. In the land of Nippon, I am known as Amateras of the Sun. In Greece, Demeter of the Corn. In Egypt, they know me as Isis of the River. In times

past and future, I have been and will be known as Tara, Coatlicue, Ishtar, Artemis and Shakti. These are but a few of my infinite names. Which would you like to call me?’ When he did not answer, she went on, ‘I am the life-bestower, nourisher, lover, comforter and, finally, life-taker. I am the mother-goddess who resides in dark caves and sits on pink lotuses surrounded by birds and beasts, spinning the web of life or kneading the earth with life-giving sap. Sometimes I am a man, for what else is a man but a woman who has altered her form to suit a different purpose? My friend here is portrayed as one lion or two, but also as a swan, a cow, or a pack of dogs. You see him as lions, and you see me as you see me now, because that is how you choose to see us. He is the masculine to my feminine, the completion of my circle and my first creation. Together we are I. I am all things to all beings.’ He spoke softly, neither apologetic nor arrogant. He knew that the first would elicit a loss of respect while the latter would entail a loss of his life. He said simply, ‘Devi, lead me where you will.’ She smiled again at last, this time revealing flawless pearl-white teeth dazzling to behold in the darkness. She stepped forward and raised her arm, now bedecked in a diaphanous garment of a fashion he had never seen before. He walked the few yards to her side and allowed her to take his arm, gripping it with both her hands as she walked him deeper into the forest. Without looking back, he knew that the lions did not follow. He had passed their scrutiny. *** In the northernmost hut of Siddh-ashrama, Brahmarishi Vishwamitra was seated in the lotus posture. On the stoop of the hut two pre-pubescent brahmacharya acolytes sat chanting slokas alternately, maintaining a chain of recitation that had not ceased since the ashram’s inception, over a thousand years ago. They would be relieved in a few hours, at dawn, but for now their entire concentration was on the recitation. Not a syllable must be dropped or mispronounced. Within the single room of the hut, a room bare of furnishings or adornments as befitted a holy man, the brahmarishi himself was neither asleep nor awake. He was in that yogic state of suspended animation known as yoganidra. The sleep of meditation; not truly a sleep, but a trance-like condition conducive to higher contemplation. His flowing white beard and tresses were evidence of his five millennia of intense tapas– literally, the heat generated by self-sacrifice. In this exalted state, he barely needed to draw breath, able to sustain his bodily needs by a mere wisp of air drawn every few hours, perhaps a sip of water taken once every day. Even that was voluntary. He could have remained without nourishment indefinitely if he chose to do so; indeed, he had only recently roused himself from a twohundred-and-forty-year penitential trance, necessary for achieving the spiritual goal he had set himself. In times past, he had meditated thus in deep jungles, on icebound mountaintops, in flowing rivers in spate, even at the bottom of the ocean once. Nothing could break his yoganidra. The faint blue glow of Brahman shakti surrounded and protected him from all risks, physical, mental and spiritual. He had no need to chant mantras or slokas aloud; he

had long since mastered the art of achieving silent, perfect harmony with the cosmic reverberations of supreme Om itself, the heartbeat of all creation. Yet now, for only the second time in two hundred and forty years and a week, his concentration broke. It was by choice that it happened, yet that was no less a rarity. For it took a crisis of cosmic magnitude to rouse a seer-mage of Vishwamitra’s stature from even a single night’s meditation. His eyes opened, the blue light of Brahman flickering like cerulean lightning within their deep-set orbs. His lips parted, drawing a single minimal breath. There was nobody to see his awakening. The two young acolytes outside on the stoop continued their recitation, unaware of the mighty forces swirling around the ashram this night. Yet if anyone had been there to look into Vishwamitra’s opening eyes, they would have seen, for a fraction of an instant, a tiny reflected image on both his pupils. The kind of image that one might expect to see if the seer-mage had been staring at a particular object. It was the image of Rama entering the Vatsa jungle alone. The brahmarishi spoke a single word, barely audible even in the stillness of the ashram. Against the sound of the rote incantation of the brahmacharyas, the word was an unseen drop in a rain-washed pool. Yet its echoes filled the universe. ‘Rama . . .’

TWO Sita. Whisper-smooth, silken-soft, feather-gentle. The voice caressed her as sensually as a peacock-feather fan. The erotic undertone was unmistakable: the speaker wanted her. She blinked herself awake, thinking it was another of those strange disturbing dreams that left her oddly aroused and unable to sleep. She sometimes had them after listening to Sakuntaladaiimaa’s scarier stories–although she was the one who always coaxed and cajoled the ageing wet nurse to tell those gruesome tales. Never again, she swore now, shivering even though the winter chill had all but fled since Holi. No more scary stories after dark. She reached up slowly, touching her face and upper body, making sure she really was awake and not dreaming. She could still feel the spot on the nape of her neck where he had breathed her name. She had felt the warmth of his breath before he spoke, as if he had been nuzzling her and had then whispered into her ear. She turned her head on the pillow, convinced that there would be a dark shadow looming beside the bed. A towering

hulk of a man looking down at her from the darkness of a thick black cloak. And a cowl around his head that bulged impossibly wide to either side, a cowl pulled so low across his face that she could see nothing but his yellow eyes, gleaming like hot ingots in a goldsmith’s furnace. But the corner by the bedstead was empty. As was the rest of the room. Of course it’s empty! What else did you expect? She smiled sleepily at the folly of her thoughts. A man? In her bedchambers? In the thick of night? Impossible! Her father was ferociously possessive of his daughters, and none of the four jewels in his crown–as he proudly called them–was more precious than his eldest. At the time of her birth, Raja Janak had instituted a special division of female Kshatriyas, dubbing them ranirakshaks to remind them that they were exactly that, queen-protectors. They were oath-sworn to guard her with her life. They monitored her every action, rising or asleep, and checked every visitor and would-be visitor. Even now, she knew, they would be patrolling her palace in the traditional Mithila ring-formation, at all times within sight and sound of her presence. All she need do was whisper aloud, and they would be beside her, ready to give their lives in her service. Especially Nakhudi. The amazonian chief of the clan would sooner die than allow a man to get within ten paces of her princess. Her queen, as she always calls me, even though I’m a long way from being crowned. Yes, Nakhudi would surely be outside the door of her chamber, only a few yards away. At that thought, the last vestiges of trepidation faded away and she tossed her head carelessly, scornful now of her brief nervousness. A bad dream, that was all it was. She sat up and was enveloped by the gossamer folds of the insect netting. Pushing the net away, she swung her feet out of bed. The red-tiled floor was deliciously cold against her sleep-warm soles, a sensation she loved. A gentle night breeze nudged the tied drapes of the open veranda, whispering softly. The princess gardens fronted the four-sectioned palace in which she and her sisters resided, keeping at bay the animal fetors and other cosmopolitan odours of the city. The breeze carried in only the sweet natural scents of the gardens, its blossoms just starting to bloom in this first blush of spring. She could make out the individual scents of her favourites, name each species and sub-species as authoritatively as Sadanand, the royal gardener. But right now she was content to simply breathe in the aromatic fragrances. A celebration of the new season. Before it ended, she would no longer be simply a princess, or even a crown princess. She would be a wife. The thought made her want to laugh out loud. She rose to her feet, walking around her bed towards the enticing scented breezes of the veranda. I, married? A wife? Some day a mother? The thought was ludicrous. She had laughed aloud when her father had told her solemnly that she was to be married this season. He had not approved of her laughter, although he was a good enough father to understand it. But his understanding had been tinged with sadness when she was done guffawing and he had continued speaking. Alas, he had said, I am about to lose my most beloved daughter, and laughter is not the response that rises most naturally to my senses. That had stopped her. She had lost the churlish grin at once and caught his hand. Then don’t make me do this, she had said with all the earnestness of a sixteen-year-old. Don’t make me marry just yet, if ever. And he had smiled sadly and said, ‘It’s that if ever that makes me certain you must be married

now.’ Now, she stood before the open veranda, basking in the aromatic night breeze. The flimsy fabric of her nightgown swirled and billowed around her. The delicate teasing breeze made even the diaphanous silk seem to melt away. The silver bells on her anklets tinkled delicately. The wind grew bolder, more insouciant, daring to caress her sleep-delicate skin sensuously. Her nightgown teased her lightly, dancing in the wind, reminding her of the expert oiled fingers of Irawali, her personal masseuse. It brought to mind the divinely relaxing rose-scented bath she always took after her oil massages, and she shut her eyes, surrendering to the sensual pleasure of the memory. She smelled the moist perfume of the bathwater, felt the steam rising languidly from the large round marble tub, the soft warm waves lapping at her tingling skin . . . You arouse me beyond endurance. Her eyes flew open, her body tensing as she fell into the dragon crouch that Nakhudi had taught her so well in their daily training sessions. Nakhudi’s guttural Jat accent spoke quietly in her memory: queen’s first duty, survive. The dragon crouch reduced her targetable area by two thirds, confusing potential assassins and removing her vulnerable upper body from the sweep of any handheld weapon. Now she could dart forward like a lizard, slash at her attackers’ vital organs or knock them off their feet and slit open their throats. Gone was the odour of scented bath and rose petals. Instead, an alien stench assaulted her nostrils: sharp, pungent, penetrating. It reeked of something ancient and corrupt, of dank dungeons and moulding corpses, of mausoleums and tombs that had not seen the light of day for centuries. She scanned the chamber urgently, seeing everything, missing nothing. Seeking. Scouring. The chamber was empty. No attackers, no assassins. Just the drapes dancing in the wind, undulating like a drunken gypsy naachwaali in a lotus-lust frenzy. And that fetor, like . . . like . . . What was it? It was like a Nilgiri stag in musth. Like the stench of a wildcat carcass rotting in nightsoil, remembered from when she was eight and out hunting with her father. Like the smell of her monthly blood-nights, but deeper, more acrid and sour. Still in the dragon crouch, she moved through the room with the speed of a panther in sight of prey, snatching up the nearest weapon at hand—a curved sword from a brass suit of armour once worn by an illustrious ancestor—and completed a full circuit of the chamber in seconds. The four-footed crouch was impossible to maintain for long stretches but perfect for a quick sweep; it kept her out of the eye-level of any aggressor and enabled her to move lithely and swiftly, turning on four points rather than two. Nothing, no one. Chamber empty and sterile of risk.

Your beauty past compare, your body a perfect poem composed by Mother Prithvi herself in a paroxysm of divine inspiration. She whirled, feeling violated. She had been enjoying the breeze, surrendering to the languid relaxation of halfsleep, clad for the privacy of the bedchamber. Not preening for the eyes of some uninvited watcher. She was Rajkumari Sita Vaidehi Janaki, crown princess of Mithila. Her body, her beauty, were for her future husband’s eyes alone, a husband she would choose of her own volition, not for this alien presence who dared not even show himself, the coward. That is easily remedied, my love. Would you like to gaze upon me? To appreciate the masculine perfection of my body as I have admired your feminine secrets? It would be only fair. A gust of heat below her left ear, like a sigh released reluctantly. She spun, sword flashing in the moonlit dimness, slashed at empty shadows. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to reveal myself before you, in all my masculine splendour. Soon, I vow, you will look upon me and we will join together in a glorious union. The god of love himself could not orchestrate a more perfect joining. She lunged out with the sword, guided by her instincts rather than her eyes. Yes, I want to see your body, she wanted to shout, so I can sink this needle-sharp blade into your flesh and free your life’s blood. She wanted to silence the voice that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, inside her and beside her left shoulder, in the veranda outside and inside her wardrobe across the room, all at once. To stop the arrogant presumptuousness of this invader. ‘Show yourself, you craven,’ she said aloud, her voice merging with the loud thrumming of the drapes in the gale-strength wind that billowed now through the chamber. ‘I’ll kill you before you lay a finger on me.’ And yet, before long, you will beg me to lay my hands on you and give you the gift of my seed. It is our fate, my sweet one. It is our karma. ‘It’s your karma to die at my hands,’ she spat. ‘Show yourself if you have an ounce of manhood. Show yourself and face me like a man.’ Girl. Still you do not understand. See then for yourself. See and believe. A blinding flash of crimson light scorched her vision and she was transported.

THREE The rain struck her with the fury of a monsoon storm, lashing her face and scantily covered body like a nine-tailed whip. She

resisted the urge to cry out, not wanting to give her oppressor the satisfaction. But her foot slipped on the wet slimy stone floor and she fell to her knees hard. She grasped the wall before her, struggling for a handhold on the slippery blackstone, and found a rectangular slit. The rain battered her relentlessly, unpleasantly warm and smelling oddly acidic. She tried to avoid swallowing any, but it ran into her eyes incessantly, stinging like brine. A kneehigh stream rushed around her feet, pushing her to the right. The rainwash was being sucked down a gaping hole with the force of a swollen river in spate. She recognised it for a siege-bore, a funnel-shaped pit in the floor of the rampart designed for pouring boiling oil on invading armies. She used a pranayam breathing rhythm to calm herself, slowing her heartbeat from a Holi-dance drumbeat to a measured yagna chant-measure. She felt the moment of panic dissipate with each successive breath. A thundering sound rumbled low and deep, coming from all around her. She recognised it for the sound of the ocean and knew at once that she was on the rampart of an island fortress. The toxic scent in the air, the warm rain, the faint odour of ash and something that smelled like smelting iron confirmed that the mountains were volcanic, and recently active. The fortress ran along a volcanic ridge, and rose and fell with its gradient. Mosscoated crenellations in the wall told her additionally that this keep had not suffered a siege for a very long time. Not for decades, centuries even. Suddenly the rain felt as cold as ice, chilling her to the bone. She knew of only one such island fortress in the subcontinent. And that one was not situated in any Arya nation, or any kingdom friendly to the Arya nations. The rain had lessened sufficiently for her to venture a glance upwards. The sky seemed to loom just inches above her head, as besmirched as a rust-blackened tin roof that somebody had neglected to clean. Purple-blue clouds boiled and seethed like smoke from a dozen separate fires clashing and colliding. As they parted, the light grew, revealing an ominous and bleak sky. She blinked at the unexpected light. The stormclouds dispersed quickly, their fury spent. The rain died. The sucking, gurgling sound of the rainwash going down the numerous siege-bores faded away at last, permitting a new sound to reach her ears. It was coming from somewhere far below. Slowly, as she listened and attuned her senses, she realised that it was not new. The sound had been there from the instant she had appeared on this rampart, but she had mistaken it for some effect of the rain and wind. Only now could she discern it as a sound caused by living beings. Once she listened for it, it was unmistakable. She knew that sound. As a warrior-princess of one of the seven greatest Arya nations, it was a sound she was bred to recognise, respect and fear. It was the sound of an army assembling for battle. She moved instinctively to her left, the ground sloping upwards. At the end three broad steps were cut into the rock. She climbed the last one and found herself on a promontory

that seemed to lunge for the belly of a looming thundercloud. Jagged spokes of crumbling blackstone and rusting iron fused together like the spokes of a giant crown slashing the empty air. She approached the outer edge cautiously, her breath catching in her throat as a gust of wind pushed at her like an invisible hand. The terrible sound grew louder as she reached the lip of the precipice. She looked down. ‘Devi, protect us!’ The exclamation was torn from her lips and shredded by the wind. An army of asuras lay assembled, far below the thousand-foot-high fortress. Seen from this height, in this murky monsoon light, they seemed little more than ants swarming across a forest floor. Yet the sheer numbers awed her. It was a living carpet of bestial species, covering every square yard of the island-kingdom. Their distinctive shapes and movements were unmistakable even when seen from this great height. Scores of different species of asuras moved in ragged lines interrupted by inter-species and inter-rank scuffles and brawls. Rakshasas, nagas, uragas, pisacas, danavs, daityas, gandharvas, vetaals, and other species she couldn’t name were pouring out of the fortress atop which she stood. Roars of outrage, shrieks of fury, ululating cries of anger rose and fell as the belligerent beasts brushed against their alien compatriots. Bellowed commands overrode all other cries, issued by larger, distinctly marked rakshasas who stood on wooden riggings, wielding ten-yard-long whips with knife-tipped ends. She searched her childhood memories of daiimaa tales, seeking the name of those larger rakshasas. It came to her with an ease that surprised her: kumbha-rakshasas. The kumbha-rakshasas were a giant sub-species of rakshasas; in the complex hierarchy of the asura races, rakshasas reigned supreme, while kumbha-rakshasas reigned over their fellow rakshasas as well as all other asuras. There were similar distinctions between the other demonaic species as well, she saw, a kind of grotesque mirroring of the caste divisions of the Arya peoples. The kumbha-rakshasas towered above the other asura castes, working their whips ceaselessly to administer control and direction. The brutal, slashing sounds of their whip-blades cutting through carapace and flesh and bone added to the chaotic melee. The other species howled in fury at this brutal treatment but continued to move in their sullen lines. Yet, as she watched in fascination, she understood that it wasn’t just the size of the kumbha-rakshasas that held their fellows in check: the other species combined easily outnumbered their cruel captains and asuras were notorious for their inability to accept order and discipline. Those hulking, snarling beasts down there would sooner feed on the kumbha-rakshasas than obey them. A few hundred ten-yard-tall demons with bladetipped whips were hardly enough to keep a million ferocious beasts submissive. So why were the asuras so obedient? The answer lay right before her eyes. Only once before had all the asura species been united, and on that unforgettable occasion, it was said, the three worlds of heaven, earth and hell had trembled with fear. For that host had dared to invade nothing less than Swargalok itself, the plane of the

devas. And the asuras had won that war, led by the selfdeclared king of the rakshasas. This sight could only mean one thing: the asura species had been reunited for a fresh assault on one of the two higher worlds. And only one being could be responsible. The clouds lifted, buffeted onwards by the gale-force winds high above, and suddenly her opinions were confirmed by a panoramic vista as breathtaking as it was awful. Moored off the shores of the island, stretching out into the open ocean as far as she could see, was the largest fleet of warships ever assembled. At least, it must be the largest, for she had never heard of such numbers before, let alone seen such an armada with her own eyes. The Arya nations were not sea-faring people; the few forays their ancestors had ventured upon the watery deserts of the oceans had not been auspicious. The belief had set in, once mere uneasy superstition, now rock-hard conviction, that they were not meant to cross the large saltwaters of the world. Just as every civilised deva-devout Arya believed in the sacred cleansing powers of the holy River Ganga, so also did they believe in the unholy destructive power of the deserts of brine. And like a terrible prophecy fulfilled, here was living proof that the oceans could bring death and destruction to mortal civilisation. A fleet of asura warships such as even myth or legend had never described before, assembled here off the shores of this desolate island-kingdom. The sight chilled and seared her soul both at once, causing her to drop to her knees and grip the slippery rim of the promontory in anguish. Her body pressed to the cold wet stone of the promontory, she peered down intently, seeing the clear pattern in the bestial chaos. The asuras were being driven to the ships. Endless hordes of different species were emerging from the bowels of the fortress, clambering up the mushy wet black soil and being directed to the dozens of piers that lined the rocky shores. As ships were filled to capacity, they moved away, travelling around the curve of the island, out of Sita’s line of sight. From their careful orchestrated movements she had the impression that they were being lined up on the far side of the island, some kind of holding point where they were to wait before proceeding to their final destination. But which destination was that? Suddenly, the answer was obvious. She rose to her feet with a start, the keening wind pushing at her roughly, trying to shove her over the edge. She stood her ground, turning this way, then that, scanning the sky, the ocean, the lie of the winding fortress, judging distances, geographical positions by knowledge and instinct rather than scientific estimation. There were no stars or constellations to tell her for sure, yet she knew where she was with a cold, unshakeable certainty. Lanka. The island-kingdom the self-declared king of rakshasas had stolen from his brother Kubera, a volcanic island off the southernmost tip of the sub-continent, which, through his perverse use of Brahman sorcery, the lord of rakshasas had turned into a portal to Narak, the hellish underworld. Domain of the king of the asura races and every foul scum that walked, crept, swam, crawled upon or flew above the mortal plane of Prithvi.

She had heard the stories, the terrible nightmarish tales. But she had never understood. Not completely. Not even when her own father and uncles and other survivors of the last asura war had narrated their terrible experiences. Because she was a child of peace, born in an age where demons and monsters were things of the past, things to be forgotten. And yet here she was, on the mythical island that was the gateway to the underworld itself. Stronghold of the rakshasa king who had once sworn to dominate the three planes of mortals, devas and asuras. Whose original given name was long forgotten in the foggy swamps of race-memory, and who was eternally known by the name given to him by the devas. Three syllables which carried an entire compendium of meaning. He Who Makes The Universe Cry Out In Terror. Ravana. Girl. At last you begin to see. Now realise also the futility of resistance. I am the Beginning and the End of Everything. Soon I shall be at your threshold, in the flesh. And you shall learn to use that magnificent body for better things than battlecraft. ‘NEVER!’ she screamed, turning, slashing with her sword. Determined to fight to the death rather than yield an inch. But her blade met only empty air. There was nobody there. And in a flash of blinding crimson light, she was transported again. Nakhudi burst into the bedchamber, hissing like a clutch of angry cobras. Her enormous frame filled the space by the bedside as she tore away the mosquito netting, seeking out her mistress, seeking to protect. The bed was empty. She grunted in frustration, raising her large head, her curled locks glistening darkly in the moonlight. ‘Here, Nakhu.’ The amazonian bodyguard was across the bed and by the veranda door in a flash. She squatted beside Sita, her powerful thighs bunching like a young elephant’s legs, her several sheathed weapons catching the direct moonlight from the low-hanging half-moon and glittering like jewellery. She reached tentatively for her mistress. ‘Rajkumari?’ ‘I’m fine, Nakhu. I just had a bad dream, that’s all.’ Sita gestured sheepishly. ‘I fell out of bed, I guess.’ The protectoress scanned the face of her princess anxiously. A noise came from the open doorway as Sita’s other bodyguards followed in Nakhudi’s wake. Nakhudi waved them away impatiently. They took in the scene, bowed apologetically, and retreated, shutting the doors to the rajkumari’s chambers.

Nakhudi turned back to Sita. ‘When I heard you cry out—’ Her voice was low and gruff. She shook her head, clenching her fist. ‘I thought perhaps dakus . . .’ Sita almost smiled. Dakus? Forest bandits would hardly attempt a raid on the royal palace of Mithila. Nakhudi’s heart was larger than her intellect. ‘It was a very bad dream. I must have cried out.’ The bodyguard exclaimed in her native tongue and her large hand shot out with the speed of a cobra lunging. Yet her grasp was as gentle as a mother holding her babe. She raised Sita’s hand to the moonlight. ‘A bad dream that bleeds?’ Sita followed Nakhudi’s gaze, looking at the sword still clutched in her hand. The tip of the blade was smeared with blood.

FOUR Kartikeya was minding the herd when he saw the smoke. It rose slowly, lazily, at first, like wisps of ganja smoke from the pipes his father and uncles smoked in the evenings and on feast days. For a moment, lulled by the calm of the early hour and the memory of the warm khatiya he had left only moments ago to tend to his morning chores, he thought it was ganja smoke. He imagined he could smell the sickly-sweet odour of the drug roasting, feel the intoxicating lightheadedness that came just from inhaling that exuded smoke. He had never smoked a pipe directly, but all his brothers had and they took pleasure in ragging him because just being around other smokers was enough to make him fly higher than a patang on kite feast day. It was one of the natural hazards of being the youngest in a large rakshak Kshatriya family and an even larger clan. Their taunting nettled him, making him eager for the day when he would be permitted to sit with the older men and smoke as they did. But truth be told, just inhaling their second-hand smoke was sufficient to make him relax enough to spin wild, extravagant daydreams. As he was doing now, sitting on a flattish rock at the top of the knoll, as his family’s herd grazed on the slope below. They were dreams of growing up to become as big and strong as the other men in the clan, as proficient a warrior as the Kshatriya code demanded. Of some day leaving the village and setting out for other places, other worlds. Not just Dhuj, the town over the hills, but perhaps to ride on one of the giant sailing vessels that docked in the bay below the town, thence to travel to foreign shores. Or even to go the other way, up the cart path that led out of Dhuj, past numerous tiny hamlets and villages like his own, thence to journey to the raj-marg that led to other Arya nations, the fantastic rich kingdoms of

legend that his father and uncles were always talking about - Kosala, Videha, Banglar. To see the famed capital cities of those faraway nations, walk the gold-paved streets of Ayodhya, Mithila, Kolkat. Perhaps join a rakshak troop guarding mighty Mithila Bridge or Gandahar Pass, or any of the strategic points that Kshatriyas were trained and castesworn to protect and maintain. Ah, those were fine dreams indeed for a cowherd in a remote sleepy hamlet too small to even have a proper name or a court-ordained panchayat. Ganja dreams. Perhaps that was why he was so slow to respond to the sight of the smoke. It was only after several moments had passed and the wisps had turned into plumes and then into large roiling black gouts that he realised his error. He leaped up, startling the animals browsing closest, and stared at the distant hilltops. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. There was no mistaking it this time: those dark forbidding clouds rising up from over the hills were very real, and very ominous. Dhuj was burning. Kartikeya took to his feet. He sprinted through the flock, calling out impatiently in his singsong voice, using his stick to poke and shove the beasts aside. He slipped on a pile of hot and slick manure and had to grip the horns of the nearest animal to keep his balance. She protested loudly and indignantly, and that set the lot of them lowing raggedly. He all but threw himself down the hillside, loping with large ungainly strides as he left the outskirts of the herd and gained open ground. As he neared the gauthan, he heard the excited yells of other cowherds calling out and saw their white dhotis flashing luminously in the dull, gloamy light of dawn. They had all seen the smoke and were running home. By the time he reached his hut, his brothers were already streaming out of the narrow doorway, some still hurriedly knotting their langots in the tight fashion that all rakshak Kshatriyas—perhaps all Kshatriyas, for all he knew—favoured for combat. As was the clan custom, they were naked apart from the langots, their only other clothing their swords and maces. There had been no time to oil their bodies in the rakshak manner, the better to slip through the enemy’s grasp in closequarter fighting, which itself conveyed to Kartikeya how urgently they took the threat. One of his middle brothers, Jayashankar, had already yoked the bulls to the cart and brought it around, large wooden-spoked wheels rumbling on the brick ground. His brothers poured out of the hut and clambered aboard grimly as he stopped, breathless and minus his stick, which had snapped and which he had discarded along the way. ‘Fire!’ he said. Nobody paid attention to him. He watched wide-eyed as his sisters and mother emerged from the hut, each one armed and with garments girded at the loins in the martial fashion of rakshak women at war. His mother called out to him to move out of the way to let the cart pass. He was shocked to see her without her enormous nose ring, and bereft of all her customary jewellery. That brought the magnitude of the crisis home to him like nothing else. ‘Come on, Kattu,’ his youngest sister said, swatting his head as she pushed him back the

way he’d come. ‘We have to go back and get the herd. They’ll make a good protective circle around the houses.’ He looked around, bewildered, and saw that all the other houses in the gauthan were similarly occupied—men and boys clambering aboard carts, riding off up the mud track which led to the town, while the women and girls prepared for an attack. But where was the enemy? Who were they preparing to fight? ‘Protective circle,’ he repeated numbly. ‘Protective against what? The fire?’ ‘Kattu, take care of your sisters and your maa,’ his oldest brother, Vinayak, called out. ‘You are now the oldest male in the village.’ He was the only male in the village, he saw, casting a bewildered glance around at the unexpected chaos that had shattered the customary routine. Even old Pancham-chacha, who must be all of seven decades, was perched precariously on the back of one overcrowded cart. The front cart, his own family’s, was goading the bullocks into a run with the urgency of a cart race. The carts trundled noisily and surprisingly quickly up the path to the bay town. Whenever possible, rakshaks always rode, believing that the energy conserved was better utilised in the first crucial moments of martial contact. ‘Come on!’ his sister cried impatiently, tugging at his arm. She ran toward the hill. ‘There isn’t time!’ He followed her awkwardly, still trying to catch up with this sudden rush of events. To their right, as they ran up the grassy slope, the dozen or so carts filled with armed men and boys rattled and rolled noisily away, the road winding around the steep rise to take a gentler gradient towards the town. They dropped out of sight a moment later as he topped the first knoll and went down the other side. Ahead, his sister was a pale streak of muscled flesh limned against the green of the pasture slopes. Over another two hills and they would reach the pasture where he had left their herd grazing. ‘What happened?’ he asked, shouting to her as he struggled to catch up. She had long legs and was the best runner of them all, except only for their second-eldest brother. ‘Asuras landed at Dhuj,’ she called back, and disappeared over the next rise. He stopped then, dead in his tracks, as if he had run into a tree, as he had once when much younger. Sat down with a whoosh of expelled air, right on the dew-damp grass. A small, sharp stone dug into his left buttock. He sat there and breathed with his mouth open and eyes staring blindly, gasping. A fat black wasp came buzzing around his head, then veered off westwards, toward the burning town. The entire western horizon was glowing reddish-orange now, as if Surya Deva had suddenly decided to reverse his normal route and ride his solar chariot from west to east this day. His sister came back a moment later, looking exasperated. ‘What happened?’ she yelled. ‘Come on, Kattu! Get up! There isn’t time!’

He shook his head, not looking at her. Buried his face in his hands and rocked himself forward and backward, like a Brahmin boy reciting his rote-learning. ‘Kartik,’ she said in a less harsh tone, dropping to her knees beside him. ‘I know how you feel. We all feel that way. But this is not the time to let fear freeze you like a rabbit before a cobra. We must fight. Get up and come. We have to get the herd back before they reach the gauthan.’ When he still didn’t move, she bent down and put her arm around him, hugging him tight, lending him some of her warmth, although the winter chill had all but fled from the air by now. ‘Kattu, Kartik, Kartikeya,’ she said into his ear, her breath redolent of betelnut leaf, which he knew she ought not to have been chewing this early in the day. Maa would be mad if she found out. ‘We’re rakshaks. We have to do our duty. Rise now and fulfil your dharma.’ He looked at her for a long moment, then clenched his teeth tight. He knew she was right. He knew he had no choice. It was the rakshak way, to form a barrier with their bodies, their flesh, their lives, to prevent the enemy from progressing further. In the last asura war, thousands of their clan had thrown their lives away merely to buy precious moments for other divisions to regroup, or refresh themselves, or even, simply, to buy time. That was why their kind always built their settlements near bay towns, near bridges, passes, outside cities. To raise the first alarm and provide the first line of defence. When he rose finally, his knees trembled like a sapling in a sea gale. She caught his arm and helped him stay upright. He nodded to her, then realised she wasn’t looking at him. ‘I’ll manage,’ he said. She looked at him closely, then let him go. He began walking towards the west, towards that angry red sky and the billowing dark clouds. They topped the rise together and froze, mesmerised by the sight on the other side. The entire hillside seethed with movement, a living carpet. In the garish red light of the burning town of Dhuj, an asura army was racing across the hillsides. Not marching or proceeding. Running. If you could call the progress of those carapaced, many-legged, bestial nightmares running. They swarmed across the rolling slopes like an infestation of killer ants. The very green of the lush hills was churned up into black sods by their passing. Their numbers were beyond counting. Kartikeya looked right and left, and for as far as his keen eyes could discern, they covered the land entirely. Far to the right, over the ridge, where the town road was, and where the carts would have reached by now, he could faintly make out the sound of clashing weapons and cries of combat. His brothers and father and uncles had met the wave and clashed. Which meant that Dhuj itself had been overrun and put to flame. He stared at the oncoming masses, the bristling feelers, horns, antlers, snouts, hoods and other alien forms, racing like a horde of death incarnate across the familiar pastures over which he had roamed his entire childhood, illuminated by the garish glow of a burning town that only hours ago had been the foremost docking bay of the Arya nations, and

had no words to describe what he felt. He turned to meet his sister’s eyes. He saw that she had reached the same conclusion he had —there was no point trying to outrun this insane, headlong wave of carnage. Already, as the first asuras reached the confused herd, he saw the animals being cut down like so many stalks of straw before a thresh-knife. His family’s entire fortune was decimated in scant seconds. In another few moments, the hordes would be upon them. He looked around for something, anything, to defend himself with. He remembered his stick, discarded in the haste to reach home to warn his family. Then he grinned, thinking of the futility of waving that flimsy wooden rod at these monstrosities sprung from the slipstream between legend and myth. Shouting curses would be more effective than using a cowherd’s stick! His sister caught his grin and returned it. They hugged one last time, and he was glad that she was here with him to make this last stand. It was meet to have your own blood and kin beside you when the end came. Bonded in death, bound together for eternity. They laughed together, laughed at the snarling, slobbering avatars of death that roared up towards them like a black wave, wielding their defiant laughter as boldly as steel weapons. The wave of invading asuras passed over them, then through them, shattering their fragile bodies like wine flagons crushed by stampeding elephants. One moment they stood there laughing defiantly, the next they were reduced to twin puffs of bloodspray and bone-fragment. The creatures roared on, crushing the puny human remains underfoot, surging relentlessly onward towards the tiny ten-hut hamlet where the rest of Kartikeya’s clan awaited their own tryst with Yama. Dhuj lay burning behind them. Ahead lay the breadth and span of the land of the holy rivers, the nations of Arya, and the entire civilised mortal world.

KAAND 1

ONE Lakshman woke in the darkness before dawn, clammy with cold sweat. He reached for his sword and found his rig instead. The bow was in his hand, an arrow aligned, the cord drawn to firing tautness, before he realised where he was. A dream. Just another dream. He loosened the cord. Regained his breathing rhythm, slowing his pulse. As his senses attuned themselves to the here and now, he grew aware of the smells of the hut and the ashram, the sounds of the night. It was pitch dark here. No torches burned at night in Siddh-ashrama, no quads of palace guards or PFs patrolled the perimeter. Once the cookfires were doused, the lamps extinguished, the stars and moon were all that remained to light one’s way. It was a world apart from the pomp and majesty of Ayodhya. A world of meditation and tapasya, not luxury and indulgence. And yet he had come to relish it: the tranquil days filled with the sonorous chanting of brahmacharya acolytes, the peaceful nights filled with rich forest smells, insect calls, animal sounds. After the bloody violence of the Bhayanak-van, it was a welcome retreat. A quiet space in which to re-arm the soul. And yet. Already he felt a gnawing restlessness, a strange, anti-climactic unease. A sense of something yet to be done, a task unfulfilled. Between battles. It was a phrase his mother had used to describe his father after Maharaja Dasaratha had sustained a deep gash in a friendly chariot-fight at a holiday tournament. It could as well be used to describe any Arya raj-Kshatriya, that sub-caste of warrior-kings whose lives were dedicated to the art of combat. Like a weapon of war forged from molten steel, a raj-Kshatriya was designed to fight, to kill. However long a sword might lie at rest, it was but a moment’s work to knock off the superficial plating of rust and mildew, wash it clean in a cauldron of boiling oil. And lo and behold, it was ready to sing its song of rage and sorrow once more. A raj-Kshatriya was like that sword: even at rest, he did not become a man of peace. He simply remained, in Third Queen Sumitra’s words, between battles. Waiting. A light rain was pattering down on the plantain-leaf roof of the small hut when Lakshman stepped outside. The clearing before the hut was sprinkled with early spring buds and a light growth of darbha grass. Even in the dull light from the eastern sky, the new buds were visible, as varied as daubs of Holi colour on a child’s face. Lakshman stepped off the mud stoop of the hut and on to the grass. It was damp from

the unseasonal drizzle and felt wonderful, cooling and soothing his bare feet. He walked slowly across the clearing, into the rear groves. In moments, he was out of sight of the ashram clearing and surrounded by tall bowed trees, shur-shurring softly in the gentle dawn breeze like a hundred silk saris being rustled at once. The rain became steadily heavier, growing into a more determined shower. He brushed past a papaya frond bowed with collected rainwater and it spilled its cool contents on to his bare shoulder. He was in the midst of a papaya patch, the thick, squat trees barely as high as his head, their large palm-like fronds acting as natural cups for the rainwater. He bent his mouth to a frond and sipped tentatively. It tasted sweet as night’s dew collected from a lotus leaf. He drank greedily, slaking his morning thirst. Some spilled down his chin and ran down his neck, mingling with the rain. The aftertaste was faintly redolent of the odour of unripe papaya. The rain had awoken the natural fragrances of the forest. Lakshman could smell the rich mineral scent of damp soil, the mulchy smell of wet bark, the sweet perfume of nightqueen blossom only just starting to shut its buds against the onset of day, the papayas ripening in the grove around him, the market melange of vegetable smells from the large plot where the rishis of Siddh-ashrama grew their produce—and cutting keenly through it all, the unmistakable cloying musk of a golden deer in musth. He frowned. The last smell was out of place. It was too early in the season for deer to go into heat. It intrigued him, almost made him want to return to the hut to find his bow and arrow and go on the hunt—or at least play at hunting, since the taking of life and eating of meat were expressly forbidden at Siddhashrama. Already, the sky was growing light enough for him to see the greenish bulges of the papaya fruits, the first tinges of muted saffron only just beginning to appear in their swollen centres. A dozen yards away, the jungle proper loomed darkly. The oak, peepal and banyan trees of the Vatsa woods were still shrouded in night-dense darkness. The rain had passed and left behind a peculiar light. It cast dreamlike shadows, suffusing the air with a deep ultramarine luminescence. Drops of rainwater clung to the tips of leaves like jewels on the earlobes of court danseuses. The air swirled and swarmed with motes of multiple hues, like a rainbow trying to come into being. If it was possible to see an indra-dhanush from the inside out, this was what it would look like. He smelled it before he saw it, the odour of musk dense and cloying in the still air. It stood in a gap at the far edge of the patch of papaya trees, just within the dark shadows of the jungle. It was almost completely obscured by the trunk of a banyan tree. Its ears were the only thing that moved, twitching with that peculiar restlessness that was its own way of watching. It seemed to exude a delicate glow, its ochre fur gleaming in the watery dawn light, and its eyes were wild with the heat of its condition. For a moment, he was transfixed. Just before leaving Ayodhya, Rama had caught a deer in the groves on the north bank of the Sarayu. Later that Holi morning, he had saved the same deer from poachers and taken Lakshman back to the spot only to find the wounded

deer gone. Now Lakshman felt a curious certainty that this was that very deer. Except that he couldn’t see any sign of an arrow wound. It would be a miracle if it had survived such a wound at all, let alone recovered without a trace of a scar. And it would have been fantastic for it to have then made the long journey south to Siddh-ashrama. No, it couldn’t be the same deer. What was he thinking? Yet there was something in its eyes, its eager, watchful stance, that made him remember Rama intensely. As if it knew he was searching for his brother and was trying to tell him something. ‘What is it, doe-eyed one?’ he said softly, keeping very still so as not to startle it. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’ It stood rock-still, in that familiar frozen posture prey animals assumed when they sensed a predator. He lowered himself to his haunches slowly, coming down to its height, careful not to show his teeth, humming very softly to calm it. ‘Have you seen my brother Rama?’ he asked, almost singing the name. ‘Rama Rama oh. Oh Rama Rama.’ The deer watched him through wide almond-shaped eyes. Its pupils were dilated, very large in their beds of white. Its ears flickered once, then were still again. The wind changed. Somewhere in the thicket behind, high above, a langur shrieked and was answered by its simian companions. A family of red-tailed parrots, clustered on a branch until the rain passed, shot up into the air and were silhouetted against the lightening sky, thin red and green chalk streaks on an ash-grey slate. The deer skittered, twisting round and round as if chasing its own tail, its ears twitching madly. It spun for a moment like a temple devdaasi whirling in a paroxysm of religious ecstasy. Its musky odour increased. It came to an abrupt halt facing the thicket of dark-enshrouded banyan and peepal trees that marked the start of the forest. Lakshman tried to follow its gaze, to see what had startled it. The langurs resumed their screeching and chittering in the trees above, passing on a primordial panic alarm, and the deer bolted. It was gone in a flash, a golden shadow rippling through the woods, fleeing back to its fairy realm. Its musky perfume lingered a moment longer, then was lost in the smells of rain and forest. Lakshman remained crouched on his haunches, peering into the darkness of the trees. The wind changed again abruptly, bringing the scent to him a fraction of an instant before his eyes found the beast. It was standing in the dense shade of an enormous banyan tree, the high vaulting boughs too thickly interwoven to allow the dull light of dawn to pass through easily. He saw its eyes first, bright as diamonds gleaming against the dark background of the jungle. The rest of it was all but invisible, but the eyes were riveting, yellow orbs of fire smouldering

in a bed of coals. The tiger stepped out of the shadows, becoming visible in stages. Its striped flanks seemed to go on for ever. The lithe, slow steps it took, the deep impressions its pugs made in the soft loamy ground, and the sheer size of the animal took his breath away. It was a beautiful young male, very large for its age. Lakshman’s throat felt parched despite the water he had just drunk. There were many tiger pelts in his father’s palace in Ayodhya. None were as large as this creature. The tiger’s eyes watched him intently, its throat issuing a low growling sound that was its way of throwing down a challenge. He understood at once that it was angry at having been deprived of the deer, which it must have been stalking for a while. A nocturnal creature, it had probably not fed this night, and soon the heat of the sun would drive it back to its deep forest lair, to sleep empty-stomached until nightfall. It was on the hunt, and since it had lost its chosen prey, this two-legged one would have to do instead. It came slowly, one outstretched paw at a time. Ten yards from him, then nine . . . seven . . . In moments it was within springing distance. It stopped, crouching down, its powerful shoulder muscles bunching, the golden black-striped fur creasing as it gathered all its strength for the leap. At the very last instant, a voice spoke out, unexpectedly loud over the stillness of the thicket. ‘Shantam.’ The single word acted as a mantra on the crouched tiger. One moment it was coiled to unleash its ferocious destructive energy upon its two-legged prey; the next it relaxed its powerful muscles and sank to the ground, purring like any house cat. Lakshman rose to his feet as Brahmarishi Vishwamitra strode past him, approaching the tiger with fearless familiarity. The seer-mage bent and stroked the animal’s head. Its ears twitched appreciatively and it rolled over, offering up the pale fur of its belly. Vishwamitra chuckled in his deep, gravelly voice, his long white beard rippling with his amusement. ‘You want to play, do you? I would love to play with you awhile, my friend. But there is much work to be done. Your workday is ending, while ours has barely begun. The good rajkumar here and I, we have a journey to make today with our companions. A long journey.’ The tiger mewled. Vishwamitra smiled. ‘Yes, certainly. When I return I shall play with you. Now, run along and give your brothers and sisters my regards. Go on now, it’s almost sunrise, and your mother will worry.’

The tiger snorted twice, issued a last sulky growl, and rose to its feet, padding away quickly. In moments, it had blended with the shadows of the forest and was gone. Vishwamitra turned to face Lakshman. ‘Rajkumar Lakshmana, the animals of Siddh-ashrama live in harmony with humans. They mean you no harm.’ Lakshman bowed his head, putting his palms together respectfully to offer the first greetings of the day to his new guru. ‘Pranaam, Guru-dev. The tiger was clearly hostile to me. When it sought to assault me, I was left with no choice but to prepare to defend myself.’ The brahmarishi inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Lakshman’s explanation. ‘What you say is true. But remember that in this place we are the outsiders. Perhaps you were a little too quick to invoke the power of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala. Certainly the tiger sensed your great strength and saw you as a hostile intruder. Even though it knew your enhanced abilities would result in its destruction, still it sought to defend its habitat and its dignity.’ Lakshman was silent as he pondered the brahmarishi’s words. He had been very quick to challenge the tiger. It was almost as if . . . well, as if he wanted the fight. He recalled his earlier restlessness on awakening. Between battles. As if he needed to pit himself against a foe, any foe. If rakshasas and giant demonesses weren’t on hand, then a tiger would do. But if this was so, then he hadn’t been consciously aware of it. ‘Forgive me, Guru-dev,’ he said quietly. Vishwamitra walked over to Lakshman and squeezed his shoulder. The strength in the seer’s hands surprised Lakshman. ‘Feel not ashamed, Sumitra-putra. You are young yet and it is barely eight days since you received these potent infusions. It takes even great warriors many years to learn the intricacies of their usage. Why, it took a raj-Kshatriya such as myself several hundred years to achieve mastery of my martial abilities. Of course,’ he added, ‘that was before I set down my sword and bow to take up this life of spiritual penance. And yet, those same qualities of yogic self-control stand me in good stead even today. The greatest battle is the one a warrior wages with his own animal impulses.’ Lakshman glanced up at the brahmarishi’s face. It was the first time he had heard the sage speak of his historic past. Every Arya child learned of Raja Vishwamitra’s stirring exploits as a warrior-king, as well as of his transformation into a seer through centuries of tapasya. Like any other Kshatriya graced with the presence of such a great warrior, Lakshman had a hundred questions he wanted to ask the brahmarishi. But before he could speak another word, a flash of blinding light seared his vision. He flung his hand up to cover his eyes, taking a step back from the source of the effulgence.

Still, his warrior’s instinct demanded he try to discern what was going on, to defend himself against any possible assault. He sensed Vishwamitra standing his ground and staring directly at the blinding illumination. As suddenly as it had appeared, the light faded away, leaving behind only a searing memory burned in Lakshman’s mind’s eye. He lowered his hands and saw the lone figure of his brother Rama, standing in the midst of the papaya grove.

TWO Kausalya woke from a light doze to find Dasaratha’s eyes open. The maharaja was lying on his back, hands clasped on his chest, head fallen to the right, eyes fixed on the thin slice of indigo sky visible through the window at the far end of the vaulting bedchamber. She observed him calmly for a moment, marshalling her emotions. She knew what she should be thinking, that her husband had departed the mortal realm for more elevated pastures, that at least he had passed away peacefully in the night without further suffering, but she stoically refused to entertain such thoughts. It was as if a part of her believed firmly that by thinking such thoughts she would give them credence and substance. An Arya wife did not think ill of her husband and children, whatever the circumstances or provocation. Yet it was more than mere tradition and upbringing. It was a deep-rooted, intensely felt inner conviction. If life gave you thorns, you made do with thorns. You didn’t brood on their nature, the colour, the species, the length, the sharpness . . . instead, you plucked them out, tossed them aside, and kept walking, on bloody feet if you had to. She had acquired that attitude from her mother. Indeed, those very words—make do with thorns—still echoed in her memory in that familiar soft voice. Her mother had passed away the year before Kausalya was married, a tragic piece of timing. But her voice and its lessons, learned in childhood while those strong, deeply lined hands plaited her oiled locks or massaged turmeric paste into her supple young limbs, had carried her through fifteen years of marital turmoil, neglect and loneliness, seven of those years spent without even her growing son, pride of her loins, jewel of her heart, to bring comfort and joy. So much had been denied her. Yet still, that resilient Kausalya, daughter of pride, mother of fortitude and silent will, refused to yield to the samay chakra’s cruel turns and twists. And so she rose from her seat thinking not that Dasaratha was dead and lying glassy-eyed but that he was simply awake and gazing. The muted rustle of her sari—she had laid aside the ritual silks of her queenly station the day after Dasaratha had taken to his sickbed, and donned simple homespun saris instead— attracted his attention. He blinked once, and turned his head slightly, adjusting his frame of view to encompass her. Her heart raced as the enormity of the moment dawned on her. Dasa was awake. Alive and awake. It was only then that she realised how close she had come to growing resigned these past eight days. How the muted whispers of acceptance around the palace had begun to seep into her resolve, melting it like a glacier thawed over centuries by the unrelenting heat of the sun. On this occasion, those thorns of life had dug deep enough to draw out more than blood; they had almost drained her of hope. And hope, as her mother had said so often, was the real food of mortal existence; food of the soul. He turned his head slightly as she approached, eyes startling in their clarity. The rheumy, glassy look of the feverish nights was gone, so was the glazed, slack-jawed looseness. He

had lost weight during this latest bout and it showed on his face. It gave him the appearance of weary determination; a warrior who had fought yet another unwinnable battle and had survived. Not won, for neither this new battle nor the war itself was winnable by any mortal, but survived. He had lived to fight another day. And she was blessed to be here to see the miracle with her own eyes. ‘Kausalye.’ He used the affectionate ‘e’ suffix that was the closest to a nickname he had ever permitted himself. That was all he said—simply her name. It was enough. She dropped to her knees by his bedside, burying her face in his arms, clinging to his shoulder. His skin felt cool and dry to her touch, no longer fiery with fever or clammy from sick-sweat. She kissed his forearm, his hand, his wrist. ‘I will propitiate the devi,’ she said. ‘I will offer a hundred rams as thanks for your recovery.’ He made a small choked sound. She looked up, alarmed, then realised it was an approximation of a laugh, the best he could manage in his weakened condition. ‘Spare the rams, Kausalye. Just get me something to eat and drink.’ She looked up at him. If she needed proof positive, here it was. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Sure?’ he echoed. ‘Of course I’m sure. If I’m alive, I must eat and drink, mustn’t I? Unless I have died and this is Swarga-lok and you’ve been given the ultimate penalty of nursing me eternally. In which case, I’ll eat one of those rams you were planning to sacrifice. Roasted, preferably, with plenty of stuffing!’ She smiled, warmed by his attempt at humour. It spoke more eloquently than any assurance of well-being. ‘It would be a pleasure, not a penalty.’ He smiled a wan smile. ‘Ever the dutiful and noble Kausalya. Don’t you at least occasionally feel ill towards anybody? Think dark, terrible thoughts? Wish destruction and holocaust on those who have hurt you and caused you misery?’ She thought of the night she had first known he was in the clutches of Kaikeyi. Not the first night he had spent in her arms, for she had accepted Kaikeyi’s presence by then— not liked it, but accepted it nevertheless—but the first time she had learned of how deeply he was besotted with his voluptuous second queen. She had learned it from Sumitra, who had broken the news to her as gently as possible, confirming what Kausalya had dismissed till then as idle palace gossip and court chatter. She remembered the darkness that had come over her then. The wave of black rage that had risen like an ocean deva bent on destruction, the pounding fury in her heart. She had forgotten all her mother’s lessons at that moment. Forgotten all the wisdom she had acquired through diligent study and practice. She had been at that moment a pure avatar of the devi, lightning-bolt in one hand, trident in the other, lion at her knee, and all she knew was man-hatred and woman-rage. And then the infant Rama had called out, shattering the tense silence of her bedchamber.

He was barely a year old then, only just weaned. She had gone to the bed, thrown herself there by his side, and bared her breast to him, teasing his curled lips with her forefinger, drawing him to her breast. He had found the hot nipple and paused, turning his head to stare up at her, his silent wide eyes asking the question his wordless mouth could not frame, and she had smiled down at him, caressed his downy soft head, and moved it back towards her breast again. He had drunk then, sucking happily, greedily, as he was permitted this rare return to a familiar luxury, and she had felt the ache in her right breast as the veins of milk, still full and bountiful in their gift of life, began to convey their precious nectar. Sumitra had leaned over her, wiping the tears that flowed down Kausalya’s face, drenching Rama’s swaddle clothes, and said quietly, words that Kausalya would remember for ever, ‘At least we have the loyalty of our sons.’ Kausalya blinked away the moistness that threatened to creep into her eyes now and looked at Dasaratha. She was stroking his hirsute arm gently, the way she had stroked Rama’s infant head that fateful day. He was staring up at her with an inscrutable expression that mirrored the fixed watchfulness of his infant son in her memory, and in that instant she saw how much he regretted, how much he wished he could undo, how time and past errors of judgement had eaten into the heart of his ego and denuded his former arrogance. This was her Dasaratha again; not Kaikeyi’s Dasaratha, that stranger she had stood by during official functions and court rituals over the years; but her Dasaratha, the prince of Ayodhya she had wed long years ago, the prince she had loved, the king she had watched with pride and admiration, the man to whom she had given her maidenhood and all else, the father of her child, the keeper of her honour. ‘We choose,’ she said. ‘We choose to walk in light or darkness. I chose my path a long time ago. I have never looked back since.’ He stared at her mutely for a long moment. Then he turned his head away, towards the window again. The first blush of dawn was visible through its carved arches, above the delicate boughs of the flower grove. His voice was soft and young, more like his son’s clear, quiet tones than his own customary gruffness. Her Dasaratha was speaking now. ‘Some of us walk in darkness without knowing we do. We see with black eyes and black hearts. And only when we have gone too deep into the jungle do we realise our mistake. But by then it’s too late to turn back, impossible to find our way home.’ She felt his despair and ached for it. This was her curse, not just to bear her given burden, but to feel profound empathy for the pain of others as well, including the one who had caused her own pain. ‘It’s never too late to come home,’ she said. He looked at her again. She saw the colours of the dawn reflected in his eyes, the yellowish cast of first light on his wasted features. ‘Do you think so? Can a black heart change its path this late in the day?’ She touched his chest gently, proprietorially. ‘The path was always there. If the heart could but see it.’

‘And the consequences of past actions? Our karma?’ She shrugged. ‘What we have done even the devas can’t undo. But what we have yet to do, even the asuras cannot prevent us from doing. If you wish to walk the path of light, you can do so even now.’ His eyes filled with tears, and his hand gripped her arm with shocking strength. Not the strength of youth and vigour he had once possessed with pride, but the strength of desperation. ‘I’m so afraid, Kausalya.’ Her eyes widened. She knew it must cost him dearly to make such an admission. Even had they not been through such vicissitudes in their relationship, it would still be very hard for him to entrust her with such insight. It made her love for him swell even more. She put her other hand over his, gripping him as tightly as he gripped her. ‘You will not walk alone, Dasa. I’m with you to the end.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not the walk to death I fear, Kausalye. It’s the walk back to righteousness. I fear that I’ve done too much damage to repair. That I haven’t enough time for reparation. That you, my sons, our people, will all suffer the consequences of my mistakes.’ For a moment she was unable to fathom his meaning; then she understood. He was speaking not just as a husband, but as a king. ‘You have raised four fine sons. They will walk the path of righteousness for you.’ He half rose, face filled with an emotion she had never seen there before, a peculiar mingling of fear and shame and desperation. ‘That is what I fear most! You remember the dream I spoke of yesterday, or the day before, before I slept?’ She didn’t have the heart to tell him that it had been eight days ago, not one or two. ‘The one about killing the youth in the jungle, the son of the two blind paupers?’ ‘The ones who cursed me,’ he said, then gasped in a deep breath. ‘I had more dreams. Terrible, awful dreams. I dreamed that the youth turned and looked up at me as he lay dying, and he was our son, Rama.’ She blinked several times, unprepared for this fresh assault. There were things she was not prepared to deal with yet, if ever. ‘Nothing will happen to our son,’ she said. ‘It was but a dream. Our son, all your sons, will do you proud, Dasa. They will carry on the work you began, and accomplish greater things than you ever dreamed.’ He shook his head, tears rolling down his face. Their hands remained entwined, but his grip had lost its strength. It felt too much like her mother’s hand as she lay dying in that dark and shadowy sickroom in another kingdom, another palace, another lifetime almost, it seemed now. And the Dasaratha who spoke next was the ageing and ailing, broken and defeated, Dasaratha.

‘I fear the crimes of my karma will be visited upon my sons. And the cost will be more than they can bear to pay.’ He twisted his head in anguish, hand limp in her grasp and growing clammy with sweat. ‘I fear I have done more wrongs than rights, that the tally of my karma will not make up for the sacred duty I have been unable to fulfil, that all my life’s sins will be visited upon Rama and Bharat and Shatrugan and Lakshman like a plague of vengeance. I see the signs already, in the intrusion of the rakshasa, the seer taking away Rama and Lakshman, the resurgence of Ravana and his hordes . . . I tell you, Kausalya, all this is my karma coming back to haunt me. It is the sum of my past misdeeds.’ He choked on his own emotions, and she had to offer him a few sips of water before he could continue. ‘You don’t know half the things I’ve done, the things I’ve said. My promises to Kaikeyi . . . the two boons . . .’ He turned his face away, unable to go on. The nascent light cast a pallor on his face, making it seem deathlike in its agony. ‘Kausalya, I tell you, it is the beginning of the end of all we love and hold dear . . . It is the day of our reckoning, and the price of my past misdeeds will bury us all alive like a juggernaut . . . what have I done! Deva!’ He buried his face in his hands and shook, weeping. Enough. This was too much. It was no way for a maharaja to behave. ‘Dasa!’ He stared at her, startled by her loudness. ‘Are you dead yet?’ He blinked, taken aback. ‘What? Dead? No, of course not, but . . .’ She emphasised each word as she spoke, giving him time to understand it implicitly. ‘Then rise. Awaken. Live. Prepare your sons for ascension, meet your people and give them confidence and assurance, ensure the sustenance and survival of all that you love and cherish. Do what you can, what you must.’ He stared at her as she continued. ‘What’s done is done. We cannot change our past karma. But what we do now, this moment, and every moment hereafter, is in our hands. Do it! Change what needs changing. You have already shown you can do it by coming to me on the morning of Holi feastday. By repairing the broken wings of our lost love.’ He looked at her uncertainly. ‘Did I succeed?’ ‘You know you did. I would still be here by your side even if you had never apologised or asked my forgiveness. It is my duty as a wife. But I would not have opened my arms to you that day. In the act of loving you, I was forgiving you. Surely you knew that?’

‘Yes,’ he said. There was an acceptance in his tone that reassured her. His arm gained strength, his skin stopped exuding sweat. ‘I made you suffer for fifteen years; you took me back in fifteen counts.’ ‘Fool,’ she said, softly this time. ‘Foolish, foolish Dasaratha. I never let you go in the first place.’ He stared at her, then nodded abruptly, trying to cover his surprise without success. ‘I knew that.’ ‘Then know this too. It may not be as easy to repair all else the way you repaired our bond. It will be very difficult indeed, but it is possible. You can walk the road of light again. The devas have seen fit to let you live. Use the time wisely. Set your affairs right, put your house in order.’ He was silent for a long time. They sat that way, the light from the arched window growing steadily until it seemed the devas were issuing a benediction over her words and his resolve. She said no more. He needed only prompting, not advice. His was the folly of the wise man who had been momentarily blinded by the gaudy brilliance of his own excessive thoughtfulness. It required only a gentle nudge to bring him back to his true path. Finally, he sat up, wincing and squinting. He put his left hand over her two hands and his own, then tightened his grip again and met her eyes squarely. ‘With you by my side, I will not falter now.’ And gently, like the first light falling on the opening blossoms of flowers outside, he kissed her brow, smudging her sindhoor ever so slightly. Outside, the light brightened into the first rosy flush of sunrise.

THREE The deer shuddered in the darkness of the peepal thicket. Vines and creepers swayed in the rising wind, brushing its flanks. It bared its teeth and snapped at them. Its musk, the precious kasturi that mortals sought for its use in the making of perfumes and attars, continued to ooze, filling the forest with the rich, pungent odour of its condition. The tiger was not long in coming. Despite its brush with the strange mortal, it had not lost the scent of the deer. That musky effusion was unmissable even in the midst of the rich scents of the recent rainfall. He found it within moments, skulking around an enormous peepal with vines as wildly profuse as a rishi’s matted locks, and came upon it from behind. The deer was ready. It turned to face the tiger just before he leapt. His eyes narrowed, fixing it in the formidable death-stare that froze virtually any herbivore in its tracks, even frightening the ponderous bigfoot. This was his jungle, and he knew it. The deer ought to have been transfixed, staying motionless as the raja of the jungle leapt upon it, crushing it underfoot and ripping open its vitals, feeding on its steaming innards as life still fluttered within its tremulous breast. Instead, the deer bared its teeth at the tiger and grinned. The tiger froze. The deer clacked its teeth. It was a strange action, unfamiliar to its kind, and the large teeth snapped together with a bone-jarring impact. Those white teeth were meant to tug at leaves and yank at stalks, not rip flesh and crack bone. But there was no mistaking the deer’s message. It was ready to fight. The tiger paused, wondering at the folly of this pathetic herbivore. He had once attacked a doe protecting two young; that one had kicked viciously at his belly, trying to use her hoofs to tear his soft underbody open. He had dodged her with a simple side-step, snatched her by the neck and ripped her head off in one smooth motion. She had died still kicking. What did this foolish musth-deluded creature hope to achieve? A quicker death perhaps? Or a much slower, much more painful one? He was already skittish from the encounter with the mortal. There had been something odd about that young two-legged human. That blue glow in his eyes. That aura of power. He was glad when the ancient one had stopped the fight. Mortals were dangerous beasts, by far the most dangerous of all. He had seen what havoc they could wreak with their fires and sharp slivers carved from tree trunks, and those shining metal claws they used in combat with one another. And the way they slaughtered one another but left the bodies to rot. Killing without feeding. Yes, mortals were dangerous and strange.

But he understood the deer. It was half out of its mind with musth, desperate while in heat. This was probably its first heat, judging from its youthful appearance. Although there was something about its eyes and stance that was odd, almost undeerlike. He dismissed these thoughts with the same careless ease with which he might swat away a swarm of bees. It was food, that was all. And it didn’t know enough to respect the approach of a life-taker. Foolish dumb thing. Soon she would face Yamraj, lord of death, and it would understand everything. By then, it mortal body would be in his eager belly, providing him with days of much-needed nourishment. He sprang. His leap was a short one, barely three yards. Yet he landed not on a bundle of squealing, terror-stricken deer-flesh, but on the forest floor, in a flurry of dust and rotted vines. He swung around, seeking his prey. How could it possibly have moved so fast? He hadn’t taken his eyes off it for even an instant. Where was it? He turned a full circle, coming back to where he’d started, then turned again, unable to understand what had happened. His growls of frustration filled the jungle, sending small creatures skittering away in terror, causing a family of young langurs in the branches above to cling to each other fearfully. He turned a third time, saliva dripping from his open jaws, and glimpsed a flash of movement on the trunk of the large peepal. He crouched, shoulders bunching instinctively. At first he took it for another cat, a panther perhaps. There was a large pack in this part of the jungle, and they preferred to stay in the trees. But it wasn’t a panther. It was the deer. It was on the tree. And it was . . . different. Its rear end and skin colouring were still deer-like, speckled and lightly furred. But its upper half was completely different now, a form he knew all too well. Shaggy fur, an enormous head, bulging eyes with feline slitted pupils so much like his own, a double set of eyelids that shut horizontally as well as vertically, and that mouthful of teeth. What teeth! Even he was impressed by them. Their needle-sharpness and size put even his own magnificent bone-daggers to shame. What couldn’t he do if he had teeth like that! He could tear through the hide of a rhinoceros, those half-blind, short-tempered brutes. Or even bring down a bigfoot. He raised his head, staring appreciatively at the creature that clung to the peepal tree, gazing down at him with a manic feral grin. He was too used to being the predator of this territory, quite unused to being the prey. He was distracted by the peculiar combination of species, neither wholly deer nor wholly rakshasi. That was his mistake.

Supanakha didn’t bother to finish changing completely. Her lower half was still that of a deer, although even as the tiger stared up at her in wonderment, her flanks were widening, bones snapping and crackling as they expanded and changed shape before his amazed eyes. She leapt while her rear limbs were still hoofed. She brought the tiger down before he could brace himself. He lost his balance and tumbled over on the forest floor, snarling in shocked anger at being attacked by a creature he had been stalking just a moment ago. For that brief instant, his belly was exposed to her. She ripped him open from throat to groin, doing to him exactly what he had intended to do to her. His roar of anguish and fury echoed through the jungle. Then she held his flailing paws down, his fast-fading power no match for her rakshasi strength, dipped her head and ate greedily. It had been a long, long time since she had eaten tiger. It was as good as she remembered it.

***

Later, she slaked her thirst at a large, newly formed rain puddle. A nest of new-born cobras seethed and slithered in a rabbit hole nearby, their eggshells still slimy. She put her foot, now fully reformed in its hoary taloned rakshasi bulk, into the nest and watched them lunge instinctively, seeking to stab and inject her with the venom they had yet to develop. She picked them up with the same foot and made them an after-dinner sweet dish. Her cousin arrived without warning. One moment she was licking her lipless mouth, washing the snake ichor and tiger blood from her chin and neck with splashes of water from the puddle, the next moment he was before her, obscuring her entire view. Cousin. She grinned happily up at him. ‘I thought you had forgotten about me. I called upon you last night.’ I thought I made myself clear the last time we spoke. I assumed you were capable of following my orders without needing to be watched over like a child-novice. Obviously I was wrong. Her grin faded. She swiped at her chin, smearing fluids across her chest-fur. She stood, unable as ever to decide which of his many heads to address. Most of them looked angry and grim. Except for a pair on the left side, which looked distracted, as if they were

taking care of other business even while dealing with her. She knew he could be in many places at once, and that just one head was sufficient to control his actions and speech in any one spot. But which one was in charge here and now? It was impossible to tell for sure, because most of the time the central head was the one that spoke directly, although the others all whispered and muttered to each other and to the central one constantly. It was like speaking to a council of ten men who were always bickering, each one of them capable of turning brutally violent at any moment. Tiger got your tongue, Supanakha? ‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean. I did exactly as you asked. I followed the two princes of Ayodhya all the way, watched them invade Bhayanak-van and destroy all our cousins, including Tataka, which was a sight to see, I have to tell you. And I never interfered once! Not once! I did exactly as you told me to, Vijay!’ He swiped at her with almost careless ease. The impact was bone-shattering. She flew across the clearing, smashing against the trunk of a peepal with enough force to crack the two-hundred-year-old tree. She slid to the ground, tumbling on to her belly, dust filling her mouth, mingling with the blood. She spat out three jagged teeth, her jaw feeling as if it was filled with shards of glass. Don’t use that name with me, foolish hag. And don’t play games with me either. You were to observe, not interfere. I thought I made that clear. She cried out through her mouthful of agony, spraying blood and splinters of teeth. ‘But I didn’t interfere!’ A flash of brilliant crimson light exploded in her brain. She cringed, raising her taloned claws before her face. Then, slowly, she lowered her paws, taking in the changed surroundings. He had transported her to the spot of the ambush. Where she had intercepted and killed the Kshatriyas last night. The stench of death was still thick in the air, mingling with the scents of the recent rainfall. Her bellyful of tiger flesh threatened to expel itself. Her entire body screamed with fear. A horde of crows and vultures rose squawking and screeching into the air, startled by the sudden appearance of the two rakshasas. Ravana’s ten heads turned and scanned the underbrush. Above him, the sky was a light greyish blue shot through with streaks of saffron and vermilion from the rising sun. He walked over to the foot of a huge boulder, the very boulder on which she had waited before the ambush, his bulging upper body silhouetted against the brightening sky. He kicked at an object lying on the ground. The object flew across the dusty path on which she now sat and struck her chest. She tried to catch it but it slipped and fell, bouncing on the ground, mud adhering to its sticky wounds. It was a severed human head, the eyes badly gouged by the birds. It still

wore a battered helmet with the lightning-shaped sigil of the Vajra Kshatriyas.

FOUR Has your memory been refreshed sufficiently? Or do you need a few more taps on your skull to get it fully functional? ‘Master,’ she said, scrambling to her feet, keeping her eyes down and her head obsequiously low. ‘I saw this group of Kshatriyas leaving the main party back at the ashram. They were clearly on their way back to Ayodhya. I was afraid they would bring reinforcements. I thought it was important to kill them and prevent word of the princes and the seer reaching Ayodhya.’ Supanakha, the last time we spoke, in the groves of Anangaashram, I distinctly recall telling you to only observe the princes and the mage, not interfere with them. Don’t you consider killing a dozen men to be a violation of that order? ‘I meant you no disrespect,’ she cried, pleading now. ‘I thought you would be pleased. I called upon you all last night. I had a plan.’ The only plan is the one I made for the invasion of the mortal realms. I’m not interested in your puerile plots or your feeble excuses. You disappoint me greatly, cousin. What am I to do with you now? She fell to her knees, then stretched out fully on the ground, her hands extended towards his cloven leather strapped lower limbs, prostrating herself in the most abject of postures. It was something she had never done before in all her five hundred years. ‘My Lord, great one, ruler of all the three worlds and supreme commander of heaven, earth and hell! I beg your forgiveness. I will do any penance you prescribe. Don’t kill me. Please. I am a good fighter. I will be of use to you in your war against the mortals. I beseech you, let me live and repair the damage I have done.’ She kept her head down for what seemed like an eternity, the gritty rain-dampened mud of the path coating her muzzle and filling her battered mouth. Blood and spittle oozed from her injured jaw to the ground in a steady drip. She waited, expecting at any moment to feel his powerful cloven foot stamping down on her neck, snapping her spine and crushing her to death. When his voice spoke within her mind, it sounded almost amused. It was not the reaction she had expected. Yes, that’s quite true. You do deserve to suffer for your misdemeanour. Disobedience cannot go unpunished in a martial race. It breeds insolence. But I might be able to turn your stupidity into something less damaging to our cause. Perhaps even to our advantage.

She waited, not daring to breathe, let alone speak. Rise, cousin. She did so slowly, shivering with fear and shock. She still didn’t believe he was going to let her live. He was smiling. At least, the central head was smiling. A few of the others were engaged in other matters, but two of them, one on either side, were clearly sharing in the central head’s pleasure. Your foolish impulsiveness has inadvertently provided an opportunity to play another deception on our mortal opponents. He gestured at a corpse that lay beneath a bush nearby. The body rose stiffly up into the air as if hauled upright by invisible wires. Supanakha recognised it as the corpse of the leader of the Vajra Kshatriya party. A man who wore the sigil and helm of the great grey wolf as his chosen totem. The order of Bheriya. Ravana gestured, one of his heads mouthing mantras she could barely hear for all the cross-talk buzzing between the others. With the startling abruptness of great sorcery, the corpse came to life. The soldier who had once been a Bheriya opened his eyes. He looked at his resurrector, then at Supanakha. He did not seem alarmed at the sight of the two rakshasas, or at the unmistakable and terrifying fact that he was facing the king of asuras himself, Ravana, the Lord of Lanka. In fact, Supanakha noted through her mingled emotions and mangled thoughts, the mortal seemed oddly emotionless. She was familiar with this phenomenon. It was an unavoidable consequence of reanimation. You could restore a body to life, but something remained absent. The mortals called it aatma, the share of Brahman that was allotted to each living being at the moment of birth. Not that she believed in such mortal superstition. But the Kshatriya seemed alive in every way except that which mattered most. Yes, he will do quite well for our purpose. Now, pay heed, cousin. You have used up the last of my patience. I will tolerate no further lapses. Am I clear? ‘My Lord,’ she replied, trembling. ‘If I fail you once more, I shall take my own life.’ He laughed. Death would be a small price to pay for failing me. You well know that there are fools imprisoned in the lowest level of Narak who offended me in some trival way a thousand years ago. Go down and take a look at them sometime, then you might begin to understand the true consequences of failing me.

She shuddered. Her cousin’s appetite for inflicting pain was infinite. It was for good reason that the devas, outraged at his capacity for ingenious brutality, had erased his given name from memory and renamed him Ravana, He Who Makes The Universe Scream. This mortal shall continue to Ayodhya. I have repaired his body but left a few wounds to substantiate his story of being attacked en route. He will return to Dasratha and relate the message that I am putting into his mind now. As you know, twice-lifers can be very good slaves. He will do my bidding without hesitation, and no matter what he’s called upon to do, he will have no fear for his own life and limb. After all, he is already dead! The demon lord’s laughter filled the air. Supanakha’s face twitched; she was unsure whether to smile in acknowledgement of her cousin’s humour, or to remain impassive. She chose the latter. It was best not to show any emotion before the Lord of Lanka. One never knew what might anger him. But she couldn’t help offering a small comment, speaking as meekly as she could manage. ‘A brilliant plan, Lanka-naresh. But might the Ayodhyans not recognise him as a twicelifer? After all, the seermage they call Guru Vashishta is no less a master of the art of Brahman. Won’t he be able to see that this man is nothing more than a walking corpse?’ His smile disappeared. Do you take me for a fool such as yourself? Just a moment ago, when we were in the jungle behind Siddh-ashrama, within half a mile’s reach of Vishwamitra and his two new chhelas, would he not have sensed my presence? Or eight nights ago, when I appeared to you out of a tree in the fruit grove beside Ananga-ashrama, did he sense my presence them? No Brahmin will be able to tell this twice-lifer apart from any other living mortal. He will seem as alive and normal as their own sons! She cringed, bowing her head so low she was bent over double. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I don’t understand. What mantra could achieve such a powerful deception?’ No mantra in living knowledge can do that. Nay, I will infuse him with the one thing that will make him indistinguishable from any living mortal. I shall give him an aatma. Supanakha’s face revealed her surprise. She quickly wiped the expression off. Yes, that’s right, cousin. A soul. It is something few brahmarishis can achieve. But as you know, my millennia of penance and prayer compelled the devas to grant me great power. Just as the seer-mage Vishwamitra re-animated the boyprince Lakshman and sued the Lord of Death for the return of his aatma, so also shall I give this mortal a soul. The voice turned crafty, revelling in its own brilliance. The faces turned to one another,

leering and grimacing with pleasure and arrogant glee. But it shall not be his own soul. No, cousin. I shall infuse this body with the soul of a man who will be more suited to my plans. A great assassin, as well as a great actor .... But first, I must help you realise the folly of disobedience, my sweet doe. And as she watched in dull, glazed terror, as transfixed as a frozen doe before a pouncing tiger, he unclasped the leather thongs crisscrossing his chest and began to undulate. In pairs, his second set of arms emerged from their binding, just below the first pair and just as muscular and powerful. Then the third pair. Then the fourth. By the time the sixth pair emerged, almost at his waistline, she was beyond fear. All she could do was lie back and await the execution of his punishment. The wilderness echoed with her screams for a long time.

FIVE ‘Brother!’ Lakshman rushed forward to embrace Rama. His brother’s body felt hot and sweaty, as if he had just run a full yojana without pause. Lakshman looked at Rama’s face. He looked no different. The same straight features, the classically handsome Suryavansha profile, hair as dark as a raven’s wing, coal-black eyes, smouldering as if capable of bursting into flame at any moment, neither too widely set nor too closely, focussed as if gazing at a point a thousand yards distant. It was their father who’d once said that Rama had the look of a perpetual archer: always focussed on the eye of a target that only he could see. ‘Brother?’ Lakshman said again, questioning this time. ‘Are you all right? I woke to find you gone. Where were you all morning?’ Rama’s hand gripped Lakshman’s shoulder. Lakshman felt as though a python had coiled itself around his bicep, squeezing tightly enough to make his every nerve scream yet barely aware of its own strength. ‘I’m all right, Luck,’ Rama said softly. He released Lakshman’s shoulder gently. Lakshman stepped back. He glanced at the brahmarishi, who was watching them both intently, his narrow eyes slitted with concentration. In the growing morning light, Vishwamitra’s uncut white hair, bushy brows and long beard glowed with dazzling brightness, each strand illuminated by the slanting first rays of the rising sun. Set against that stark backdrop of whiteness, the seer’s eyes seemed as closely and deeply set as the eyes of the tiger as they gleamed from within the shadows of the peepal boughs. Vishwamitra came forward, stopping a few yards from Rama and Lakshman. ‘Rajkumar Rama,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Where do you appear from so unexpectedly, clothed in effulgence like the ancestor and founder of your dynasty, Surya-deva himself?’ ‘Pranaam, Guru-dev,’ Rama said, folding his hands in a namaskar. Lakshman couldn’t help noticing that while Rama’s voice and gesture were respectful, there was something in his manner that made him seem different somehow. Almost verging on insolence. But that was unthinkable. Anyone else, perhaps. Despite the pride with which all Aryas regarded the guru-shishya tradition, it wasn’t unheard of to have a rare disagreement or two. But to think of Rama as being part of such a disagreement? Acting insolent to a guru? Impossible! Yet there was something in the seer’s tone as well. A coolness that was unlike the warm affection Vishwamitra had displayed these past few days. Especially since yesterday, after

the successful completion of the yagna, the brahmarishi had been almost paternal in his manner towards both of them. Certainly he’d never spoken as brusquely to Rama as he did now. ‘A good shishya would greet his guru before venturing on any other task, young Rama. Surely Guru Vashishta schooled you in this primary fact of the guru-shishya relationship?’ Rama bowed his head cursorily, enough to satisfy protocol, yet too little to suggest genuine humility. ‘Maha-dev, the first thing I have done today is greet you. Pray, grant me the gift of your ashirwaad that I may see this day through by the grace of your divine blessings.’ ‘My blessings are ever yours, young prince. For you earn them by your deeds and words, not by simply calling yourself my pupil. But why do you deign to ask for my ashirwaad now? Did you not think to ask me earlier when you ventured alone into the solitude of the dense Vatsa woods at an hour well before dawn? Had I not expressly forbidden both of you from leaving the boundaries of Siddh-ashrama without my permission?’ Lakshman glanced at the brahmarishi, startled. He had assumed that the seer was as unaware of Rama’s whereabouts as he had been. He berated himself silently; he should have known better. Of course the brahmarishi knew where Rama was all along. Why else were seers called seers? Rama kept his head lowered slightly, his tone immaculately polite. ‘Guru-dev, as you possess perfect awareness of most things that occur on this mortal realm, so also you must know that I did not leave of my own volition. I was called away by a power so great that I had no choice but to go where it took me.’ ‘Rama, oh Rama,’ said the seer sadly. ‘Do not speak so naïvely. I have already spent many words praising your remarkable maturity and inborn wisdom. Son of Kausalya, you know as well as I that even the most powerful force on earth can only command us. It is up to us to choose whether to obey that command or not. Even the great wheel of time that turns the universe itself does not deprive us of free will. We each have the power to choose everything we do or say. You went because you chose to go. Is it not so?’ ‘Yes,’ Rama said. ‘But maha-dev—’ ‘Enough!’ The seer raised his hand, showing Rama his outstretched palm in the formal gesture of conclusion. ‘I will not stand here and debate issues that even a first-year shishya at any ashram knows fully well. My duties demand I return to Siddh-ashrama. Today, we proceed northwards to Mithila, thence to the snowbound slopes of mighty Himavat, where I shall resume my bhor tapasya. If you and your brother still serve me, you will prepare to depart for Mithila the moment your morning ablutions are done. I shall be in my hut until then.’ And with those words, the brahmarishi turned and walked away, striding swiftly back towards the ashram compound.

***

Vajra Captain Bejoo was praying when he heard his name being called. He paused in the act of touching the idol, the tips of his fingers reaching out to the small oblong-shaped black rock which represented his patron deity Shani. It was the last stage of the daily prayer ritual he had followed every day of his life since attaining manhood. He had poured the customary offering of mustard oil over the rock, sprinkled freshly plucked spring flowers and placed a garland of herb leaves around the deity. All that remained was to break the coconut. Before the ritual he had picked a desiccated coconut from the mound that lay at the temple threshold, and stripped away the tough strands of fibre, exposing the kernel. Now, he had only to smash the kernel on the granite floor of the temple while reciting the Shani mantra, thereby sanctifying the coconut. Then he could partake of the coconut milk and the thick flesh which would have become sacred food blessed by the deva. By drinking the milk and eating the flesh, Bejoo would have partaken of the god’s essence, gaining not just his blessing but also his strength and courage in battle. Shani, whom the Greek envoys to the Arya nations called Saturn, was the patron deity of charioteers. And for Bejoo, captain of a Vajra unit built chiefly on the swift striking ability of chariots, it was unthinkable to start a day without completing this simple but vital ritual. He had performed it on battlefields far from home, with malarial fever searing his brain, with the cries of his wounded and dying men filling the forest for miles around, with the screams and shrieks of charging asuras ringing in his ears, through the worst of times and the best of times. He would not miss it today, not for some foolish soldier who didn’t know well enough to wait until his commander was done with his morning prayers. What could be so urgent anyway? They were in Siddhashrama, the most peaceful sanctuary in all the seven Arya nations, under the protection of the seer-mage Vishwamitra. There was no general alarm, no other indication that they were under attack or in any kind of danger. So why was this fool persisting in calling out Bejoo’s name when he could see he was in the temple? As if on cue, the voice rang out again, much closer this time. ‘Bejoo,’ the man said. ‘Captain, you must listen to me.’ Bejoo resisted the urge to tell the man to go drown himself in the nearest well. It wouldn’t do to lose his famously short temper when saying his prayers. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the annoying voice, and raised the coconut kernel above his head.

‘Bejoo, it’s Bheriya. In the name of our friendship, I beg you, listen to me.’ Bejoo lowered his hands slowly. He placed the coconut on the mandap before the deity. Prostrating himself once again, he touched his forehead to the edge of the mandap then rose to his feet, keeping his hands joined and his eyes shut, and slowly backed away. When he was at least three yards away, he allowed himself to turn. His hand reached out and struck the temple bell with an instinct born of sheer habit, even though he hadn’t actually finished his ritual. He came down the steps of the Shani temple and looked around. There was nobody in sight. ‘Bheriya?’ he called out, puzzled and irritated now. ‘Where in the three worlds are you, man?’ There was no reply. He frowned, on the verge of losing his temper. Why the devil had Bheriya come back here anyway? He should have been in Ayodhya by now, Bejoo’s message duly delivered to Maharaja Dasaratha, and then, if he had no other duties, he should have gone home to his new bride, trying to make little Bheriyas to carry his name! ‘Bejoo, listen to me.’ Bejoo swung around. The Shani temple was a small one, located in a thicket of neem and other assorted herb trees. It was where the rishis of the ashram grew the medicinal herbs and conducted their Ayurvedic research into new cures for various ailments. It was here that they grew the world-famous herbs that were said to cure the diabetic condition, among other miraculous natural herbal cures. Bejoo was alone here this morning; all the other residents of the ashram were busy packing their wagons in preparation for the journey to Mithila. Even his own men were engaged in their morning exercises, on his own orders. He scanned the neat rows of neem trees stretching away in all directions for several hundred yards, but couldn’t see hide nor hair of any living soul. ‘What are you up to, Bheriya? Playing hide-and-seek with me? We’re too old for games. Show yourself, man.’ ‘Bejoo.’ The voice came from behind him this time. Bejoo swung around, startled. He stared into the shadowy recesses of the stone temple. How could Bheriya have got past him and into the temple? This was the only way in, and the steps on which he stood were barely a yard wide. Even the wind-god Vayu couldn’t have got past Bejoo without his sensing it. ‘Bejoo, please. Time is short. Don’t worry that you can’t see me. Just listen. I have something very important to tell you.’ Bejoo ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Baldness was a bane of his family’s male lineage. He was comparatively lucky. His father and grandfather had been bald as marble statues by the time they hit thirty. He still had some of his hair intact. He felt the hackles on the back of his neck prickle as he looked warily around the deserted Shani temple.

‘Bheriya, I don’t know what you’re up to, but this is no time or place to be playing childish pranks.’ ‘Bejoo! In the name of Shani-deva, heed my words. The Lord of Lanka has stolen my body and infused it with another man’s aatma. The Bheriya that is making his way to Ayodhya even as we speak is not me. He is a twice-lifer serving the king of asuras. His mission is to spread false information at the court of Maharaja Dasaratha and distract the maharaja and his generals from the coming invasion.’ Bejoo reached for his sword, then remembered belatedly that he never wore it to temple. He cursed himself for not keeping it by the temple steps. Living at Siddh-ashrama for eight days had made him soft. ‘Bheriya, I still don’t understand how you’re perpetuating this foolhardy prank. But Holi is over, and the time for spring-day jokes is past. Show yourself now, son, and let’s not have this kind of crazy talk.’ The temple bells rang. Bejoo started, almost losing his footing and tumbling backwards down the narrow steps. Recovering, he caught the crumbling wall and stared up at the two pillars at the top of the stairs. Several bells of different sizes and heights hung between them. All the bells were ringing before his very eyes, their loud brassy peals deafeningly loud. He could actually see them slowing down then swinging out abruptly, just as if someone were ringing each of them one by one, reaching the end of the row, then starting over with the first one again. But there was nobody standing beneath the bells! Bejoo raced up the steps. He never paused to think that any force that could ring temple bells without visible physical means might also be capable of doing him bodily harm. He was a Vajra Kshatriya. It was his job to make forays into the heart of enemy territory and probe the enemy’s weaknesses and strengths. Suffering bodily harm was a part of his job description. He reached the top of the steps in a fraction of a second. He now stood directly below the swinging bells. He reached up, moving his hands this way, then that, feeling for strings or any other means of trickery. But the air around the bells was empty. They were suspended from an iron rod fixed between the pillars, not fixed in the ceiling itself, which precluded the possibility of hidden devices. In any case, he doubted very much that the rishis of Siddh-ashrama would rig their Shani temple with cheap conjuror’s devices. And yet the bells rang on. Bejoo sank to his knees. He turned his gaze to the mandap at the far end of the temple, folding his hands and invoking his patron deity’s name again. ‘Om Shani Namah,’ he said. ‘Protect and preserve us, my lord.’ The bells stopped pealing. When the voice spoke again it seemed to come from right

beside Bejoo. ‘Have no fear, Bejoo. I am in the spirit world now, but I am still Bheriya. I would never do anything to cause you harm. I have come only to help you.’ Bejoo reached out and touched the empty space where the voice seemed to be coming from. His fingers met only air. He hesitated, taking the final leap of faith that was needed for him to accept the fact that he was speaking to a ghost. ‘If you’re in the spirit world, Bheriya, then that would mean that you’re . . . ‘ ‘Dead. Yes, Bejoo. We were ambushed last night, at the foot of the South Cliff. It was a rakshasi, a very powerful one. She tore into us like a whirlwind.’ Bejoo nodded. He was accustomed to news of sudden death. Although hearing of Bheriya’s unexpected demise was more than a little unsettling for reasons beyond professional regret, he kept his reaction to himself. He would deal with that later. ‘And what you just told me, about Ravana using your body to infiltrate Ayodhya . . . ‘ He paused. ‘What did you say exactly?’ He hadn’t paid much attention the first time around. Now, his head throbbed with concentration as he tried to catch every syllable spoken by the disembodied aatma of his erstwhile lieutenant. Bheriya said slowly, ‘My re-animated body is possessed by a malevolent aatma who does Ravana’s bidding. He is on his way to Ayodhya right now, carrying false information designed to distract our king and his generals and point them away from the real threat that approaches.’ ‘And this threat is . . . ?’ ‘A full-scale asura invasion.’ Bejoo swallowed. ‘If what you say is true, then I should ride back to Ayodhya at once, intercept this imposter and warn our king and the army in time to prepare for the invasion. That is why you . . . ‘ He searched for the appropriate word. Knowing how best to address spirits was not part of his martial experience. ‘Why you returned,’ he said at last. ‘You wished to warn me to take action to prevent this from happening. Isn’t it? Bheriya?’ But there was no reply. Just the stony silence of the temple and the usual early-morning sounds of birds and insects in the grove outside. And the faint whistling of wind through a crack in the temple wall somewhere. Bejoo rose slowly to his feet. ‘Bheriya?’ He walked around the temple, calling out his former lieutenant’s name several times. He felt foolish. Had he imagined the whole thing? Had he finally grown senile,

succumbed to his old war injuries? The only sound he heard in response was the faint whistling of wind. He stopped dead in his tracks. Wind? There was no wind here. It was as still as a becalmed warship in a dead strait. He sought out the sound of the whistling. It was coming from the deity of Shani itself. Bejoo swallowed nervously as he folded his hands once more and knelt before the deva’s symbolic stone effigy. As he bowed his head, he could hear the faint disembodied voice coming from somewhere in the region of the idol. It sounded like words called out down a long narrow underground passage. ‘ . . . no time . . . return to the afterworld now . . . speak . . . again . . . later.’ ‘Bheriya? If what you say is true then I must leave for Ayodhya at once. This is more important than my mission to protect the rajkumars, isn’t it?’ He immediatedly felt foolish. Although he had accepted the unlikely premise that he was in communication with Bheriya’s ghost, surely he was expecting too much in asking questions of the spirit. ‘Do you agree, Bheriya? Is there anything else I should know before leaving for Ayodhya?’ There was a long silence, during which Bhejoo felt progressively more uneasy and foolish as he waited with his head bowed, listening carefully. ‘Bheriya?’ After what seemed like several more minutes, he was on the verge of giving up and leaving the temple to start preparations for the trip to Ayodhya. But just at the instant when he was about to rise to his feet again, the voice returned, fainter than ever and obviously fading. ‘Bejoo . . . don’t go . . . Ayodhya . . . Rama and Lakshman in danger . . . accompany them . . . Mithila.’ Bejoo waited, not daring to speak lest he miss any part of Bheriya’s message. Finally, he heard three words, spoken a little louder than the preceding ones, punctuated at the end by a long, painful sigh, like a man drawing his last breath, then the temple fell silent. Bejoo raised his head, his eyes meeting the black stone representing Shani. The deva’s effigy glistened, flower petals sticking randomly to the surface of the smoothly carved stone, the three thick horizontal saffron lines on the forehead of the effigy slightly blurred by the daily pouring of oil by devotees. He looked at the coconut kernel that he had yet to break. He should complete the ritual and consume the sacred food, sharing it with his men to ensure a safe and successful

journey today. But somehow, his heart was no longer in the ritual. A cold sense of foreboding had begun to spread through his being, chilling him to his core. Bheriya’s message rang in his ears like the echoes of the now-silent temple bells. A twicelifer possessed by a malevolent soul was on his way to Ayodhya, carrying deceit that could disarm Ayodhya’s defence against an imminent invasion. Bejoo couldn’t understand how a solitary man–let alone a walking corpse–could achieve such an ambitious task, but he knew better than to underestimate the power of the Lord of Lanka. His job was not to analyse the situation, simply to report. Which he felt he must do at once, before any damage was done. Ride back to Ayodhya like the wind, speak his message into the king’s ear discreetly, trust that Maharaja Dasaratha would believe his story of messages from a ghost and walking-dead imposters. Expose and dispatch the twice-lifer quickly and help the kingdom concentrate on its real challenge–preparing for the impending invasion. Just that last thought chilled him further: an all-out asura invasion on the Arya nations? It was true then, what the seermage Vishwamitra had spoken of back in the sabha hall of Ayodhya just nine days ago. Ravana’s army was ready to invade. When? Within days? Weeks? Months? Bheriya hadn’t said, but Bejoo had the impression it would be soon. Perhaps a day or two, at most a week. So his path of action seemed quite logical and clear. Return to Ayodhya. Expose the imposter. Help prepare the kingdom for the coming invasion. But Bheriya’s last words had been equally clear. The aatma of his former lieutenant–the man he had come to think of as a surrogate son, the son Bejoo had never had but had yearned for all his life–had not advised him to do any of these things. On the contrary, the ghost had clearly said he must not return to Ayodhya. Bheriya had warned of danger to the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, whose protection was Bejoo’s sworn duty until their safe return home. And at the very end, the words that Bheriya had managed to convey through the idol of Shani-deva itself–another portentous omen, if Bejoo needed one–were the cause of his current confusion and deep unease. Bheriya’s last words had been: ‘Go to Mithila.’

SIX Manthara allowed herself a tiny flicker of amusement. She waved the trident over the images flickering in the unholy fire, the blood-encrusted tines blackening in the flames. The image of Kausalya and Dasaratha embracing in the maharaja’s sick-chamber wavered then blurred to obscurity. Manthara closed the spell of maya, the mesmerising art of illusion, with an invocation to her master. Once again, she thanked the Lord of Lanka’s immense mastery of Brahman that had cloaked her furtive activities from even the consciousness of the powerful Guru Vashishta. She knew that the ancient seer sensed the use of Brahman in the vicinity–no mantra could mask that–but he was unable to pinpoint Manthara as the source of the flow. Nor was he even suspicious of the ageing deformed wet nurse. Which was because Manthara wasn’t the source–she was merely the channel the Dark Lord used to achieve his ends. Manthara mused on what she had just seen. It made her want to vomit. Kausalya thought she could rouse Dasaratha out of his stupor and talk him into performing miracles overnight. Her faith in him had even convinced the maharaja that it was possible. But both of them were about to be thrown off their cloudy perch and brought crashing down to earthy reality again. It was time to start the final act of this drama. And this time, she, Manthara, would be the heroine of her own epic poem. Not relegated to the sidelines as a mere bit player in the chorus, or typecast as a villainous shrew on account of her birth deformity and misshapen form. No. In the playhouse of the lord of Lanka, maya was supreme. You could be anything you chose to be. Even a deva, if it pleased you. For what was a deva, she mused, if not the highest caste of all, a caste of proto-Brahmins who had arrogantly granted themselves supreme elevation above all others? Yes, she could be a deva if she pleased. Manthara rose with difficulty and went to the far wall of the secret room. A mantra muttered, a quick gesture, and the wall melted away to provide a portal through which she passed. She had no need to bend over to pass through–her hunchback gave her a natural stoop, compelling her to go through life in a perpetual posture of apparent servitude. It had been the source of great humiliation in her childhood; now, it was the mark that proclaimed her uniqueness among a race of tall, sculpted Arya women.

Ravana had brought this to her attention at the outset of their relationship, when she had only just begun to worship the dark asura lord in a desperate adolescent search for a deity that could hear her angry, fervent pleas for justice and reparation. Manthara, he had said to her that fateful day, your body is stooped because your mind towers above all others. The devas feared that if they let your physical body reflect the stature of your mind and soul, you would overshadow all other Arya women. Out of jealousy, the devi recast you in this form, bending your spine in the womb of your mother. Yes, my lord, she said silently as she emerged into her own private chambers, sealing the portal to the secret chamber. She passed out of the traditional pooja room which she maintained for the sake of appearances and into her bedchamber. You spoke truly. And now the time approaches for me to seek redressal for my unfair treatment at the hands of the devas. Soon I will have power enough to bend the spines of all these wretched Aryas who walk so proudly tall and straight; bend them . . . and break them. The serving girl started as Manthara emerged from the bedchamber. ‘Mistress!’ she said, dropping the gold drinking vessel she was holding. Manthara cursed and gestured. The vessel froze in mid-air. She gestured again and it rose up and hovered inches before the astonished serving girl. ‘You were stealing from me,’ Manthara said. The girl stared at the drinking vessel suspended in midair, her fingers instinctively clasped together in a namaskar to the gods. She swallowed, terror making her voice tremble. ‘No, milady! I was only admiring the craftsmanship.’ The gold vessel leaped forward, striking the girl on the forehead with a dull ringing. She gasped and fell back several steps. The vessel followed her, hovering overhead like a cobra stalking its prey. ‘Forgive me, mistress! Yes, I did have impure thoughts! But I would have resisted them. I would never actually steal from you. Forgive me, my lady!’ Manthara gestured impatiently. The drinking vessel flew back to the nightstand beside her bed and came to rest there, making only the tiniest click as it came into contact with solid wood. She shuffled forward, her uneven legs–one was longer than the other–giving her a lurching gait that still made children laugh and sneer when she went by, and struck the serving girl hard on her cheek. The girl cried out and fell to her knees, fat tears pushing their way out of her large green eyes and spilling down the front of her blouseless garment, rolling down the swelling curves of her bare breasts. She clutched Manthara’s feet, kissing them fervently. ‘I beg you, mistress, do not kill me. I will serve you in any way you desire. Please, only let me live!’ ‘Get up, harlot,’ Manthara said quietly. She was perfectly calm. The slap had been only routine discipline. It would not do to let the girl think she could steal from Manthara.

Already, she knew more than Manthara would have liked. It was only the special warding mantra that ensured her silence about the dark, unlawful deeds she had witnessed over the years that kept her alive. The day she crossed the line, she would become just another pile of solid fuel for Manthara’s fire ritual in the secret chamber. Until then, Manthara had use for her. Especially today. The girl rose to her feet, blubbering foolishly. Manthara slapped her again, not hard, just enough to make her stop crying and pay attention. ‘Stand straight, don’t slouch,’ Manthara barked. ‘What are you? Hunchbacked? Stand like an Arya!’ The serving girl looked dumbfounded at this unexpected criticism, coming from the most severely deformed hunchback in Ayodhya. She stood straight, thrusting her exquisitely formed bust forward. Her pallo had slipped off, leaving her naked from the neck down to her abdomen. Manthara poked at her firm belly, then at her ripe high breasts with intense scrutiny. The girl visibly resisted the urge to giggle, tickled by the prodding and pressing. When Manthara’s claw-like fingers brushed her nipples, she stopped giggling and sighed instead. The aureoles turned rosy pink and the nipples swelled to their fullest. ‘Mistress,’ she whispered. ‘Do you wish me to please you? I have much experience in the art of love, and am proficient in loving both men and women. If you wish, I could—’ ‘I wish you to stand still and shut your maggoty mouth,’ Manthara snapped. She walked around the girl, continuing her examination with almost clinical detachment. She grimaced at the girl’s offer; how could humans take pleasure from rubbing sweaty bodies against one another, and the violent exchange of bodily fluids? It was a notion repellent to Manthara, and a mystery that she had always found inscrutable. She told the girl to strip. Wide-eyed and flushed now, the girl did as she was ordered. Manthara finished her examination and nodded to the girl. ‘Be very still now. Whatever happens, you must not move or speak a word until I command it. Understood?’ The girl nodded vigorously, eager to please. Manthara began the incantation. The words came easily, passing through her like water through a sieve. The Lord of Lanka had infused her brain with the mantras at their last communion, along with the details of the action he wished her to take. All Manthara had to do now was let the mantras speak themselves. When she had finished, several moments later, the serving girl was gone. In her place stood the living effigy of Second Queen Kaikeyi.

Manthara stood the girl before a full-length mirror and showed her her new form. The girl gasped in Kaikeyi’s husky tones, touching her naked body in disbelief. She was fleshier now, as befitted a woman who had borne a son and packed a lifetime of carousing and gluttony into the last fifteen self-indulgent years. ‘Mistress,’ she said in awed amazement. ‘Your power is boundless!’ ‘Shut up,’ Manthara said absently. She was deciding which garment the girl should wear in her new avatar. If she was to appear to be Rani Kaikeyi, she must wear Kaikeyi’s jewellery and saris. Kaikeyi had her own individually designed saris, gold-inlaid and embroidered so heavily as to weigh more than entire jewellery sets worn by the other titled queens. The girl must wear one of those trademark saris or the guise would be incomplete. And jewellery. Nobody could mistake the jangle of Kaikeyi stalking the corridors and hallways of the palace. Kaikeyi appearing in public without her trademark five or ten kilos of solid gold jewellery would be as noticeable as a plucked peacock. ‘Come with me,’ she said, going to the door. The serving girl hesitated at the doorway of Manthara’s chambers. ‘Mistress?’ Manthara looked back, frowning impatiently. ‘Come on! I haven’t got all day!’ ‘But I’m not clothed! The guards . . . ‘ ‘The guards have seen more happenings on a feast night in these corridors than you’ve dreamed of in your wretched lifetime. Come on, now. We have to go to Rani Kaikeyi’s palace to get you dressed.’ The girl stared stupidly through Kaikeyi’s light brown eyes. ‘But what about Rani Kaikeyi? Won’t she object? And what will she say when she sees me like this?’ Manthara cursed the girl’s parentage, her clan, and her ancestors back to the beginning of time. ‘Rani Kaikeyi is asleep. She has slept eight days and nights and will sleep eight more days and nights if it so pleases me. What did you think? That I would have two Rani Kaikeyis running around the palace? Do you take me for a fool? Enough talk now, you stupid she-goat. Come on!’ The girl went, still blushing furiously as they walked down the winding corridors. Once they were actually underway, however, she began to change her tune, relishing the amused— and amazed—glances and stares from the guards, other serving girls, daiimaas, and other palace staff that they passed en route. The realisation that they were seeing not her, an ordinary serving girl, but Rani Kaikeyi, Second Queen of Ayodhya, gave her a new boldness. She began to strut and roll her hips, deliberately flaunting her nakedness, brushing against the guards, showing off her fleshy nudity. Manthara gritted her teeth and let the girl have her foolish thrills; she didn’t want to

attract further attention by seeming to chastise her mistress publicly. At best, the bemused spectators would assume that the Second Queen had been consuming more soma than she could hold, and was in an unusually carefree mood because of the maharaja’s recovery. News of this last event had already spread through the entire palace, she knew, in the time it had taken her to recast the serving girl in Kaikeyi’s physical form. The crowds waiting eagerly outside the palace gates for word of their king’s condition— some camped for the past eight nights—were cheering hoarsely and asking for their liege to show himself on one of the balconies facing Raghuvamsha Avenue so they could worship their godlike ruler and praise the devas for aiding his recovery. In the flurry of excitement, the brief naked walk of the girl disguised as Kaikeyi would hardly be noticed. The serving girl had already gone far ahead, her absorption in her newfound role making her forget that the hunchbacked daiimaa she served was physically impaired and unable to walk as fast. Manthara wasn’t bothered. She was used to falling behind. She used the time to daydream of the sweet revenge she would wreak on the House of Suryavansha this day and the next. Already, she knew, the armies of Ravana had begun landing on the western shores of the subcontinent. As the Arya nations went about their foolish rituals and so-called civilised activities, the greatest host of asuras ever assembled was swarming across the land. That was one bit of news these sickeningly self-righteous Ayodhyans had no clue of; and by the time they learned it, it would be much too late to defend themselves. And in the event that they would still seek to defend and put up a futile resistance—for the Aryas were proud to the point of death—the Lord of Lanka had planned a careful strategy to sabotage their defences and disable their armies. The plan Manthara was now executing was a part of that larger plan of sabotage. And this time she would not fail in her given task. Too much was at stake for her. She shuffled down the corridor, her stunted torso and twisted gait turning the simple act of walking into an awkward, angry series of contortions. Her bent shadow was magnified a dozenfold by the early-morning sunlight streaming in through the corridor windows. Her crooked shadow loomed across an old portrait of Maharaja Dasaratha, painted back when he was a young warrior-prince, casting a pall across his handsome features.

SEVEN Lakshman turned to Rama. ‘Brother, what happened? Where did you go at night? Why did you speak thus to the brahmarishi? He took grave offence at your tone and your argument.’ Rama’s face was expressionless, his tone quiet. ‘I meant no offence. He would have been angered no matter what I said or did.’ Lakshman shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand.’ Rama put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Come, let us finish our acamana first. Then we shall go to Guru-dev together. All will become clear to you then.’ Lakshman’s mind was filled with a dozen questions. But he knew better than to press the point. In any case, it was already growing late, the rising sun filling the grove with warm sunlight. Soon the appropriate time for performing their morning rituals would pass. He followed Rama without question or argument. There was no river near Siddh-ashrama. Instead, a large catchment pond on the eastern side served the needs of the ashramites. The elder rishis had finished their ablutions earlier but a steady flow of young acolytes came and went as Rama and Lakshman performed their morning prayers, offering thanks to their ancestor Surya for his lifegiving sunshine, reciting the maha-mantra Gayatri, along with other rituals. When they were done, their faces and bodies cleansed, they took a little sacred food as nourishment—papaya from the same grove, served on large velvet-soft banana leaves. As soon as courtesy permitted, Rama and Lakshman rose from their places, thanking the Brahmins politely, and headed for the brahmarishi’s hut. Everywhere, white-clad brahmacharyas, saffron-clad rishis and red-ochre-clad maharishis were busy preparing for the northward journey, yoking bullocks to carts, tying their meagre belongings into small bundles. There was very little chaos or noise. Everyone greeted Rama and Lakshman warmly and with great respect. The role of the two princes in the successful completion of the yagna had earned them the undying love and gratitude of the entire hermitage. As they neared the brahmarishi’s hut, Lakshman heard a loud voice calling Rama’s name. He turned and saw Vajra Captain Bejoo coming towards them, his stocky, muscular, leather-clad form a stark contrast to the billowing dhotis and ang-vastras of the Brahmins. Rama waited with evident impatience as the Kshatriya commander approached. ‘Rajkumars,’ Bejoo said, saluting them. ‘I have something very disturbing to tell you. We must speak privately at once.’

‘Privately?’ Rama asked. He gestured at the ashram. ‘We have no secrets here, Bejoochacha.’ Bejoo rubbed his bristling chin uncertainly. ‘Even so, it would give me some satisfaction if we could discuss my . . . ah, news . . . in not so public a place.’ ‘I think I know what your news is,’ Rama said quietly. Bejoo stared at him. ‘Mayhap so, Rajkumar Rama. But it is not the news alone, but also the manner in which it was conveyed to me that is most disturbing. You recall my lieutenant Bheriya, whom I dispatched—’ ‘Bejoo,’ said Rama. ‘It doesn’t matter how you learned about it, what matters is that you were informed of the invasion too. You wish to tell us that the Lord of Lanka has landed his armies on the shores of the subcontinent and they are already swarming across the land, headed for the Arya nations, is that not so?’ Bejoo’s ruddy complexion paled by at least two shades, a difficult task since the Vajra Kshatriya’s florid face was sunburned from constant exposure almost to the point of charcoal duskiness. He swore on his patron deity Shani and spat to one side, an act that drew disapproving frowns from passing brahmacharyas. After Brahmanical study and Vedic learning, the only other preoccupation of the ashramites was the cleanliness of their sanctified environs. ‘My prince, I don’t know how you are aware of this news, or when you came by it—’ ‘Only a little while ago, Captain,’ Rama said quickly. ‘Well, then if you know about the invasion, you also know the urgency of the situation. If our sources of information are correct, then the invaders will be at the gates of Ayodhya within two days. Why, by tomorrow past-noon itself they might enter the outer limits of the Kosala nation and wreak their havoc on our fellow citizens! We must act at once! We must inform Ayodhya.’ ‘Captain,’ Rama said calmly. ‘I know the urgency of the situation. That is why I am about to ask Brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s permission to return to Ayodhya at once. If you will wait but a few more moments, Lakshman and I shall gain our guru’s ashirwaad and join you on the road home.’ Bejoo grimaced. ‘With all due respect to the brahmarishi, rajkumar, your first duty is as a son of Kosala and a prince of Ayodhya. I have some measure of Brahmins and their love for pontification. Why wait precious moments debating the spiritual facets of the crisis? Let us go now. I have already given word to my Vajra that we shall ride at once. Shani willing, we can be at Ayodhya before sunfall. Any delay could cost precious lives.’ Rama’s voice was firm. ‘My first duty is to fulfil my dharma, Captain. And dharma decrees that our oath to the

brahmarishi supercede all other concerns. We cannot leave without our guru’s blessings. Have patience for a few more moments.’ Without waiting for Bejoo’s response, Rama nodded to the Vajra captain and walked the last few dozen yards to the brahmarishi’s hut. Lakshman, who had held his silence until now, followed him and caught hold of his arm. ‘An asura invasion? When did this happen, brother? Why didn’t you tell me?’ An odd look came over Rama’s face. It was the same expression Lakshman had seen on the evening after the Bhayanak-van battle, when he had tried to learn what had happened after he had been knocked unconscious. The question that had provoked the response then had been Lakshman’s puzzled demand as to how he could have been knocked senseless during the battle without sustaining a single visible injury. Rama’s face had looked exactly like this then. ‘You were about to find out in another moment, Lakshman. This is the same matter that we were on our way to discuss with the brahmarishi. The fact that Bejoo learned about it somehow as well doesn’t change anything.’ Lakshman searched Rama’s face closely, trying to hold back his own surge of anger. ‘Is that what you learned during your trip to the jungle last night? You heard somehow of this invasion?’ Rama’s face closed over, growing expressionless once more. ‘Among other things.’ He put his hands on Lakshman’s shoulders and squeezed hard. ‘Let us go to the seer now. Bejoo was right about one thing, time is precious.’ Lakshman nodded. ‘Let’s go.’ Bejoo watched the princes walk away. He had to exert a great deal of effort to stop himself yelling out, roaring with fury. Kshatriyas were not renowned for their selfcontrol; some sub-castes firmly believed that too much self-restraint bred weakness. The only thing that held him back was the knowledge that causing a commotion would only delay things further, by drawing the attention of the brahmarishi, who disapproved of vulgar Kshatriya outbursts. Bejoo’s men and Bejoo himself had not taken a drop of soma or sniffed a whiff of ganja in the eight long days they had been stationed with the rajkumars and their new guru. In this place of Brahmins, Kshatriyas were the subordinate caste, disobeying the ashram’s austere rules at the price of their own moksh. As far as Bejoo was concerned, even moksh could go take a long walk off a tall cliff. What good was salvation when demon hordes were invading your motherland? He wanted nothing more than to climb on to his horse and ride back to Kosala this very minute, stopping only when he reached the capital city, Ayodhya. If he had harboured any doubts after the encounter with Bheriya’s aatma in the Shani temple, they were dispelled now. His supernatural encounter could conceivably have been some kind of asura trickery—although he didn’t think so—but if Rama had learned the same news, then it was indisputable. The invasion that the Arya nations had feared had begun.

The fact that twenty-two years had elapsed since the last asura intrusion made it that much harder to face. It was a little more than one generation since Aryas had begun to sleep soundly of nights, believing that the asura menace had been contained finally in that terrible last campaign. Even the PFs, the regiments who were the last survivors of those terrible assaults, believed that the asuras were still mulling over their ignominious losses in their island-fortress of Lanka, as their Dark Lord fumed and seethed with impotent rage. But now, it seemed, exactly the opposite was true: the asuras had been rebuilding their armies, and building ships all this while. And now, those ships and those armies were on Arya land. There was no time to waste touching the feet of Brahmins; it was time to raise one’s head, wield a sword and shout an impassioned invocation to the gods of war. Bejoo’s mission was to accompany the rajkumars and bring them home safely. Prime Minister Sumantra himself had issued that order, acting on the wishes of Maharaja Dasaratha. If not for that given directive, Bejoo would already be on his way back to Ayodhya, riding like Marut, the wind-deva. Instead, he had to stand around here and wait ‘a few more moments’. And as he knew from long experience with Brahmins, a few more moments never turned out to mean just that. Still, he smothered his impotent impatience and waited sullenly for his wards to complete their business. As he waited, he clenched and unclenched his ham-sized fists angrily, a short, dark man with a barrel chest, and a face that lived up to the name of his totem, the black bear. Brahmacharyas scurried around him, careful to avoid touching his leather garb and polluting themselves spiritually. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra stood on the small patch of grass-strewn ground before his hut, dispensing a few last sandeshes to the senior-most maharishis and rishis of the hermitage concerning the trip to Mithila. As Rama and Lakshman waited silently for the seer to finish, Vishwamitra repeated their planned schedule for the benefit of his rishis—the intention was to reach the River Shona by nightfall and camp there for the night, in the morning to proceed to the sacred mother-river Ganga, perform the customary rituals there, then continue to Mithila. It was possible they would reach Mithila by next nightfall, tomorrow evening. If not, then the following day. As always, the brahmarishi would go on foot along with his new acolytes, leading the procession. Lakshman felt a brief twinge of guilt as he heard their names mentioned, knowing now that Rama and he wished to go their separate way to Ayodhya. But he could hardly interrupt and correct the brahmarishi. The sage discussed a few more minor matters with his rishis, then the entire congregation chanted in unison, ‘Sadhu, sadhu,’ with palms joined and held high above their heads, retreating backwards to avoid showing their backs to their guru. A few of the more senior rishis remained, waiting until their spiritual leader was ready to begin the long journey. Vishwamitra saw the rajkumars and smiled, beckoning them forward. They performed

the ritual obeisance as he blessed them warmly. Lakshman noted that the seer’s spate of barely concealed hostility seemed to have dissipated. Then again, perhaps he had misread the sage’s earlier state of mind. ‘Long life, Rajkumar Rama, Rajkumar Lakshman. May your every deed be siddh from this day on, for you have served Siddhashrama nobly, risking your very lives and limbs these past eight days. Truly, you have brought great honour to your family and your dynasty.’ The rishis chanted again, ‘Sadhu, sadhu.’ ‘Guru-dev,’ Rama said after he had regained his feet. ‘I pray that you are content with our service.’ ‘You know it well, young Rama. I am more than content, I am proud of the choice I made. I could have approached any maharaja of the seven nations, asking him for his champion to rid the Bhayanak-van of the menace of Tataka and safeguard my yagna. Yet I knew that you alone, Rama Chandra, were destined for that noble task. As were you, Lakshmana, destined to accompany your brother on his great mission. I am vindicated in my choice.’ ‘Then, Guru-dev,’ Rama said respectfully, ‘I have a boon to ask of you.’ Vishwamitra stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Speak it then, rajkumar. All that you ask shall be granted to you today. You have earned the right to demand any boon of me. If it is within my power to dispense, you shall have your heart’s desire.’ ‘Maha-dev,’ Rama said, ‘grant my brother and me leave to return home to Ayodhya.’ The brahmarishi replied without hesitation. ‘Rama, you do not need my leave to return home. Ayodhya is where you must go. You are to be crowned king-in-waiting in a few days. Your people need you to be there at that auspicious occasion, to take the reins of statehood from your illustrious father and continue the glorious lineage of your Suryavansha ancestors. Dharma demands that you must be there in time for that auspicious occasion.’ Lakshman’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be this easy? Were they to be allowed to leave without any debate or discussion? Surely it wasn’t possible? Let it be so, he prayed. Rama seemed to be as stunned as Lakshman at the guru’s quick acquiescence. ‘Then I shall take your leave, maha-dev. My brother and I shall return to Ayodhya at once, to take up arms and defend our nation against the oncoming asura assault that threatens our civilisation. With your ashirwaad, brahmarishi, we shall return to fight for our lives and our homeland. Pray, grant us your divine blessing.’ Vishwamitra smiled, his lined face still wreathed in a gentle expression. ‘You shall have my ashirwaad, Rama. And you shall have much else besides. But first, stay and hear my words. I know of the vision you have been given in the dark hours of this morning. I feel

your eagerness to return home to do your duty to your family and your nation. If that is your wish, I will not stop you. You are free to go as you please. But you must know one thing before you go.’ And the brahmarishi paused and leaned forward, directing the full force of his intense ice-blue gaze upon Rama. ‘If you go back to Ayodhya, you will be doing exactly what the Lord of Lanka wishes of you.’

EIGHT It took Rama only a second to find his voice, yet it seemed as though aeons passed in that second. The morning sunlight, so comforting on his bare shoulders, suddenly lost its warmth. The air, balmy on this early spring day, began to feel cold, tinged with the frosty bite of the distant Himalayas. Insects that had shurred busily and birds that had chirped melodiously all seemed to fall silent. The very ether that he occupied seemed to want to push him out of existence, to fill the space his being occupied. ‘Maha-dev,’ he said, his voice unexpectedly steady despite the turmoil he felt within himself. ‘I do not fathom your meaning. How could my returning to Ayodhya possibly please Ravana?’ Vishwamitra nodded sagely. ‘It would and it must. You see, Rama, this is a test by the devas. They are subtly coercing you to return to Ayodhya. To do the logical thing. Protect your family, your home, your kingdom.’ Rama stared blankly at the seer. It was as if the brahmarishi was speaking some foreign language. He could hear the seer, understand his every word, but he could not fathom the meaning behind the literal meaning of what he was saying. ‘But, maha-dev, what other choice do I have?’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Unless you mean to say that there is no invasion? That I was misinformed?’ Vishwamitra shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, no. Your visitation this morning was no trick. Nor was your nightmare vision, young Lakshman. Nor the occult encounter our Vajra Captain Bejoo had a little while ago. The forces of Lanka have indeed landed on the shores of this great subcontinent, and even as we speak they are swarming across the desolate deserts of Kutchha. Before this day has ended, they will reach the first true major settlements of the Arya nations and begin wreaking a terrible vengeance.’ ‘Then what else can I possibly do?’ Rama asked. ‘How can I not return home to protect my home and my loved ones?’ The sage sighed. He spread his hands. Vishwamitra was a large-boned, handsomely proportioned man, his every limb shaped as perfectly as a well-designed weapon of war. His palms were flat and deeply scored with more lines than Rama had seen on any person before. He raised one hand, then the other, holding them at chest level, like scales of an invisible balance. ‘That is one choice, certainly, Rama. The natural choice. The one which the devas expect you to make. That is why you were given the gift of that divine visitation this morning. That privilege is granted to but a few fortunate mortals and almost as few immortals. Do you see my point? You were being subtly influenced in favour of this choice. The

nightmare vision of your brother Lakshman ensured that he would not argue against your decision, as indeed he will not. And the further sandesh from your Vajra captain, whose lifelong scepticism of all things supernatural was so miraculously overcome in a single encounter with a disembodied voice, cemented the decision. See for yourself then. Forces around you are pressing you to make this one choice and one choice alone.’ The brahmarishi let his right hand fall significantly, as if a five-kilo weight had been dropped on that side of the balance. ‘On this other side is your second choice. There are no divine visions certifying this one, no Vajra captains trying to underline its importance; indeed, there is no influence bearing upon you to choose this path at all. You may almost ask the question, “Why this?” And you would be perfectly justified in asking it.’ ‘But maha-dev,’ Lakshman asked, ‘what is the second choice? We already know the first choice is to return home to Ayodhya. What would be our alternative?’ ‘Well asked, young Lakshman. After all, though I address my words to your brother Rama, you are as much a part of his karma at this moment. The second choice of which I speak is simply the path you were to take originally.’ And the brahmarishi let his left hand drop, but only slightly, as if a mere kilo weight had been put there, not nearly enough to outweigh the five kilos on the right side. ‘To travel to Mithila?’ Rama asked slowly, looking baffled. ‘To attend the swayamvara and marriage you spoke of yesterday? But . . . what would be the point?’ The seer-mage smiled. ‘Now, Rama, you ask the real question. Not what the other choice is, but why?’ The word hung between them like a bee hovering in mid-air, droning. Why? The brahmarishi dropped his hands and said simply, ‘Because I have asked you to come.’ There was complete silence for several instants. Rama could hear the stubborn lowing of a bullock at the far end of the ashram, a good hundred yards away, and the muted grunts and coaxing of the young brahmacharyas struggling to move the difficult animal. From the sound, he could even recognise the bullock; it was a surly beast, given to moods and fits. But the chanting of the Gayatri mantra in its right ear would get it moving again. In the brief silence that followed, he guessed that one of the cleverer acolytes must be doing just that. After an instant, he heard the bullock snorting appreciatively and then the jangling of its bells as it began heaving the laden cart up the path again. ‘Maha-dev,’ Rama said softly, ‘you said earlier that we are free to return to Ayodhya. You agree that the defence of our homes and loved ones is of paramount importance. Then what possible purpose could we serve by travelling in another direction altogether, into the heart of the Videha kingdom, to the capital city Mithila, fifty yojanas away from our home and duty?’

Vishwamitra raised his hands in a shrug. ‘What purpose did you serve by leaving your homes and loved ones in the first place and travelling with me into the heart of the Bhayanak-van? What purpose did you serve by risking your lives by facing Tataka and her bestial brood? What purpose did you serve by fighting Mareech and Subahu and ensuring the sanctity of my yagna?’ ‘That was our dharma, Guru-dev,’ Rama said. ‘You came to our father’s palace and demanded as dakshina that we accompany you. All of Ayodhya agreed that it was our dharma to do so.’ The seer-mage nodded slowly, looking at Rama. The weight of years seemed to press down heavily on his lined features, as if a great burden of sadness had descended upon him all at once. ‘And it is your dharma to accompany me now to Mithila.’ Rama blinked several times. He felt as though the question that had hung between them like a bee had darted forward and stung him between the eyes. He felt the pain of the answer to that question piercing his brain now, sending a wave of agony through his entire being. ‘Maha-dev,’ he said, ‘you know we live to serve you. Until you release us of our oath, we are your shishyas. If you insist we accompany you to Mithila, we have no power to resist you. We will obey without question. But pray, grant me the answer to one why. Why is it so important that we come with you to Mithila?’ Vishwamitra looked up for a moment. The vivid blue of the sky cancelled out the blueness of his own eyes, just as fragments of ice floating in the clear cold waters of the Sarayu became invisible. Rama was seized by an almost painful conviction that he would never see the Sarayu again, that his beloved river, his beloved home, were all floating away downstream like those fragments of winter ice, far out of his futile mortal reach. ‘Rama, that question can only be answered by coming to Mithila.’ The seer put out a hand, touching Rama’s shoulder gently. ‘And now it is time for us to depart on our long journey. I shall leave you for a few moments as I assemble my acolytes for one final prayer. You may use these moments to arrive at your final decision. Remember that I do not bind you to this choice: dharma binds you. You are free to return to Ayodhya at any moment you desire, just as you were free to refuse to accompany me into the Bhayanak-van eight mornings ago. The choice is now in your hands. Choose which route you will.’ Bejoo saw the brahmarishi coming around the hut, accompanied by an entourage of white-haired, white-bearded rishis. He pointedly pretended to be looking the other way until the Brahmins had gone by, neither wishing to give offence by ignoring the ritual greeting nor keen to indulge in formalities he had always considered a waste of time and energy. They passed by several yards from him, engaged in discussing something amongst themselves. He waited until they had gone, then strode quickly around the periphery of the hut. He saw the rajkumars standing below the banyan tree before the brahmarishi’s

hut, looking as if they had both been struck by lightning. Bejoo’s stomach cramped suddenly, only partly because he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, and he had a sinking feeling that his worst fears were about to be realised. ‘Rajkumar?’ he said, coming up to Rama. ‘If your leave-taking is finished, we should mount and ride at once. Ayodhya is a long way yet, and the asura hordes will not halt to ask their guru for ashirwaad.’ Rama’s face was a portrait of inscrutability. He looked like a man who had just seen the future and recognised it for what it truly was: a battlefield across which one had to fight one’s way one precious yard at a time. It took Bejoo a moment to realise that whatever the brahmarishi had just said, it had had a profound effect on the prince. Gone was the boy who had left Ayodhya a mere eight days ago; in his place was the man he was destined to become, a man soon to become king, and on whom the heavy weight of kingship appeared to have fallen already. ‘Rajkumar?’ Bejoo repeated gruffly, trying to find a balance between his natural rough vulgarity and a more suitable tone. ‘What is it? What did the Brahmin say to make you look thus?’ Lakshman answered. His own face was as grim and forlorn as Rama’s, but the delicacy of Rani Sumitra’s features lent softness to the younger prince’s expression. Bejoo saw that in his own way, he was as devastated as Rama. But while Rama’s emotions were as inscrutable as craggy, granite-faced Mount Himavat during a winter icestorm, Lakshman’s feelings showed as lucidly as the mirrored surface of a lotus pond. ‘Guru-dev says we are free to return to Ayodhya any time, but it is our dharma to go with him to Mithila.’ Bejoo paused for two beats of his heart, absorbing the words, making certain he had not missed any hidden meaning. These Brahmins were so maddeningly fond of their open and hidden meanings that one never knew for sure whether the words being said were the real message or simply the paan-leaf in which it was concealed. Layers within layers, wrapped in coded symbols to which only they held the mysterious key. But he could find no ambiguity in this sandesh; its meaning seemed to be entirely straightforward. He grinned, relieved. ‘Is that all? So go get your rigs and swords and let us ride to Ayodhya!’ Rama walked away, going to the banyan tree. This tree was the mother-tree of all the others in the environs of the ashram, a massive creation over three hundred and forty years of age. Its roots had long since begun to push their way out of the earth, wrestling with one another for space in the crumbling topsoil. Gnarled clumps of root had broken free in places, like the hirsute toes of a giant rishi who had stood three centuries on one foot in meditation. Rama put a foot on a knot of roots and stared towards the east, where the rising sun had begun to reveal itself through the densely growing firs on the eastern hills. Patterned sunlight lit up his profile. He seemed oblivious to the conversation, buried like the banyan in timeless contemplation.

Lakshman answered for both of them. ‘Bejoo-chacha, Captain. You don’t understand. We must do as the guru desires. It is our dharma to follow him to the ends of the earth if he so commands.’ Bejoo stared at Lakshman in disbelief. This was exactly what he had always warned his young recruits about. Prayer and rituals were all very well, but if you came too close to Brahmins, they sucked your very manhood out of you, leaving you a shell good enough only for wearing whitecloth and chanting mantras all day and night long. ‘What do you mean, dharma?’ he said now. ‘It’s your dharma to protect your home, isn’t it? What about that dharma then?’ Lakshman put a hand to his forehead, rubbing the skin between his eyes slowly, as if trying to wipe away some invisible blemish. ‘Bejoo, you don’t understand. We are oathsworn to serve Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. To disobey his desires would be to dishonour the code of the Kshatriyas and disgrace the name of Ayodhya itself.’ Bejoo snorted. ‘Horseshit and cowdung! An Arya’s duty– Shani mind me–any mortal’s duty is first to protect his family and home. Even Lawmaker Manu never said to put Brahmins before family. They are our conduits to Swargalok, I don’t deny that. But what good is heaven if we can’t defend earth? Dharma cannot demand that you sacrifice your heritage and blood-links to follow a Brahmin. Besides, what Brahmin, what guru, would demand such a sacrifice? You completed your given mission, you rid the Bhayanak-van of the asura scourge. That feat will be retold millennia hence. What more could anyone ask of two young princes, two young sons?’ Bejoo reached out a hand, clutching Lakshman’s arm. He directed his words to Rama’s profile as well. ‘Argue no more. I am not a man of words, rajkumars. I was raised on simple precepts. To love, to protect, to procreate. If a Kshatriya cannot perform these simple duties, then what else matters? Come with me, young sons of Ayodhya. Come with me and defend your homes before it is too late!’ Silence met his words. Lakshman continued rubbing the spot between his eyes. When he took his hand away, Bejoo saw that the spot had turned red and raw, like a tilak applied after a pooja. The younger prince’s eyes were misted by pain and confusion. They met Bejoo’s gaze then turned away, unable to answer the plea in his eyes. Lakshman spoke to Rama, his voice rich with emotion. ‘Rama, my brother. I leave our fate in your hands. I know that what Brahmarishi says is beyond questioning. It is his right to demand that we serve him until he feels the gurudakshina is fully paid. Until he releases us from our oaths, we have no independent volition. It is our dharma to follow him where he wills. But listen to what Bejoo-chacha says as well. He speaks simple, honest sense. What good is dharma if we do not defend our homes? What use is a code that demands the sacrifice of all we hold dear? If the Lord of Lanka overruns our city and our kingdom, to what will we return to proclaim the fulfilment of our oaths? Who will praise our dutiful obedience of the brahmarishi’s wishes? Will anyone be left alive to celebrate our triumphs and our deeds?’ Lakshman paused to wipe a single tear from his right eye. ‘I do not tell you what we must

do. I only ask that you consider both sides of the argument. That you choose. Whatever you choose for yourself, I shall follow that path as well. For I am linked to you as closely as breath to air. Where you go, there shall I go as well. If it is our dharma to follow the brahmarishi, it is my brotherly love that makes me follow you. Choose wisely, Rama, for on your choice will hinge the most fateful decision of our lives.’

NINE First Queen Kausalya greeted Guru Vashishta with a sincere namaskar, joining her palms together and bowing her bindidotted forehead dutifully. The seer-mage acknowledged her gesture of respect with an upraised palm, the customary response of a venerated Brahmin. The guru was alone in his private yoga chamber in the maharaja’s palace. There were chambers such as this one set aside in every apartment in the vast palaces of Ayodhya, to allow each member of the royal family his or her own space to meditate in tranquil solitude, but the guru’s yoga chamber was unique because it wasn’t merely a room in his apartment, it was his apartment. The guru’s real home was a modest hut in his ashram in the forest north of Ayodhya, where he schooled the sons and daughters of Arya in all the science and arts of Vedic knowledge. When in the capital city, he was mostly occupied with the numerous matters of state and policy on which the maharaja and the rajya sabha of the kingdom of Kosala consulted him routinely. His rare private hours were spent in this chamber, engaged in profound meditation. He was seated in the lotus position, feet crossed over his thighs, hands outstretched, wrists resting lightly on his knees, right hand clutching a prayer-bead necklace, his fingers continuing to count off the red beads as he mentally recited the sacred mantras even as he addressed the queen. His eyes were half closed in that unmistakable look that signified a deep meditative trance. The sage’s long, bony limbs and leanness of flesh were proud emblems of the gruelling penance that had earned him his stature as a brahmarishi, highest of all Brahmins. The hard lines of his beard-enshrouded face conveyed the immense spiritual power the guru had acquired from his millennia of transcendental devotional meditation. Kausalya meditated too, so she knew how hard it was to achieve that level of transcendence. She couldn’t begin to fathom how the sage could maintain it while carrying on a conversation with her. Yet she could see him managing both these disparate tasks with the ease of a Mithila bowman firing arrows while astride a charging stallion. Her admiration almost made her forget the purpose of her visit. Almost, but not quite: her news was much too thrilling to forget. ‘Guru-dev,’ she said, ‘I am pleased to bring you good news. Maharaja Dasaratha’s health is improved for the first time since his collapse nine days ago. Since last evening, he has begun walking about my chambers and seems to be regaining some of his strength. Perhaps more important than these signs of physical recovery is the fact that he is speaking coherently and intelligently once again. All of us are greatly encouraged by his recovery. I wished to share our joy with you and invite you to visit him in his sickchamber.’

She looked around the bare chamber briefly. ‘I apologise for interrupting your trance. I am aware that you have been meditating for the past eight days and left instructions you were not to be disturbed. But I felt certain you would want to hear this happy news. If I have offended you, please forgive me.’ She pressed her hands together once more. ‘Forgive my lapse, Guru-dev.’ Guru Vashishta’s face creased in an indulgent smile. His eyes focused on her gradually, taking a moment to return to the world of the here and now. ‘Good Kausalya,’ he said warmly, ‘you owe me no apology. It is for your husband’s recovery that I have undertaken this penitential fast and meditation. How could I possibly be disturbed by news that my spiritual efforts have borne such heartening results? May you be blessed with a long and happy marriage for bringing me this joyous communication.’ Kausalya bowed her head at once, touching her forehead to the guru’s folded feet. ‘May your words be heard by mighty Brahma himself.’ Vashishta touched her head and recited a verse from the Upanishads, the great repository of knowledge, wisdom and prayer created and collated by the seven great seermages of whom Vashishta was one; its hallowed contents had taken millennia of tapasya and meditation to create and compile. The sloka was one Kausalya had never heard before. As best as she could tell, it was an invocation to warriors fighting in a just and righteous cause. Not quite the kind of verse she would have expected a seer-mage to speak to a queen-mother, but being Kausalya, she accepted the benediction gratefully, keeping her head bowed, eyes closed and palms together. Vashishta ended with the ritual term signifying the close of any such invocation: ‘Swaha.’ When Kausalya raised her face to the guru, her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I am truly fortunate to have your blessings, great one.’ ‘You are fortunate on account of your own spotless existence, mother of Rama. You have lived your entire life with a nobility truly worthy of your race. Women and men such as you embody the true meaning of the word Arya. Noble One, it means in our beautiful deva-given tongue of Sanskrit, and truly you have lived your life nobly. Even without my blessings, you shall ever be watched over and loved by all the devas, including the great creator Brahma himself. Now, pray tell me, why do you shed these tears? Are they out of joy for your beloved liege’s recovery? Or are they on account of your anxiety for your son Rama?’ Kausalya struggled to regain control of her emotions. She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her pallo. ‘Your wisdom is infinite, Guru-dev. What can I tell you that you do not already know? You have named both the causes of my outpouring of emotion. My heart is as much filled with joy for my husband’s recovery as it is pierced with anxiety for my only child. It has been nine long days, great one. And not a word has reached us yet of the outcome of Rama and Lakshman’s mission. The great Vishwamitra promised he would return with them safe and sound in time for the day of Rama’s coronation as

prince-heir. That happy day is only six days away now. And still there is no news or sign of their return.’ The guru nodded sagely. He stopped counting his beads and wound the necklace around his wrist. ‘And yet six days remain. You need not fear on their account, good Kausalya. I can assure you that your son Rama and Sumitra-putra Lakshman are both safe and well at Brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s Siddhashrama. Well is that sacred sanctuary named, for their mission was siddh.’ ‘They were successful?’ Fresh tears flowed freely down Kausalya’s face. Her finely formed features, still retaining the beauty that had made princes and kings across the nine Arya kingdoms sigh with desire in her youth, grew radiant with happiness. ‘They are alive and well? Neither of them suffered any injury during their terrible mission?’ Guru Vashishta paused a moment before replying. The pause was uncharacteristic of him. The great seer always spoke with the eloquent ease of an actor who had not only mastered his own dialogue but had written his own part. Yet he seemed to search for a phrase before answering Kausalya’s eager questions. ‘They are both well. Your son Rama achieved a great victory over Tataka. And both of them showed great courage and prowess in the battle against the dread demoness’s army of vile offspring. They shall return as champions to Ayodhya in time for the coronation. That auspicious day is also the day of Rama’s naming, his sixteenth navami. And proudly will he stand before his creator and be declared a man not just in age but in achievements.’ Kausalya’s lips parted with amazement as she repeated the guru’s last words. ‘A man. My Rama will return a man.’ ‘And he will be crowned king. This is his destiny and he well deserves it. These things I have seen through the flow of Brahman that pervades the entire universe, by the grace of the devas who have granted me this ability as a boon for my long bhor tapasya.’ Kausalya bowed her head again, preparing to touch her forehead once more to the guru’s feet. But Vashishta stopped her this time; catching her shoulders and raising her upright, he brought her to her feet, rising with her. The seer towered over the First Queen, although, like most Arya Kshatriya women, she was as tall as any average man. ‘Do not thank me, good Kausalya. It is I who should thank you instead. For bearing such a great son, and for raising him so well.’ The guru’s voice softened, his penetrating gaze growing gentler. ‘For too long you have endured the negligence of Dasaratha and the malicious will of Kaikeyi silently. Pay heed to what I say now, Kausalya. For this is the most important advice I shall ever give you in this lifetime.’ Kausalya’s eyes widened. The guru’s word was akin to law. Perhaps because of this, he gave advice so rarely that the court scribes kept detailed records of each of his dispensations in a special bank of scrolls named Vashishta-Puran. It was said that a newly crowned king could find enough

wisdom in that book to see him through fifty reigns. After all, it had been just about that long that Guru Vashishta had been acting as spiritual guide and mentor to the Suryavansha dynasty. Kausalya showed her respect for the guru’s gift of wisdom by wiping her tears quickly and listening raptly. ‘There shall be challenges ahead in the days to come, good Kausalya. Great challenges that shall test your mettle to the limit. I know you will weather these challenges and emerge triumphant. But in the hope that I may lighten your heavy burden somewhat, I offer you this word of gentle direction. Remember that your son Rama Chandra is as much a child of dharma as he is a child of your body. I have been guru to the royal family of the kingdom of Kosala, and its throne here at Ayodhya, for nigh on eight hundred years. Not once in all that time have I seen a prince or princess with as much promise as your son. Truly he is blessed by the devas with great qualities.’ Kausalya’s fair complexion, as white as a lily’s petals, coloured with a blush of pleasure and pride. She touched her mangalsutra instinctively, the black-bead necklace that every legitimate wife wore to indicate her married status to society at large, silently mouthing an invocation to Durga, the avatar of the Mother Goddess Sri to whom she prayed daily for the wellbeing of her family. The guru nodded approvingly and continued. ‘Yet great prowess is tempered with great responsibility. The head that wears a crown must bear its weight as well. Remember this when trying times approach, Kausalya, and you and your son will weather the storm that gathers above Ayodhya.’ Why does he not include Dasaratha? Why does he only mention Rama and me? The thought flashed through her mind as fleetingly as lightning glimpsed in a distant monsoon cloud. Aloud she said, ‘Great One, I do not fathom your meaning. Are you warning me of some danger that will befall us? When will this crisis descend?’ Again, that uncharacteristic trepidation passed over Guru Vashishta’s ancient features. It lasted a fraction of a second but this time Kausalya was watching him closely and she caught the expression. ‘In a kingdom as vast and powerful as this great land, danger is a part of life. Whatever the crisis, rest assured that you and your son will face it and triumph in the end, good Kausalya. Now, I must go to visit the maharaja. I wish to see his face with my own eyes.’ Kausalya hesitated. She wanted to ask the sage many more questions. But she was aware how precious and rare this whole encounter had been. She was too good a person to impose any further on the great guru’s patience. It was Vashishta himself who sensed her hesitation and paused. ‘I see a question lingering in your eyes, good Kausalya. Go ahead then, ask. You have earned that much at least with your diligence and patience.’ She bowed her head gratefully. ‘Guru-dev, some days past, on the night of Rama’s

departure, you called the royal family together in the Seal Room to discuss an urgent matter. All of us were in attendance, apart from Second Queen Kaikeyi, whom you requested be kept apart for reasons best known to you alone.’ His voice was gentle and patient. ‘Indeed, Kausalya. You were present at the meeting. You recall that discussion as well as I do.’ ‘Yes, Guru-dev. But after the meeting you retired to this yoga chamber with instructions you were not to be disturbed. And only today, eight days after that last encounter, do I have the opportunity to be graced with your venerated presence once again.’ She gestured mildly, trying to explain herself more eloquently. ‘What I mean to say, great guru, is that a statement you made at that secret meeting has been troubling me all these past days. Could I ask you what you meant by that statement?’ Vashishta nodded. ‘You may, good queen.’ Kausalya breathed out slowly. ‘Then pray tell me, Gurudev, when you said that the threat to our kingdom would come from Maharaja Dasaratha himself, what did you mean? All of us have debated and sought to understand your meaning, but we are as perplexed today as we were that night. How could Dasaratha, the protector and saviour of the mortal realm and the Arya civilisation, he who risked his own life and immortal aatma by battling the asuras in the Last War, how could he cause any danger to his own beloved kingdom? Or to his own family? Pray tell me, for I cannot believe that my husband can do or say anything that will cause harm to the kingdom of Kosala. You are infinitely wise and omniscient, maha-dev. What was the real meaning of that statement you made?’ Vashishta was silent for a moment. This time, the silence was deliberate and it weighed heavily in the air, giving the guru’s next words greater significance. ‘Karma, my good queen. The only thing that can outweigh the scales of character and bring the noblest of mortals to his knees. If dharma is one side of the scale of a man’s character, then karma is the other side of that same scale. Maharaja Dasaratha need not commit any new deed or speak any new word that will cause harm to his kingdom and family. It is his past misdeeds and misspoken words that threaten us all. In due course, you shall see the truth of my prophecy revealed clearly. I can say no more at this time, for it would endanger the balance of the scales. The wheel of time, the great samay chakra that governs all our lives, gods and mortals and asuras alike, shall reveal all in due course. There is the answer to your question. Now, I take your leave to go visit the king in his sickchamber and hasten his recovery.’ But before the guru could take another step, a serving girl rushed in, agitation writ large on her face. ‘Guru-dev, Maharani, pardon the intrusion. The Maharaja and Third Queen Sumitra . . .’ ‘Yes,’ Kausalya asked curiously. ‘What about them?’ The serving girl wrung her hands in distress, tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘Something . . . something terrible has happened. Please, come quickly.’

TEN The sun was barely over the treetops when they set out for Mithila. Shortly before leaving, the Brahmins of Siddh-ashrama assembled in the open field before the main hermitage. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra led the congregation in a final chanting of mantras, asking the devas to watch over the hermitage, its surrounding forest and flower groves, and the animals that roved freely. Rama saw several species of animals watching from the edge of the woods. The animals of Siddh-ashrama lived without fear of humans; they had never known violence or aggression from their two-legged friends. The seer-mage ended the prayer with a mantra praying for their safe journey and speedy return. The entire congregation prostrated themselves before him, then stood and came forward singly to accept the simple prasadam of desiccated coconut from his blessed hands, bowing their heads for the guru’s ashirwaad. The adoration on the faces of the ashramites was striking; some of them had come to the ashram as infants, brought by their parents to be raised in the holy ancient ways, and had only heard of the great founder of the hermitage. Even the oldest sadhus and rishis had not seen Vishwamitra in the flesh before. After all, Rama recalled, the brahmarishi had been cloistered in a grotto deep in the jungle for over two hundred and forty years, performing the intense transcendental meditation that Brahmins called bhor tapasya. He had only interrupted his long penance in response to the petitions of the rishis of the ashram, who were troubled by the rakshasas who had begun disturbing their holy rituals. And few Brahmins, even those as devout as the residents of Siddh-ashrama, lived anywhere close to Vishwamitra’s five thousand years. Rama himself felt little reaction to any of this. He felt little of anything. After the debate over which choice to make, he had reached a point beyond emotion, a point where he felt he was walking on a road so unfamiliar that he hardly knew whether it led upward or downward, over a bottomless pit or into a vale of flowers. He knew only that he had chosen, and that he must now see that choice through to its end, whatever that end might be. There was a phrase his mother had always used when speaking of life-choices: as you choose, thus must you act. He had chosen. It was no longer his job to judge whether that choice was the right one or the wrong one. His only to act, and fulfil the promise made by his choosing. After the distribution of prasadam, which Rama and Lakshman as well as the Vajra Kshatriyas accepted from the seer-mage, Vishwamitra then led the congregation in a mantra offering thanks to the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman for cleansing the Bhayanak-van, breeding ground for the yaksi Tataka and her demonaic offspring, and protecting their sacred yagna from Tataka’s vengeful sons Mareech and Subahu. ‘It is thanks to the courage and battle prowess of these two noble Kshatriyas that our

great yagna was successful,’ the brahmarishi concluded. ‘They have upheld the code of the Kshatriya and fulfilled the oath they swore unto me before their father. They are true keepers of the sacred flame of dharma. We shall chant their names aloud at sunrise and sunset when we perform our ritual offerings.’ Rama sensed Lakshman’s numbness. His brother had accepted his decision without argument or debate, folding his hands respectfully, as befitted a younger sibling–even though he might be only days younger–and pledging acquiescence. Unlike Bejoo, who had ranted and raved on for several minutes, refusing to accept Rama’s words. Rama turned his head a fraction, and glimpsed Captain Bejoo, watching from the cart path where he stood at the head of his Vajra. The look of open fury on the Vajra captain’s face said all that needed to be said. He would not, indeed could not, hide his feelings. But he was sworn to protect the rajkumars wherever they might go, and to return with them alive, or not return at all. He would do his duty no matter how it rankled. In his own way, he was fulfilling his own dharma as well. The ritual over, the congregation dispersed and moved with an orderliness born of centuries of monastic discipline towards the row of bullock-carts waiting on the dirt track. Rama watched as the Vajra commander mounted his horse and issued a crisp order to his charioteers. The Vajra chariots rode around the line of bullock-carts and Brahmins, disappearing up ahead in a cloud of dust. Having heard Bejoo giving his unit their orders the previous evening, Rama knew that the chariot would scout about a mile ahead, making sure the path was clear of obstacles. The Vajra elephants were the next to receive their marching orders. They trundled forward, trumpeting happily at being on the move again, their armoured saddles polished to a glitter. They would walk at the head of the Brahmin procession, a quarter-to a halfmile before the humans, a formidable defence against any unexpected trouble. If he couldn’t fulfil the latter part of his orders by delivering the rajkumars home swiftly, Bejoo was making sure he fulfilled the first part—to protect them vigilantly. As the elephants trundled by, the ground trembling beneath their tonnage, the lead bull—named Himavat after the tallest peak in the northern range, the father-mountain of the great Himalayas—trumpeted a friendly greeting to Lakshman, whose gift for befriending voiceless beasts had only been enhanced in the benign environs of Siddhashrama. Despite the momentous events that had marked this day already, Rama was compelled to smile at how eagerly the towering bigfoot rolled his trunk upwards into a salute to both of them. The royal elephants of Ayodhya could hardly have mustered a better salute to their maharaja during the annual parade. He nudged Lakshman, admonishing his brother for not responding to the elephant’s innocent greeting. Lakshman glanced up at Rama. Rama met his brother’s eyes and held them firmly with his own strong gaze. ‘As you choose, thus must you act, Lakshman,’ he said quietly, knowing that his brother understood the full implications and meaning of the phrase. ‘Once decided, there is no

place for regret or remorse.’ Lakshman stared at him a moment, as if battling with some great turmoil within himself. Then he nodded briefly, once, turned and waved to the elephant. Himavat trumpeted again, louder than ever, to show his delight. A pair of maharishis standing nearest to the bigfoot covered their ears, blasted into temporary deafness by the volume of the pachyderm’s joy. Himavat’s fellow bigfoot echoed their response. The entire clearing filled with the powerful sounds of their effusion. In the distant depths of the Vatsa woods, their wilder brothers blew their own trumpeting responses. While the elephants moved up to the front, the horse section of the Vajra unit turned around in the opposite direction, riding to the very end of the entourage, where they took up a defensive rearguard position. Now, the procession was ready to set off. Rama noted that it was already two hours since sunrise. They were running a little later than the brahmarishi had desired. A breathless young acolyte, his oiled pigtail bouncing atop his shaven pate, came running up to inform the rajkumars that the seer-mage was awaiting their presence at the head of the procession. Rama and Lakshman acknowledged the acolyte’s message. The young Brahmin-in-training executed a deep bow and a namaskar while retreating backwards to avoid showing them his back. When he was the requisite three yards distant, he turned and sprinted back to join his fellow novices, who were waiting eagerly to ask him about his close personal encounter with the heroes of Bhayanak-van. Rama and Lakshman began walking across the grassy field to the front of the long, winding line of carts and Brahmins. They passed rows of carts filled with white-haired, white-bearded rishis reciting their mantras while counting off the red beads on their prayer necklaces. Younger Brahmins waited on foot, herding the cattle that would provide the only nourishment the Brahmins would partake of during their journey: cow’s milk. The rajkumars passed the line of young acolytes, smiling and waving at their excited admirers. The boy who had brought the message waved familiarly at them, showing off for his associates. ‘He reminds me of Dumma,’ Rama said to Lakshman when they were out of hearing range. Though he avoided staring directly, nevertheless he was watching Lakshman closely. His younger brother had ever been more prone to emotional sensitivity, and Rama was concerned that he might not be able to bear the strain of the crushing burden they had been given. He was relieved when Lakshman managed a reluctant grin. ‘Dumma and his flying fruits!’ Rama smiled as well, remembering the young brahmacharya running after them on the riverbank, tossing fruits to them as they glided downriver on a raft. ‘And his falling dhoti!’ Lakshman laughed involuntarily. ‘You think we’ll see him at Mithila?’

‘We might. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra said that this annual congregation is a big thing. Every Brahmin in both kingdoms should be there. You know how much Chacha Janak loves a good philosophical debate.’ He was referring to the neighbouring kingdoms of Kosala and Videha, of which Ayodhya and Mithila were the capital cities. The Chandravansha dynasty that ruled Videha from the moonwood throne at Mithila was related to the Suryavansha dynasty to which Rama and Lakshman were heirs. Maharaja Janak, king of Videha, was a distant cousin, affectionately referred to as ‘chacha’ by Rama and his brothers, although he wasn’t actually their uncle by blood, only distantly related by marriage through their father. Lakshman said impishly, ‘And you think we’ll see Rajkumari Sita at Mithila too?’ He glanced mischievously at his brother as he said it. ‘Isn’t it Rajkumari Urmila you really want to see?’ Rama said, grinning back goodnaturedly. He and Lakshman had been teasing each other—and their brothers Bharat and Shatrugan—about Sita and her sisters for as long as he could remember. It was inevitable, given that their mothers and daiimaas were always talking about how fitting it would be for the four princes of Ayodhya to wed the four princesses of Mithila when they came of age. It didn’t hurt that Rama and Lakshman both had soft spots for Sita and Urmila respectively. Lakshman spied a flock of birds flying overhead and shielded his eyes from the rising sun as he tried to identify them. ‘Are those gurung?’ he asked. He failed to notice a hummock and stumbled briefly. Rama caught his arm. ‘Don’t fall down and muddy your face, brother. You want to look your best for Urmila, don’t you?’ Lakshman shrugged off Rama’s hand, recovering smoothly. ‘And you’re probably looking forward to continuing your game of hide-and-seek in the armoury with Sita again!’ He was referring to the time when they were seven, just before they had been sent for the traditional seven years of schooling at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul. That had been their last visit to Mithila, and during a game of hide-and-seek, Rama and Sita had vanished. They were found long after the game was over, in the armoury of all places, strictly out of bounds for children and games–sitting crosslegged at the foot of the great Shiva Bow. Sita had a small cut on her shoulder which Rama was dressing with a swatch torn from his ang-vastra. Both refused to explain what had happened and their brothers and sisters had teased them both mercilessly. A week later, after their return to Ayodhya, Rama and his brothers were sent to the gurukul, where they spent the next seven years studying the Vedic sciences and arts. ‘What did actually happen in the armoury that day?’ Lakshman asked Rama now. It was a

question he had asked several times over the years. He had yet to get a satisfactory answer from his brother. Once again, Rama failed to answer. Instead, he smiled mysteriously back at his brother. ‘Maybe you should try asking Sita herself when we meet her,’ he suggested, smiling a challenge. Lakshman grinned back. ‘Maybe I will at that.’ An unspoken message passed between them then. It was a tacit acceptance that they had chosen their path now, and that it would serve no purpose to brood on what might have been and could have been. For better or worse, their feet were set on this road, and they would see it through. ‘As you choose, thus must you act.’ Lakshman held out a hand. Rama took it and gripped it hard, willing the gesture to say all that he could not speak aloud. They walked the last few yards in a warm silence bred by years of brotherhood. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra was waiting for them at the head of the procession. He stood a good half-yard taller than either of the two rajkumars—or any of the rishis and brahmacharyas— and his hand rested lightly on the knotted grip of his wildwood staff. He looked every inch the powerful warrior-king-turnedseer-mage of whom so many bards had composed songs of praise, his leonine features silhouetted against the earlymorning sun, his flowing white hair and beard a proud emblem of his centuries of penance and meditation, while his lean, muscled back and limbs still bore the numerous scars of his former life. ‘Rajkumars, walk with me,’ he said simply. Turning, he raised his staff to catch the attention of his fellow Brahmins. A murmur of excitement rippled down the length of the procession. Vishwamitra faced northwards again and struck his staff on the dust of the cart-path, speaking a brief Upanisad mantra aloud. Rama blinked as blue and gold sparks shot out from the ground where the staff landed. Despite all the amazing things they had witnessed over the past several days, the brahmarishi’s easy mastery of the power of Brahman never ceased to impress him. The sage seemed to be a living reservoir of Brahmanic energy. Vishwamitra began walking forward with long, powerful strides. Rama and Lakshman matched his pace, walking in perfect step a yard behind and slightly to the right of him. Ahead of them, the Vajra elephants trumpeted as their mahouts urged them forward with gentle verbal requests, and the procession began ambling down the cart-track towards Mithila.

ELEVEN Third Queen Sumitra was in the rear hall of the sickchamber when Kaikeyi came to visit the maharaja. Immediately after Kausalya had left them, saying she was going to speak to Guru Vashishta, Dasaratha had turned to Sumitra with a familiar glint in his eyes. For a moment, she had experienced a small frisson of excitement and disbelief. But he was barely recovered from his mysterious ailment, and she had read him wrong, she realised at once. All he wanted was breakfast. She had been pleased—and secretly relieved— and had risen at once to fetch him some fruits. But Dasaratha had caught her slender wrist, her tiny hand almost invisible in his large fist, and caressed her palm affectionately, trying to seduce her into getting him a thali full of hot fried samosas, jalebis and rabadi. She had smiled and pulled her hand away, admonishing him for being naughty. She understood at once why he had said no to Kausalya when the First Queen had offered to peel some fruit before she left to visit the guru. If Dasa had asked Kausalya for a deepfried, sugar-saturated breakfast, she would have shaken her head firmly, and that would have been that. So he had waited till she left, then tried to talk meek and mild Sumitra into giving him what he wanted. His ruse had almost worked. Sumitra had been so tempted to give in to him. After all, here he was feeling well enough to actually demand something to eat. Not simply lying in bed, half delirious with searing fever as he had been for the past week. But she knew she couldn’t do it. The vaids had specifically forbidden fried foods and sweets, and Kausalya, probably anticipating just such a situation, had left her with firm instructions not to give in to the maharaja’s whims. And Sumitra always heeded Kausalya’s words. So she had talked the maharaja out of his craving for his favourite breakfast, and had got him to agree that a bowl of her specially blended fruit punch would be a fine alternative. Dasaratha had been grumpy at first, which was understandable. He had turned away and said that in that case, he would do without breakfast. She sympathised with him. After all, it was less than a day since he had been feeling well enough to sit up, walk about the chamber and feel anything akin to a healthy human craving. And he was a man, nay, a king, accustomed to having his way in all things. Naturally he found it difficult to accept that he couldn’t indulge a simple desire for a little breakfast. But he knew as well as she did that Kausalya and the vaids were right: it was his years of excessive self-indulgence that had eroded his body and quickened the course of the canker eating him up within. And she knew Dasaratha’s weaknesses. On so many previous occasions she had seen how quickly a little breakfast or between-meal snack could grow into a kingly feast. Dasaratha’s penchant for overeating was matched only by his amorous appetites. So

Sumitra had hardened her heart, a difficult task for someone so gentle and caring, and had coaxed him into agreeing to the fruit punch. Which was why she was here now, in the rear of the large bedchamber, preparing the punch. Kausalya had made the maids put in a heavy drape to separate this alcove where herbs, medicines, fruits and other assorted items needed for the king’s treatment were kept handy. This way, she and Sumitra could just step back here and fetch some fruit or grind one of the several powders or pastes that the vaids had prescribed for the maharaja’s treatment. It saved sending maids running in the middle of the night, and enabled Kausalya to mix the potions and medications herself; anyone could mix a batch of jhadibuti, Kausalya had said to Sumitra, but only a loving wife could add a prayer for Dasaratha’s quick recovery. Sumitra agreed wholeheartedly. That was why she had stepped back here to make the punch herself. She could as easily have asked Susama-daiimaa, the palace’s master chef, to prepare it. She was as distraught at the king’s condition as the other citizens of the city, and as eager to serve him—which was precisely why Sumitra preferred to do it herself. Left to Susamadaiimaa, the fruit punch would turn into a harvest bounty! Sumitra finished whipping the mixture of assorted fruit juices, freshly squeezed by her own hands and blended in exact proportions, then added in a treacly mixture of beaten yoghurt and honey before churning the whole concoction in a pot with a wooden ladle. When the mixture was creamy smooth, she pulled out the ladle, touching the tip of her little finger daintily to the dripping end, and tasted it. It was perfect. She smiled with satisfaction, poured the mixture into an earthen bowl, and put it on a wooden tray. She considered adding the usual spices. Dasaratha loved his fruit punch heavily spiced. Then again, he also loved it heavily spiked! She recalled the vaids warning her that excessive spices would do him almost as much harm as soma wine. She sighed wistfully and settled for sprinkling a pinchful of black salt over the top of the concoction. There, now it was fit for a king! She had picked up the tray and was about to return to the main chamber when she heard the sound of tinkling anklets and heavy gold bangles. She paused, her hand holding the edge of the drapes that hid the alcove, her pretty face creased by a frown. No serving girl would wear jewellery in the maharaja’s sick-chamber. Even Kausalya and Sumitra had removed all but the most basic of their ritual ornaments since Dasaratha had taken ill on Holi night. It wasn’t seemly to parade around in full ‘battle armour’, as Kausalya jokingly called it, and besides, it was impractical taking care of a sick man with bracelets jangling and necklaces flashing gaudily. Sumitra could think of only one woman arrogant enough to continue wearing so much jewellery in her sick king’s presence. She listened for a moment, and when a voice spoke, her suspicion was confirmed. Second Queen Kaikeyi’s voice was pitched unusually low, its strident, commanding tone reined in by a veneer of apparent concern. ‘Dasa, my love,’ Sumitra heard her say. ‘I would have come to you before, but I was engaged in a pentitential fast.’

The gruffness in the maharaja’s voice was more eloquent than a glimpse of his face. ‘You look thin. How long have you been fasting?’ Sumitra inclined her head to one side, holding her breath. At this angle she could peek through the tiny gap where the drapes almost met the wall. She saw Kaikeyi, dressed in a rich silk-brocaded sari, her hair freshly washed and left to dry, her face almost completely scrubbed clean of powders and creams. Sumitra blinked in disbelief. Kaikeyi did look a lot thinner. And much better overall. She looks ten years younger! Even fasting for a week can’t make that much of a difference! Kaikeyi sighed. ‘Ever since you took to your sickbed, my beloved, I haven’t touched a morsel.’ Dasaratha sat up. ‘But that’s over eight days, Kaikeyi!’ She pressed her palms to her chest, sliding them slowly down the length of her body, over her hips, right down to the middle of her thighs, moulding the silken folds tightly to her body, demonstrating wordlessly that this was what eight days of fasting had resulted in. Dasaratha’s eyes followed her hands downwards, then he reached out as if to touch her and feel for himself the dramatic change in his second wife’s contours. At the last moment he hesitated and drew his hand back. ‘You must have lost ten kilos! You look twenty years younger, my queen! Not that you looked old or overweight before . . .’ He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘What I mean is, you were always beautiful but now you have a certain glow on your skin that’s almost . . . ethereal.’ Kaikeyi tilted her head, letting her hair fall forward, obscuring the right side of her face, the effect lending her a sensual coyness. Her voice was husky and caressing. ‘Perhaps I should always fast then. That way I would always be beautiful for you.’ He chuckled softly. ‘You wouldn’t last long that way, my love. Surely you must have taken some nourishment this past week?’ He added hastily: ‘I don’t mean to distrust your word, but you seem able to move about quite well despite the lack of food. After eight days, even our palace Brahmins start to faint and keel over!’ ‘I was nourished by my desire to see you well once more. The devas fed me all the spiritual energy I needed. And once I heard that my tapasya had pleased them and my boon had been granted, I came to see with my own eyes.’ Unexpectedly, Kaikeyi’s eyes filled with tears. ‘My lord, you don’t know how I have suffered these past eight days! And now, when I see you well again, looking so much stronger and more vigorous, I am convinced that the devas have truly blessed me. I cried to them daily, if you do not spare my Dasa, then no Arya woman will ever respect the vows of marriage again. They will think that the devas do not heed the pleas of a wife for her ailing husband. Grant me this one boon, spare my Dasa. And every Arya wife will bless her marriage and adore the devas eternally. And today, I see with my own eyes that

my suffering was not in vain. My prayers were answered! You have been returned to me, my love!’ She leaned over him suddenly, her hair falling like a dark shower over his chest and face. Dasaratha jerked back, startled, but there was nowhere to go. His head pressed against the pillows and bolsters on which he had been propped up. Kaikeyi moved her face closer to his, and before Sumitra fully realised what was happening, the Second Queen had grasped the maharaja in her embrace and was showering him with passionate kisses. At first Dasaratha resisted, his body turning stiff with surprise and shock. But as Kaikeyi’s slender and shapely body, barely concealed by the low-slung sari, began to undulate against him, he seemed to melt helplessly. Stop her, Sumitra wanted to yell, tell her to get off you! How can you just let her do that to you after all the things she said and did on Holi day? But the maharaja seemed to have lost all resolve and willpower. The moment the Second Queen embraced him, he turned into a boneless mass. After a moment, Sumitra saw with dismay, he even began to respond to her passion. She distinctly heard the maharaja sigh and arch his body upwards, bending like a longbow to mould himself to Kikeyi’s caresses. That was as much as Sumitra could bear to see. She flung the drapes aside and emerged from the alcove into the chamber, making as much noise as she could muster. She walked around the enormous eight-legged bed and put the tray down on a table. Then she put her hand on her hip and pretended to notice Kaikeyi for the first time. ‘Oh, Kaikeyi, it’s you? I didn’t recognise you at first. Why, you look almost as slim as a serving girl! What have you been surviving on? Wine and song?’ For a moment, there was no response. The two-headed beast on the bed remained as motionless as a sand python coiled around its prey. Then Kaikeyi raised her head and turned to look at Sumitra. The moment her eyes met Sumitra’s, the Third Queen’s bravado and fury took flight like a flock of pigeons startled off a veranda. For a fraction of a second, just one disorienting instant, Sumitra thought she saw the woman straddling her husband as an enormous serpent. Kaikeyi’s eyes flashed with a yellow glow shot through with a deep red sparkle, and her lips parted to reveal the tip of a flickering forked tongue. ‘Ssssssumitra,’ the serpent sang. Sumitra’s eyes widened, her hands flew to her face, smothering a gasp. She took a step back. The back of her knee struck the table, spilling fruit punch on her sari. She hardly noticed. She shut her eyes tight for a moment, then opened them again.

The Second Queen smiled up at her balefully. ‘Sumitra,’ Kaikeyi said softly. ‘So nice to see you again.’ Sumitra raised a hand to her quivering mouth. She was seeing things. Surely the Second Queen’s tongue hadn’t really been forked? And her eyes? That must have been a trick of the light! Kaikeyi went on, unmindful of Sumitra’s lack of response. ‘How is your handsome son Lakshman? Have you heard yet? Such a tragedy to see a beautiful young boy’s life cut short so abruptly. My heart goes out to you.’ Sumitra found her voice. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened to Lakshman? What have you heard?’ Kaikeyi smiled cryptically in response. Sumitra forced herself to stay calm. ‘Dasaratha? My lord? What is she talking about? Have you heard something of Lakshman and Rama?’ But Dasaratha remained silent and motionless, pinned beneath Kaikeyi’s body, his face still obscured by her long flowing tresses. The Second Queen’s hair reached down to her thighs, and even though she had raised her head to speak to Sumitra, it fanned out over the pillow like a black shroud enclosing Dasaratha. Sumitra was struck by a sudden premonition. She wanted to cry out for help to Bharat and Shatrugan, run to Kausalya, Guru Vashishta, Prime Minister Sumantra, the guards, the servants, anybody. She didn’t want to be alone in this bedchamber with Kaikeyi, but she didn’t want to leave Dasaratha alone with her either. Mustering all her courage, she demanded fiercely of Kaikeyi: ‘What have you done to our husband? Get off him! Can’t you see he’s still recovering? This is no way to behave with a sick man!’ The Second Queen opened her mouth and her tongue emerged from between jagged splinter-sharp fangs. The forked purplish-black tongue flashed out half a foot in the air and vibrated, flicking spittle. The sound was exactly like a cobra hissing. Sumitra gasped and took another step back. The table keeled over, the earthen mug of punch smashing noisily on the stone floor. Sticky liquid lapped at her bare feet. Kaikeyi’s serpentine eyes glowed with a deep reptilian lust that was as sexual as it was predatory. She spoke again sibilantly. ‘It was good of you to do your wifely duty and take care of my Dasa for me. But now he’s in my hands again. You should run along and join your sister-queen Kausalya. You might want to buy a few dozen white saris apiece, the both of you. For all you know, you might be in mourning a lot sooner than you realise.’ Kaikeyi turned her head to look at Dasaratha. Then she reached down and picked him up

as easily as a mother raising her child to her breast. Through her frozen shock, Sumitra glimpsed Dasaratha’s face emerge from the curtain of raven-black tresses. His eyes were glazed and empty, like those of a rabbit mesmerised by a snake. He wasn’t aware of anything that was being said or done. Kaikeyi cradled the maharaja’s face between her blouse-encased breasts, her taloned hands stroking him possessively. ‘As for the good king here, I think all he needs to complete his recovery is the attention of a woman who knows how to satisfy his appetites. Fruit punch? I don’t think so, my dear. It’s Kaikeyi flesh he needs now. I have his cure right here and ready.’ And she opened her jaws, revealing two enormous serpentine fangs, each as long as a short dagger. The fangs were ivory white, and glistened in the sunlight streaming in from the windows. As Sumitra watched in horror and disbelief, a viscous white fluid rolled slowly down one fang, formed a drop at the very tip, and then dropped off. It landed on Dasaratha’s crisp white cotton kurta, which Kausalya and Sumitra had helped him don just this morning. The spot where the venom fell turned yellowish at once, sullying the purity of the white cloth. With one final heart-chilling hiss, Kaikeyi raised her head and fell on Dasaratha with the fury of a predator in heat. Her mouth closed over Dasaratha’s neck. Like a lamp blown out abruptly in a gust of wind, Sumitra’s entire field of vision blinked out, and mercifully for her she saw no more.

TWELVE Manthara allowed herself a tiny flicker of amusement as she sat before her chaukat, enjoying the havoc she had wrought. The image of Sumitra fainting on to the floor of the maharaja’s sick-chamber wavered then blurred to obscurity. Everything had gone just as she had planned. Rani Sumitra would awaken in moments to find herself and Dasaratha alone once more in the bedchamber. The maharaja would seem to be unconscious, then found to be comatose. A half-consumed mug of the same fruit punch that lay spilled on the floor - it would be taken from the residue in the pot in the rear room - would be lying by the maharaja’s outstretched hand. Drops of the concoction would be on his lips and chin, and staining his kurta. On closer examination, the punch would be found to be faintly malodorous, redolent of an intoxicating herb sometimes favoured by tantriks to bring long deep sleep followed by startlingly vivid hallucinations. The finely shredded herb closely resembled the expensive spice kesar which was loved by the maharaja but was forbidden by the vaids in his present condition. Everyone would assume that docile, malleable Sumitra had given in to Dasaratha’s coaxing but mistakenly added the drug instead. Sumitra’s head would be cloudy and confused. She would babble incoherently about bizarre images of Kaikeyi visiting the room and turning into a giant serpent. On further investigation, it would be found that Kaikeyi had not left her private chambers for the past eight days. The guards at the entrance to the maharaja’s chambers as well as the guards outside Kaikeyi’s own chambers would confirm this. None of them would even think of mentioning the serving girl, one of several who constantly ran to and fro on various errands, who had entered the maharaja’s sickroom around the time of the incident. Sumitra would be adamant that she had seen Kaikeyi and nobody but Kaikeyi. The blame for accidentally sending the maharaja’s delicate physiology into a toxic coma would fall wholly on Sumitra’s slender shoulders. Meanwhile, the maharaja would sleep on in his drug-induced coma for days. Manthara nodded, satisfied that she had achieved her goal without any risk of detection. She gestured with her trident. The fire died out instantly. She rose slowly to her feet, her hunchback compelling her to lean on the trident for support. She shuffled out of the secret chamber, con-cealing the entrance to the unholy prayer room with a rare mantra taught to her by her mentor. She took a moment to check on Kaikeyi, once her ward and now nominally her mistress

although Manthara’s true master was none but Ravana himself. The Second Queen lay sprawled bonelessly on her bed, looking much as Sumitra had seen her a moment earlier. With one major difference. The Second Queen’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, her gaze turned inwards. That was the result of the drug that Manthara had kept her on these past days. Kaikeyi wasn’t even aware of her addiction or drugged state. She thought she was simply fasting and praying for Dasaratha’s recovery. When the time was right, Manthara would administer a dose of a harsh antidote that would cleanse Kaikeyi’s system of all traces of the drug, and the Second Queen would regain her senses, attributing her fuzzy memory of the past eight days to the unfamiliar rigours of extreme fasting. Manthara left the Second Queen tossing and turning, lost in her hallucinatory world, and returned to her own chambers to find her personal serving girl waiting breathlessly. The effect of the mantra had worn off, leaving the girl with her own form and appearance once more, albeit dressed still in Rani Kaikeyi’s garments and jewels. The girl’s face was flushed and her well-filled blouse heaved as she tried to contain her excitement. ‘I did it, mistress! Everything went just as you said. The maharaja and the Third Queen never recognised me. They believed I was Rani Kaikeyi!’ Manthara spoke coldly. ‘Did you do what I ordered? To the maharaja?’ The serving girl nodded. A blush crept across her pale complexion as she recalled her illicit encounter with her king. ‘I . . . kissed him.’ She covered her mouth with her hand, as if ashamed of what she had done. Manthara wasn’t interested in the girl’s embarrassment. All she was concerned with was whether the drug had been administered to Dasaratha. She had applied a specially prepared lip paint to the girl’s mouth herself before uttering the mantra that would cause Dasaratha to mistake her for Second Queen Kaikeyi and Sumitra to see her as Kaikeyi as well as a giant serpentine version of the Second Queen. All the girl had actually done was kiss the maharaja, passing on the drug. The toxic venom would do the rest, putting him into a deep coma that would resemble the effect of the forbidden herb. The girl herself had already been given an antidote that made her immune to the drug. The girl babbled on about how thrilling her adventure had been and how scared she had been when the Third Queen had come into the room and challenged her. But she had retained her presence of mind and spoken the very words Manthara had made her memorise earlier. She boasted that even performers of the royal Sanskrit Manch could hardly have done better. Manthara cut her off curtly, paid her handsomely for her chore, made her strip off the rani’s clothes and don her own cheap garment, then dismissed her, giving her the rest of the day off. She watched the slender slip of a girl race out excitedly, undoubtedly heading straight for the city bazaar to spend her ill-won reward on some frivolous new vastra that was currently in fashion. Before the day was through, she would probably end up in a tavern room with some muscled lout who would use her, then decamp with most of her rupees; the girl had deplorable judgement in men. Manthara had already forgotten the

serving girl by the time she left the chamber. She wasn’t worried about the wench telling anyone else about these illicit chores she performed for Manthara-daiimaa. A special mantra ensured that if she even tried, she would choke to death on her own tongue. Manthara mused on the next stage of her strategy. There was much work yet to be done. She had no time to gloat on the successful completion of this morning’s mission. The day of her master’s arrival was at hand. She had already received word of the twicelifer he was sending with his false message. The imposter would arrive at any moment, setting another sequence of shrewdly planned events into motion. She marvelled at her lord’s brilliant strategems. Her role in the whole scheme was a small but critical one. It would take great daring to pull it off. She might even run the risk of being exposed at last. And she knew the consequences of that. Ever since the incident with Kala-Nemi and the encounter in the city dungeons, Guru Vashishta was alert as an owl. It would take only one small slip for him to catch her. And once caught, she would be shown no mercy, either by the mortals she had betrayed so treacherously or by the king of asuras, who despised failure. She gathered her resolve, her wizened face crinkling like a crushed parchment. She vowed to herself that she would not fail this time. The Lord of Lanka would find no fault with her efforts on his behalf. She would prove to him once and for all that a single mortal spy in the heart of Ayodhya could accomplish far more than an entire legion of marauding demons. She would wreak havoc in the next few days like a canker in the heart of the mightiest Arya kingdom in existence. And then finally, her lord would grant her the reward he had promised her so long ago. She rubbed her twisted hands together, her arthritic nerves screaming in pain. She grimaced, displaying yellowed and blackened teeth. Soon, she promised herself. Soon she would be rid of this wretched cage of flesh and bone. ‘Ayodhya the Unconquerable?’ she snarled to herself. Soon enough that would change. It would become instead Ayodhya Destroyed.

THIRTEEN Brahmarishi Vishwamitra was in a fine mood this morning. Outwardly, he was the image of stoic concentration, seemingly intent only on maintaining the stiff pace he had set the procession. As his powerful long strides covered the dirt track, even the Brahmins in their carts had to click tongues and coax lazy bullocks and oxen to keep up with the brahmarishi’s rapid progress. Ahead, the Vajra elephants also had to keep up the pace to avoid being overtaken by the seer-mage and his entourage. The mahouts urged their bigfoot on with words of praise and shouts of encouragement. The bigfoot, happy to be mobile after eight days of inactivity, complied enthusiastically, putting their enormous wrinkled heads down and traipsing as smartly as horses on a marching field. Only occasionally did one of them emit a brief bleating call and was allowed by his mahout to swerve off-track for a moment, where he relieved himself quickly and copiously before hurrying to regain his place in the rank. As the sun god Surya climbed the eastern sky in his burnished chariot of gold, the procession wound its way northwards, making excellent time. The brahmarishi had warned them all that he intended to reach Mithila by the next evening, covering the three-day journey in two days. But it was only after a few hours of the rapid pace that everyone realised just how much effort that entailed. They would not stop for the noon meal, instead taking minimal nourishment while on the move, nor would the Brahmins be able to take their habitual two hours of afternoon aaram. There would be no napping or resting on this trip. Still, such was the general air of excitement and anticipation that not a single member of the entourage voiced a word of complaint or protest. Even the young acolytes, some barely seven years of age and not yet sprouting all their permanent teeth, marched along cheerfully, chanting rhymes they had learned at the gurukul, reciting the Sanskrit and Prakrit alphabets, then the ten Vedic numerals, ending with the venerated and mystical Shunya, or zero - that masterful invention of the Vedic mathematician Aryabhatta, who had devised the decimal system of counting now followed universally throughout the Arya nations. The younger ones counted on their fingers as they recited, sticking their thumbs up into the air triumphantly when they yelled out the final ‘Shunya!’ Their gurus smiled proudly at the lisping eagerness of the little shishyas, while chatting quietly about the seminars and debates they would participate in at the annual philosophical convocation in Mithila. A general mood of cheerful anticipation filled the travellers with all the energy they needed to maintain the seer’s yojana-an-hour pace without a grimace of complaint. But the brahmarishi paid little heed to these things. His mind was preoccupied with other

matters. Foremost on his mind was the outcome of the mission he had begun that fateful Holi day when he had entered the city of Ayodhya and demanded Rajkumar Rama as his guru-dakshina. The consequences of that event were yet to be fully realised, and even his supremely transcendent buddhi was not complacent enough to take those consequences for granted. He briefly weighed what had been accomplished in these past nine days. It was not inconsiderable. The demoness Tataka, a plague on the mortal realm of Prithvi for millennia, had been destroyed at last, and with her had vanished the canker that had been breeding in the Southwoods. All her monstrous miscreations, those wretched genetically engineered hybrids, were destroyed as well. The Bhayanak-van, that section of the Southwoods that had come to be known as the Forest of Fear, had been cleansed by the purifying breath of Agni, the lord of fire. Even now, the wind occasionally brought the scent of scorched woods and a few flakes of crumbly grey ash. The Southwood fires had ceased burning only yesterday, coinciding with the end of Vishwamitra’s seven-day yagna, another auspicious omen. In a few seasons, the scorched earth of the Forest of Fear would be ready once more to bring forth new life. When the time was right, he would set his brahmacharyas to planting good fresh stock: oaks, pines, ashwood, banyan, peepal, acacia, neem, palas, teak. And plenty of fruit and flower groves. A new forest would rise in the place of that long-dreaded maze of terror, a forest of hope and new beginnings. The cleansing of Bhayanak-van had been accomplished in the week of Holi, the festival of spring and fertility. The seeding of Ashavan, the Forest of Hope, would be done in Holi too, a full year hence. A generation from today, children would play fearlessly in the groves, travellers rove freely through the woods, and sadhus and rishis would build ashrams and gurukuls in the Asha-van. Even before that, the very absence of the Bhayanak-van would open up a whole new world of possibilities for the Arya nations. For millennia the Bhayanak-van had impeded the southward progress of the early Arya clans, until its mythic stature had thwarted even the now-mighty Arya nations. Now, that dark wall had been kicked down and ground into ash. Henceforth, the route down the subcontinent would be unbarred. The Aryas would be free to journey to the rich fertile plains of the Deccan, explore the lush vales and pleasing hill ranges of the south, and travel all the way to the tapering point of land where the two great oceans met. Vishwamitra’s craggy face darkened momentarily as he thought of that southernmost tip of the subcontinent. It was off that wild and wanton shore where the oceans clashed angrily that the island of Lanka was situated. The very thought of Lanka set his teeth on edge. That little island-nation represented a threat far greater than a hundred Bhayanak-vans. Its lord and master, Ravana, king of the asura races, was a thousandfold as dangerous as Tataka. And yet, until Lanka was cleared of its demon hordes, the subcontinent might as well be one enormous Bhayanak-van. A wall had been breached, but the fortress remained, as unassailable and formidable as ever. If Ayodhya was unconquerable literally, a-yodha, or the city that was beyond war - then Lanka was its twin in that respect. Even the devas had not dared to invade Lanka.

Ravana himself had won that fabled island-fortress through treachery and deceit, by attacking his own brother Kubera, lord of wealth, in his peaceful Himalayan retreat, overrunning Kubera’s pacifist yaksi city with brutal violence, and had spared the demigod’s life only on pain of ransom. The ransom being dominion of Lanka as well as numerous other precious possessions of Kubera - the airship Pushpak, Kubera’s harem of ten thousand wives, and much else. A direct assault on Lanka was beyond the contemplation of any mortal army. And yet, as long as Lanka remained in the grasp of the demon lord, the Arya nations could not hope to explore and settle the subcontinent safely. It was a dilemma that had vexed Vishwamitra for a long time and still he could find no solution. Just then a cloud passed across the sun, darkening the day. Vishwamitra sensed the rajkumars glancing up, shielding their eyes against the brightness of the sky. Conversation petered out momentarily in the procession as the brahmacharyas and rishis looked up too, some wondering aloud if there was a possibility of rain. Then the cloud passed by, the warm, nourishing rays of Surya shone down again, and all was as before. Lanka was like that cloud, Vishwamitra thought. Lurking off the southernmost tip of the Asian continent like a brooding monsoon cloud in an otherwise clear sky, capable at any moment of occluding the life-giving sun, casting a dark pall across the entire earth. Ravana had dared to invade Swarga-lok a millennium and a half ago, and the devas still hung their heads in bitter shame at the demon lord’s triumph at that encounter. When even the gods feared to confront him, how could mere mortals hope to defeat him? And yet, it was these mere mortals who must defeat him. For Vishwamitra knew what he had chosen not to say to the people of Ayodhya, nor to their maharaja. In exchange for quitting the realm of the devas, Ravana had demanded that henceforth none of their number would ever challenge him again. Indra’s eyes had flashed like hot coals at that insolent demand. The king of the gods was not accustomed to defeat, let alone terms and conditions. Yet he had no choice. To refuse Ravana at that moment was to allow the demon lord the run of the upper realm. By swallowing that ego-choking condition, the king of heaven had bound every single deva and devi in the universe. No god or goddess could ever challenge Ravana directly or cause him harm in any fashion. Centuries later, the humiliation of that acquiescence still made Indra gnash his teeth in impotent rage. Yet, as gods, he and his fellows had no choice but to honour their agreement eternally. And so it was that the seven seers, governed by their most senior member, Narada the Wise, had perceived that the only opposition to Ravana could come from mortals now. Impossible as it seemed, it was from this middle realm, Martya, and more specifically the planet of earth on this realm, that the only opposition to the demon lord could now arise. We must confront him, the brahmarishi thought fiercely, we must stand and repel his asura hordes, must fight to the bitter end for the continued safety of humankind and for the sake of Prithvi herself. If Ravana was allowed to extend his rule over Prithvi too, all existence would be darkened by the shadow of his reign. Like a giant rock hurtling through space could with a single glancing blow plunge an entire planet into years of darkness and death, Ravana’s rising shadow would blacken all of Prithvi for an immeasurable period.

That must not come to pass. Vishwamitra clenched his wildwood staff tighter, the intensity of his grip grinding the knob of holy thread wound around the top of the staff. His face hardened, resembling that of a warrior-king striding into battle rather than a seer leading his Brahmins to a spiritual conference. His step quickened, increasing to a speed that soon had the whole entourage struggling to keep up. Conversation died out, the acolytes ceased chanting, and even the elephants shook their heads in protest as they struggled to maintain the rigorous new pace. Even the senior rishis paused in the ritual recitation of their mantras and stuck their bald pates out of the shade of their bullock-carts, wondering what fierce contemplation had overtaken the brahmarishi. After all, this was a man who could endure a bhor tapasya of centuries without needing food or water to sustain himself, taking his nourishment from the very flow of Brahman itself. If he was entering yoganidra, a trance-like state of intense transcendental meditation, they would all fall by the wayside long before he even grew aware of their discomfort. Already, the sage was striding at the amazing speed of almost two yojanas an hour, brisk enough to have even the bullocks lowing in complaint. Yet nobody dared invoke the wrath of the brahmarishi by interrupting his deep concentration. In times past, acolytes had been reduced to piles of smouldering ashes for merely speaking when a sage was engaged in such contemplation. Yet if they didn’t act quickly, their hearts would burst with the effort of keeping pace with him.

FOURTEEN It was Rama who took the initiative. Sizing up the problem, the young prince consulted with his brother silently through an exchange of looks and gestures, then reached a decision. He quickened his pace to bring himself almost level with the brahmarishi. Almost, but not quite: it was not acceptable for a shishya to walk abreast of his guru. Joining his hands together and keeping his head lowered, he spoke reverentially. ‘Guru-dev, I humbly request permission to address you.’ Vishwamitra blinked once, his flaring nostrils inhaling his first breath in many minutes. His mastery of yoga enabled him to accomplish physical feats that other humans would find impossible; he had been so absorbed in his contemplation that he had neglected to breathe for close to half an hour. He inclined his head very slightly to address Rama without slowing his pace. ‘Permission granted, rajkumar.’ ‘Guru-dev, my brother and I are fortified by the power of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala. We could maintain this pace for a week without tiring. But I fear that our companions will not be able to do so as well. Already the younger shishyas are in danger of falling and being trodden under the hoofs of bullocks and the wheels of carts.’ Vishwamitra blinked again, only now becoming aware of the speed at which he was walking. He had unwittingly continued to step even faster while Rama spoke. At the rate he was accelerating, he would soon be covering ground at much more than two yojanas an hour! The brahmarishi exhaled slowly, wondering at his own folly. It took only a tiny exertion of his will to slow his yard-long strides, reducing his speed gradually lest he cause an accident in the procession behind. The Brahmins of Siddh-ashrama released a unanimous sigh of relief as the brahmarishi slowed to the previous pace of a yojana an hour. They wiped their bald pates, shiny with sweat from the unexpected race to keep up with their guru. One of the smaller acolytes issued a great sigh of relief and exclaimed loudly, ‘Om Hari Swaha!’ It was the typical invocation that was a Brahmin’s instinctive response to almost anything, but the gawky seven-year-old had a strong lisp due to most of his milk teeth having fallen out and tended to run his words together, so it came out sounding more

like a meaningless ‘Omharithwaaa!’ At the head of the procession, Vishwamitra heard the lisped and muddled exclamation and chuckled. At the sound, the mood of the entire company lightened at once. Smiles wreathed the faces of the company, old and young alike. Their wariness of the sage’s legendary temper turned into relief. It was the first time their honoured guru had been heard expressing laughter in centuries! The scribes of the ashram were already searching for words to describe the exact quality of his brief emission of amusement. Rama exchanged a glance with Lakshman. His brother winked, complimenting him on his tactful handling of the situation. Rama had just started to fall back to his brother’s side when the brahmarishi spoke again. ‘Come, rajkumars. Walk abreast of me. I would speak with you both.’ They looked at each other again, eyebrows raised. It was unheard of for a guru to ask his shishyas to walk abreast. But then again, their relationship with the sage wasn’t exactly a typical guru-shishya one. They complied with the sage’s command, still keeping to his right. Vishwamitra acknowledged their presence with a glance that almost bordered on a smile, a striking contrast to the brahmarishi’s usual granite impassivity. Both brothers smiled back as one. He’s in a good mood now, Rama thought, but what was on his mind a few moments ago? He would give anything to be able to fathom the depths of the seer’s thoughts. What was it like to have lived five thousand years, and to have been chosen by mighty Brahma, Lord of Creation himself, to live eternally as one of the seven seers who mediated between the celestial devas and earth-bound mortals? A fortnight ago, Rama would have believed it impossible to understand the thoughts of such a personage. Now, he felt curiosity and a tingling sense of anticipation. It has something to do with me, I know that. But what? ‘Rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, by your great valour in the battle of Bhayanak-van, you have earned the right to a prashan-uttar dialogue. I invite you to pose any queries you may have about the experiences of the past few days. Or any other matter that may be on your mind.’ Lakshman was the first to speak, hardly able to contain his excitement at the unexpected invitation. Prashan-uttar was an honour reserved only for the most senior of shishyas. By inviting them to ask their queries of him, the seer-mage was acknowledging their knowledge and urging them to proceed to the next level of their education. Lakshman asked eagerly, ‘Guru-dev, back in Ayodhya you said that once we killed Tataka and her band of demons, the Southwoods would be freed of Ravana’s evil influence. But how do we know that Ravana is even aware of what we accomplished?’

Vishwamitra smiled indulgently. ‘He knows. Nary a cut bleeds on one of his precious wildlings but he feels the ichor ooze.’ Lakshman wasn’t sure he had understood the sage’s meaning. But you didn’t just ask a seer-mage to explain his statements. Often the phrasing of a guru’s answer was as significant as the answer itself. Like the legendary tale of the guru who had sworn a lifelong vow of silence, and whose disciples were compelled to deduce his likely answers to their philological and practical problems. The result was that every one of his disciples grew every bit as wise as their guru, able to dispense advice as sage as their teacher might have done. The moral of the story, which Lakshman and his brothers had learned while at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul, was that a guru was only a mentor who pointed out the right path; it was up to the shishya to decide how best to travel that path, or whether to travel it at all. Lakshman was still mulling over the meaning of the cryptic reply when the sound of hoofbeats approached rapidly from behind. It was Bejoo, his face set in a grim expression. Sweat limned the Vajra captain’s swarthy face and stocky torso. Bejoo slowed his horse to a clip-clopping trot to avoid overtaking the brahmarishi. Lakshman took the opportunity to reach out and caress the mare, who nodded appreciatively at his touch. ‘Brahmarishi maha-dev, I ask your leave to speak.’ Vishwamitra answered without looking back or slowing his pace. ‘Briefly then, Kshatriya. The rajkumars and I are engaged in prashan-uttar at present.’ Lakshman couldn’t help noticing the way the Vajra commander’s face creased at the brahmarishi’s words. The leader of the maharaja’s own elite fighting squad was not accustomed to being called ‘Kshatriya’ and talked to as if he was merely a brahmacharya in the seer’s ashram. With a visible effort, Bejoo swallowed his feelings and said stiffly, ‘Guruji, this road we are on will take us through the hills.’ ‘Indeed, Kshatriya. Any shishya in my gurukul knows that. What is your point?’ ‘Swami, the hills are notorious breeding grounds for bandit gangs, wild predatory beasts and all manner of other perils. A procession such as this would look like an easy mark for any aggressor.’ ‘That is why the devas saw fit to grace us with your presence, Kshatriya. Surely your Vajra can deal with these aggressors should we chance upon any?’ Lakshman saw Bejoo pass a hand across his face, gathering sweat and flicking it away impatiently.

‘Guruji, my Vajra is under orders to protect the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, not—’ The Vajra captain bit back his next words and finished with ‘Not the inhabitants of Siddh-ashrama.’ ‘Then protect your wards and I will protect mine,’ the brahmarishi said crisply. ‘Now, if that is all, I wish to resume our prashan-uttar session. You may leave us, Captain.’ Bejoo stared briefly but intensely at the back of the brahmarishi’s head, then turned his horse without another word and rode back the way he had come. The sound of his pounding hoofs faded away. Lakshman tried to forget about the interruption and turned his mind back to the brahmarishi’s last cryptic response. He wiped a trickle of sweat with the tip of his angvastra. His rig creaked faintly as he raised his hand to his temple, the leather already soaked with the sweat flowing down his back. Beside him, Rama was sweating just as freely. An idea occurred to Lakshman. He voiced his thoughts cautiously. ‘Guru-dev, am I correct in discerning your answer as implying that the Lord of Lanka’s well-being is directly linked to that of his minions? Thus, for instance, when we killed Tataka and her hybrids, we inflicted hurt on Ravana himself?’ The seer’s voice brimmed with pleasure. ‘Well done, young Lakshman! Indeed, it is just as you say. To wound his minions is to wound Ravana himself. For the Lord of Lanka derives all his asura hordes from the depths of Narak, the third and lowest realm. He pays for their deliverance with his own immortal aatma. Thus, with every rakshasa or pisaca or other vile demon he frees and enlists in his barbarous armies he mortgages a part of himself to Yamaraj, Lord of the Underworld.’ Lakshman said excitedly, ‘But in that case, if we were to destroy his asuras, might we not destroy Ravana himself?’ He sensed Rama nodding vigorously beside him, liking the logical leap. Lakshman held his breath, awed by the simple elegance of his conclusion. He waited to see if the brahmarishi agreed with his extrapolation. The brahmarishi replied warmly. ‘Guru Vashishta has schooled you well in the shastras and vedas, Rajkumar Lakshman. Your conclusion is brilliantly realised. However, the problem at hand defies all logical deduction. The Lord of Lanka was granted eternal life by mighty Brahma himself in recognition of Ravana’s millennia-long bhor tapasya. Even the extinction of every last asura in all the three worlds would not destroy the demon king. It would cause him great agony, no doubt, but Ravana is an emperor of pain, both inflicted as well as self-endured. This is his most formidable quality, his infinite capacity to cause and to endure suffering. He could surely endure the agony of a million deaths without succumbing.’ Sensing Lakshman’s disappointment, the sage went on quickly, ‘Also, like most innovative theories, your stratagem is easier conceived than executed. Even if by some

superhuman feat you succeed in decimating Ravana’s vast forces, that would not end his reign. Because for every asura you slay, Ravana would free a dozen more from Narak to take its place, and could continue doing so eternally. Therefore that fight itself is unwinnable.’ ‘But there must be some way to defeat him, Guru-dev.’ Lakshman struggled to keep his voice respectful and steady, a difficult task when he felt so close to the answer. ‘After all, by your own admission the yaksi Tataka was virtually impossible to defeat. Yet Rama brought her down with the shakti of the maha-mantras which you so graciously granted to us.’ The seer-mage glanced briefly at Lakshman, his eyes glinting in the noon sunlight. His heavy brow overhung his features, casting a shadow across his lower face. It lent him a forbidding look that wasn’t much relieved by the lightness of his tone. ‘Even Bala and Atibala are no match for Ravana’s power. Every being, mortal or immortal, makes its own karma. It was Tataka’s time to be banished from existence. And your brother’s hand was the one chosen to string the arrow that took her life.’ Vishwamitra continued gently, ‘Why, had it been your karma to loose the arrow, that is what would have come to pass. You fought every bit as bravely and fiercely as Rama, but a fateful blow knocked you unconscious at that crucial moment, preventing you from joining in the battle against the giantess. Do you think that was simply a coincidence? Nay, young Lakshman. Even the most casually incidental of events hews to the mystic pattern woven by the cosmic wheel of time. When it is Ravana’s time to die, then die he will. But until that fated day, nothing may pierce his invulnerability.’ Lakshman’s breath caught in his throat. For every waking hour over the past eight days, he had thought of nothing other than that final battle in the Bhayanak-van. Unable to remember anything beyond the fight with the hybrids, he had struggled guiltily to come to terms with his loss of consciousness. Yet he hadn’t dared broach that topic; it was too sensitive for him to talk about. By discussing it so openly, the seer had given him a great infusion of relief. He understood exactly what the brahmarishi was saying: Don’t feel guilty, Lakshman. You fought well. It was just Rama’s karma to kill Tataka, and yours not to face her. It was the one argument that could enable Lakshman to free himself of the great weight that had been riding on his shoulders. He sent up a silent prayer of relief to the devas. This was why the gurus were honoured and respected even by monarchs and emperors: their wisdom extended beyond Vedic science and spiritual knowledge to encompass even the subtle nuances of human psychology as well. Rama spoke into the brief silence that followed. ‘But Gurudev, if Ravana is immortal, how can he die?’ Vishwamitra smiled, his craggy features barely softened by the grim upturning of his thin lips. ‘Such is the myster of karma and dharma. The deeds we do in this physical existence, our karma, weigh against the duties we ought to fulfil, our dharma, and in the judgement hall of the devas these two accumulations of deeds and duties are measured on the scales of infinite justice. Even those who are immortal may be recalled from one life to be

granted another. In this way they live for ever, yet forsake the physical accretions of the former life.’ Lakshman frowned. He had never heard the concept of karma and dharma described in quite that way before. Again, he had to wrestle a moment to glean the sage’s full meaning. He posed the next query, straining to keep his voice from rising with excitement. ‘Guru-dev, in that case, it would not be amiss to say that while the devas may not permit Ravana’s death, they may recall him from his present physical form and transubstantiate him into another another body of similar qualities as the one he now possesses. In this fashion, he would retain his immortality by continuing to live indefinitely, yet this particular body, the one he now inhabits, would be to all intents and purposes destroyed. So the Ravana we speak of would be dead, although the essence of Ravana himself, his immortal aatma and his entire consciousness as well all his knowledge and awareness gleaned in this and previous lifetimes, would continue.’ Rama frowned. ‘But Lakshman, if he continues to live, even if it’s in a different body, he could still go on with his evil ways. Only his body would change, not his intentions or evil nature.’ ‘But think about it, brother! If we were to somehow -and I admit it seems impossible - if we were to somehow decimate every last living asura in the world, and at that very moment, before Ravana is able to call up more asuras from the underworld to rebuild his army, we destroy his present physical form, there will be an instant when neither Ravana or his demonaic hordes will exist in the mortal realm. In that instant Yamraj, Lord of the Underworld, could seal shut the passage to Narak through which Ravana derives more asura reinforcements. And if the devas delay the transposition of Ravana to a new physical body, then for a while, at least, the earth will be free of his evil! Don’t you see? It’s the closest we’ll ever come to completely destroying that wart on the hindside of humanity!’ Rama’s eyebrows shot up at the phrasing of Lakshman’s last comment. But it was the seer-mage’s response that took Lakshman by surprise. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra turned to the young prince and stared at him as if he was seeing him for the very first time. ‘A truly beautiful answer, rajkumar. Truly beautiful.’ Lakshman’s face shone with pleasure. He joined his hands and bowed his head. ‘Mahadev, it is only by your grace.’ Vishwamitra nodded sagely. ‘Your mind is as swift as your bow-finger. I have been grappling for centuries with this complex conundrum. While I do not feel you have solved the problem entirely - there are still lapses of logic to be scrutinised - I believe you have opened up a pathway that may eventually lead to the final solution. Well done, young Lakshman. Very well done indeed!’ Lakshman felt a flush of pride. Rama put his arm around his brother, over the top of Lakshman’s rig, and hugged him briefly, tightly. His hand was slippery on Lakshman’s sweat-drenched shoulders. Lakshman nodded, grinning inanely with joy.

He felt happier than he had when he solved a particular demanding mathematical problem posed by Guru Vashishta during their last year at the gurukul. That had been a theoretical problem with no urgent practical outcome. This was the problem that plagued the whole world right now! To think that he could have opened up a pathway that had escaped even the great Vishwamitra’s attention for centuries was enough to send a paroxysm of pleasure rippling through his entire being. He was so excited, he barely heard the brahmarishi’s next words. ‘Truly inspiring, young Lakshman. Rightly has it been said that each one of us has a place in the great scheme of things. Rama’s seems to be the place of the one who takes up arms against evil and vanquishes it despite impossible odds. If there is one Kshatriya alive who holds great promise, it is your brother, my good Lakshman.’ The sage went on, ‘And your role seems to be not only to shield him with your sword as he fulfils his dharma, but also to guide him mentally. For he who acts must oftentimes not pause to think too deeply at the moment of action. Your nimble mathematical mind can do the thinking for him at those crucial moments. ‘Thus you will be as two hands of one archer, one guiding the bow’s aim after a thorough examination and analysis of the mathematics of distance, wind, atmospheric pressure and other vital factors, while the other provides the great strength and perfect timing required to release the missile at precisely the correct instant. Both hands must act together in unison or the target will be lost. ‘And truly, I have rarely seen two warriors as harmoniously fitted to each other as you and Rama. If there is one warrior who can accomplish this seemingly impossible task, it is the both of you.’ The seer’s voice bore no trace of amusement at his last paradoxical statement. Lakshman blinked, moved. He’s serious. He means that Rama and I together are as great as any of the greatest Kshatriya heroes that ever lived. But he can’t possibly mean what he just said. ‘Guru-dev, which impossible task do you refer to?’ The sage’s next words were deceptively calm, as if he were merely discussing what they might eat for their evening repast when they broke journey for the night. ‘Rajkumar Lakshman, I think you already understand which impossible task I mean. It is the issue we have been debating in this prashan-uttar session all this while.’ As Lakshman groped for the appropriate words, the brahmarishi went on in a voice as cold and hard as uncut granite: ‘Ravana-vinaashe.’ Killing Ravana.

FIFTEEN Senapati Dheeraj Kumar watched from his position atop the first gate of Ayodhya city as a tiny cloud of dust appeared in the distance, growing slowly larger. Beside him stood a gatewatch guard with a conch shell, ready to sound the alarm on the general’s order. While the soldiers around him were dressed in the traditional white and red of the gatewatch, the senapati - literally ‘lord of the army’ - wore a distinctive saffron-and-black uniform with the Sanskrit letters corresponding to P and F ornately embroidered in gold on the sleeves of his ang-vastra. His distinguished aquiline Arya features were creased with age, yet his power and strength were still unmistakable. A long-undefeated champion of the wrestling square, the general’s passion for physical sports had enabled him to stay fit even two decades after his last military engagement. Many of his former colleagues in the PF battalion he commanded, the Purana Wafadars so named because they were veterans of the last asura war - had either succumbed to old war injuries or retired from active duty. There were more young faces - mostly sons and daughters of their veteran parents - in his ranks now than actual veterans. Like many old soldiers, he had achieved the dubious distinction of outliving those he had once held dear, including almost all his gurukul colleagues, army peers, a wife and two sons, and even many of his much younger subordinates. This gradual erosion and eventual isolation had left Dheeraj Kumar more thoughtful and introspective in his later years. Although not so introspective that he would contemplate retiring from active duty: if anything, the senapati was more determined than ever to serve king and country. Graciously, the devas had seen fit to grant him perfect health and good strength even in his septuagenarian years. Dheeraj Kumar wasn’t an overly religious man—like any good Kshatriya he believed that his first duty was to protect and serve, leaving the praying to the Brahmins—but he had come to the conclusion that if Yamaraj, lord of death, had spared him while laying waste so many others around him, there must be a good reason. The great senapatis of the armies of the devas, Kartikeya and his elephant-headed brother Ganesa, must have a battle plan for him, he felt. He was content to attend to routine duties until that great plan was revealed to him. He watched now as the visitor approached down the length of the raj-marg. His bushy white brows knitted together as the dustcloud slowly resolved into the unmistakable silhouette of a two-horse Vajra chariot riding at full-out speed. The chariot was alone. The senapati, renowned as much for his brilliant grasp of military strategy as for his physical prowess, liked to play a little game at such times. His presence at the first gate was not exactly the most desirable posting for a general of his age and experience. Yet he himself had volunteered for the task, knowing that if there was the slightest risk of any mass intrusion this was the place it could best be stemmed. Most of the time, he had only to scrutinise the commonfolk visiting or leaving the capital city on trade, leisure or personal work. Not much of a challenge for the most decorated veteran of the worst war

in Arya history. So he whiled away the long days by postulating different invasion scenarios and theorising how best he would deal with them if they actually happened. The sight of the approaching chariot had sparked off one such scenario in his agile mind. Ayodhya was accessible by only two main routes, the south raj-marg and the north rajmarg. The city’s first gate faced the southern approach, flanked by the raging white waters of the Sarayu on the left and an almost sheer rise to the right. Any invading force would either have to come upriver on the Sarayu, which was almost impossible given the furious white-rapid flow of the river at this point, climb down the crumbling sheer bank of the cliff—exposing themselves pitifully during the difficult descent—or simply march, walk and ride up the raj-marg. If any invading commander was actually arrogant enough to dare such an attempt, the senapati mused, he would be sighted long before he reached the city proper, spotted by the ever-alert rakshak Kshatriyas posted at Mithila Bridge or any of the hundred other vantage points which led to the capital of the kingdom of Kosala. The rakshaks would ride with the speed of Vayu the wind god, whom they worshipped as the deity of their order, bringing the news to the first gate precious minutes or even hours before the invaders. The city’s response would be immediate. All seven gates would be shut and barred, the enormous drawbridges pulled up in moments by the use of well-oiled winch pulleys, leaving yawning thirty-yard gaps between each of the city’s seven concentric walls. Moats filled with a profusion of deadly creatures occupied those gaps. The seven Walls were a daunting ten yards high, running in oval circuits around the city, manned at every yard by Ayodhya’s best archers and javelin-throwers. To get to the city proper, the invading force would have to breach all seven walls or gates, crossing those twenty-yard-deep moats while contending with the crocodiles, sharks, poisonous water-serpents and piranha that teemed in the dark waters. If they got that far, they would have almost the entire army of Kosala–a staggering three-quarters of a million foot-soldiers, a third of that number armoured and mounted on horseback, and as many archers and bigfoot. Just the elephant division was enough to withstand an army of a million enemies on its own, and had done so in the last asura war on an open battlefield. In these closer quarters, fighting to defend their own home turf, the bigfoot and their valiant mahouts could probably fend off an army twice that size. But long before any invasion actually got that far, the foolishly ambitious enemy commander would have to contend with the approach to the first gate. That half-yojana stretch of open dirt road unfolding in an almost perfect straight line, so designed by the great Vishwakarma, architect of the Ikshwaku nation that had first settled these parts, to provide a clear view of any approaching enemy. Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, standing atop the battlements on the first wall, now conceived a fiendishly clever plan. What if the enemy, emboldened by the rakshasa Kala-Nemi’s success in infiltrating the city and getting within striking distance of the maharaja, now sent not one soldier in disguise but an entire group of them! After all, the war council would take place in a day or two, and sizeable contingents of Kshatriyas would arrive from the other Arya nations accompanied by their generals, prime ministers, and perhaps

even their maharajas. If the asuras managed to slip in disguised as any one of those groups, they would be able to pass through all the city’s defences and gain access to the most powerful group of Arya leaders in the world. They might not be able to kill them all, but they would surely do great damage before succumbing to Ayodhya’s security forces. There was only one problem with that plan: it had been anticipated. Along with any number of other possible and even seemingly impossible scenarios. It was part of a military technique the senapati himself had developed. He termed it drishti-shastra, the science of vision. He had liked the word drishti enough to name his first-born with it. Despite his formidable history, the general was a man who believed in looking ahead to the future at all times, and being prepared for it. As the fast-riding Vajra chariot closed the distance to the first gate, he shook his head slowly. The chariot was solitary. Which negated his scenario. He was only partly relieved. After almost nine days of inactivity following the shock of that first intrusion, he craved some actual contact with the enemy. He used a curt gesture to order the alarm-crier to call down, and shouted to his lieutenant standing ready down below by the first gate machinery. The description of the approaching visitor–’chariot, single, Vajra’–had already been communicated swiftly through pre-set hand signals all the way to the royal palace in the time it took the chariot to approach. ‘Send the rajkumars up,’ Dheeraj Kumar said. Immediately, two robust young men in full battle armour began to climb the iron stakes set on the inside of the first gate. They breasted the top of the wall quickly and easily. The stockier of the two was slightly ahead of his partner. Both saluted the general smartly. The senapati nodded approvingly. ‘Rajkumar Bharat,’ he said shortly. Bharat grinned, nudging his brother. Shatrugan didn’t seem to mind. ‘Next time,’ he promised. The senapati indicated the chariot, now less than half a mile from the gate and approaching rapidly. ‘What do you see?’ Both Bharat and Shatrugan replied together, their responses overlapping, ‘A chariot!’ Shatrugan added quickly: ‘A Vajra chariot.’ He nudged his brother to underline his oneupmanship. ‘What else?’

They shielded their eyes from the noonday sun, peering intently. The chariot was a hundred yards from the gate now and closing fast. As the driver reined in the pair of horses, both boys offered their observations. ‘Driven by a Vajra Kshatriya no more than twenty years of age, a first lieutenant from his colours,’ Bharat said. ‘He’s been travelling for a long time, at least two days,’ Shatrugan said. Bharat said, ‘The two colours of the mud coating the sides and underbelly of the chariot and the riggings show that he must have passed through the Southwoods. That particular black soil could only come from there.’ ‘And by the state of the horses,’ Shatrugan said, ‘he hasn’t stopped to rest or nourish them for at least a day. Which means his mission is urgent and important.’ ‘He’s been attacked sometime during the course of the journey. Those wounds on his person and rips in his vastras are not severe but they are undressed and untended, as they would have been had he suffered them before starting his journey. I say that he was attacked because he would not break a mission of such urgency to pick a fight.’ Senapati Dheeraj Kumar raised his eyebrows, glancing briefly at the rajkumars. ‘Is that all?’ Both boys squinted intently at the man they had just been describing. The Vajra Kshatriya had dismounted from his chariot, patted his horses to calm them, and was now striding to the first gate. He stopped at the edge of the moat, and before the gatewatch guard could challenge him, he raised his hands to indicate that he was unarmed. Looking up, his eyes scanned the alert and watchful faces on the rampart and settled on the senapati with an expression close to relief. His fatigue was unmistakable but he seemed to have no serious injuries. Shatrugan added in a mischievous tone: ‘Oh, and he’s recently been married.’ Bharat turned to stare at his brother. ‘How can you tell that? Sure, he’s wearing a yagna thread around his wrist, but that could be from any yagna ceremony. Not necessarily a marriage! How can you be sure he’s married?’ Shatrugan grinned back. ‘Because we attended his marriage. The day before Holi. Bejoochacha asked us personally to put in an appearance.’ To the senapati, Shatrugan added, ‘His name is Bheriya, first lieutenant to Vajra Captain Bejoo, commander of the maharaja’s personal Vajra.’ ‘Damn!’ Bharat slapped his own thigh with a firmly muscled fist. ‘Of course! I should have remembered that!’ The senapati nodded approvingly, ignoring Bharat’s outburst. ‘Well done, rajkumars.

Keen eyes and sharp minds are a Kshatriya’s best weapons. Now, I hand over the task of inspection to both of you equally.’ The two princes looked at each other, their playful rivalry forgotten at once. Over the past few days they had involved themselves in every aspect of Ayodhya’s security and defence, from joining in army training exercises to saddling elephants, putting in stints as weaponsmiths, attending classes in military strategy and philosophy, interviewing veterans on their personal experiences, and anything else they could find to occupy the time. It was difficult enough being forced to wait here impotently for news of their brothers, not knowing if Rama and Lakshman’s mission to the Southwoods had ended in failure or triumph, and the hectic schedule of activity the senapati had drawn up for them had helped them get through without yielding to frustration or anxiety. This was their third tour of duty on the city walls and they had enjoyed an unexciting morning, forced to wait behind the barred first gate and merely watch and listen as the senapati or his associates challenged visitors and checked their credentials before permitting or denying them access to the city. Now, finally, they were being given a chance to actually do something! Shatrugan took the lead by mutual consent. Stepping to the rampart, which shielded and protected his torso and lower body while allowing him to speak freely to the Kshatriya standing on the raj-marg below, he raised a hand as he had seen the senapati do a dozen times since sunrise. ‘Identify yourself and state your business.’ The Kshatriya performed an Arya salute. ‘Rajkumar Shatrugan? It is I, Bheriya, secondin-command of the maharaja’s Vajra. I carry a message of great urgency from my commander Captain Bejoo to Maharaja Dasaratha.’ Bharat spoke next. ‘The city is on high alert. You will have to prove your identity before you are permitted to pass. Is there anyone who will vouch for you?’ The man inclined his head at Dheeraj Kumar. ‘Senapati Dheeraj Kumar knows me well. He was my guru of military strategy during my training. Senapatiji, I request you to acknowledge me.’ The senapati replied formally: ‘So acknowledged.’ ‘Very well, Kshatriya,’ Shatrugan said. ‘You may hand over your message to us and be on your way. We shall see that it reaches the maharaja speedily.’ The Kshatriya shook his head slowly. ‘I beg your pardon, rajkumar, but my message is verbal, not scrolled. And my captain’s orders were to deliver it in person to the maharaja and none other. It is a matter of Kosala’s national security.’ Bharat and Shatrugan exchanged a glance. Bharat said, ‘Be that as it may, nobody is permitted to visit the maharaja.’ He didn’t add that Dasaratha was recovering and unable to receive visitors. It wasn’t relevant to the situation.

‘You will have to deliver your message verbally to either Rajkumar Shatrugan or myself and trust us to make certain it reaches the maharaja’s ears. As fellow Kshatriyas and citizens of Kosala, we shall ensure its secure and swift passage.’ The man looked up unhappily, his grimy, blood-streaked face wan with exhaustion. ‘Once again I beg your pardon, rajkumar, but I would defy my captain’s orders by doing what you ask. His instructions were explicitly clear. My message must be delivered to the maharaja in person and spoken only in his presence.’ He indicated the sun shining down harshly. ‘Already precious time is wasting. As you can see, I almost killed these two fine Kambhoja stallions to get here as fast as possible. Pray, do not delay my business further. You have my word as an Arya and as a Kshatriya that my message is of grave importance to the well-being of the entire kingdom as well as the city of Ayodhya itself. I beg you, let me pass within the gates and address the maharaja directly.’ Shatrugan leaned over and spoke softly to Bharat, keeping his voice pitched just loud enough for the senapati to hear as well. ‘I say we let him pass. He has been acknowledged and identified. We can search his person and subject him to the scrutiny of Guru Vashishta before taking him before Father. There’s no point prolonging this conversation further. If his message really is that urgent, Father needs to hear it fast.’ Bharat nodded, agreeing. ‘And he is awake and alert again. Yes, he should hear this man’s message quickly.’ Both rajkumars glanced briefly at the senapati. Although he had left the entire exchange to them, he was still the superior officer on duty. ‘With your permission, Senapati, we wish to permit the visitor to proceed to the seventh gate for further verification prior to his being granted an audience with the maharaja.’ Senapati Dheeraj Kumar was impressed. The rajkumars were doing their job admirably enough, but it wasn’t their ability to handle the gatewatch task that impressed him. It was the fact that they had both avoided making any mention of their brothers thus far. Both Shatrugan and Bharat knew that Captain Bejoo’s Vajra had been dispatched to accompany the rajkumars on their Southwoods mission. This lieutenant would surely know how that mission had transpired. Yet neither prince broke protocol to ask the personal questions that must certainly be burning in their minds at this moment: How are our brothers? Are Rama and Lakshman alive and well? They were too well disciplined. He nodded curtly at them. ‘I concur. However, before you proceed, I have a query of my own for the visitor.’ They bowed their heads at once, acknowledging his privilege. ‘Of course, Senapati.’ Dheeraj Kumar stepped forward to show himself over the rampart. He addressed the visitor directly. ‘Kshatriya, on your last mission, you were stationed with the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, is that right?’

‘Indeed, sire. It was my privilege.’ ‘In that case, tell me when you last saw them and in what state they both were.’ Beside him, he felt Bharat and Shatrugan growing alert and tense as they awaited the Kshatriya’s reply. This was the moment of truth. Were Rama and Lakshman all right? Every citizen in Ayodhya had waited nine days to know the answer. The Vajra Kshatriya looked up at the senapati silently, then down at the ground, at his sandals worn threadbare and on the verge of falling apart, at the moat that still separated him from the first gate. The water level was a good ten yards below his feet, but the surface teemed with various predators hopeful of receiving an unexpected addition to their natural diet. An eager gharial’s long, swordlike snout scratched the side of the moat’s stone-lined wall, snapping eagerly up at the Kshatriya. Bheriya stared down at the gharial as if he wished he could leap straight into its gaping mouth. ‘Kshatriya,’ Dheeraj Kumar called out. ‘Did you not hear my question? What of the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman? What news do you have of them?’ With obvious reluctance, the Vajra lieutenant raised his head and looked up at the senapati. His face, lined with exhaustion, grime and dried blood, looked pleadingly at the general. ‘Sire, I regret that I am unable to answer your question.’ Shatrugan clutched Bharat’s arm reflexively. The heftier prince had leaned forward at the visitor’s response, as if he wanted to leap down off the wall, over the moat, and on to the Kshatriya himself. To beat the answer out of that stubborn man, Dheeraj Kumar guessed. But privately, he admired the Vajra lieutenant’s steadfastness. The man was only doing his job. Still, that didn’t stop Dheeraj Kumar from steeling his voice when he spoke again. ‘You will answer my question or return with your task unfulfilled. The choice is yours, Kshatriya.’ The man looked stricken. He joined his hands together. ‘I beg of you, Senapati. Grant me my audience with the maharaja and your query shall be answered as well. My lips are sealed here because the information you seek is part of the message I am entrusted with passing on solely to the maharaja. I cannot violate my orders by speaking even that portion of the message here.’ Bharat and Shatrugan looked at each other. Senapati Dheeraj Kumar saw the expression on their faces and understood exactly what they were thinking. Even though the Vajra lieutenant hadn’t answered his question directly, his refusal itself was reply enough. Had the rajkumars been safe and sound, there would have been no need for secrecy. If news of their condition was part of the secret message, that could only mean one thing. Rama and Lakshman were either seriously injured, or dead.

SIXTEEN Sumitra swam up out of a nightmarish vision of a giant cobra attacking her sons. In her dream, the twins were still mere infants, peacefully asleep in their cribs, gaining a few scant hours of rest from their perennial squabbling. Even in his sleep, Lakshman still hitched in his breath resentfully at irregular intervals–he had lost the last bout to Shatrugan. Both boys had their thumbs securely stuck in their mouths, and each clutched a separate corner of the same favourite blanket in his tiny fist. Lying facing away from one another, the blanket tugged taut between them, they resembled each other so perfectly, even down to their grumpy expressions, that even Sumitra could only tell them apart by Lakshman’s irregular breathing. She was lying right beside them, her fingers gently brushing away curls of hair from their chubby faces, when the cobra appeared. It reared up from behind the bed, its enormous hood fanning out and casting the entire room into shadow. Its black eyes glinted demonically as it hissed, the long, sharply forked tongue flicking out to spatter droplets of venom all over the blanket. It grew impossibly huge in size, looming over them all, its hooded head bursting through the roof of the chamber, rising above the chamber, the palace, the city itself, so aweinspiring in its power and deadly beauty that she knew it could be none other than Takshak himself, king of the cobras. But its face was the face of the Second Queen. Kaikeyi looked directly into Sumitra’s eyes and issued a sibilant cry that was as deafening as a squalling ocean battering against the sides of a storm-tossed ship.’ ‘SSSSSUMITRA! NEXT IT’LL BE THE TURN OF YOUR SONSSSSSS!’ Sumitra woke up screaming. Kausalya’s gentle hand caught her in time before she could fall out of bed. ‘Hush, Sumitra,’ the First Queen said softly. ‘There’s no danger here. You’re safe.’ Sumitra sat up, her chest heaving, sari unwound, hair over her face. She looked around the chamber, assuring herself that it had been just a nightmare. Her breathing gradually slowed enough to permit speech. ‘It was Kaikeyi again. This time she was after Lakshman and Shatrugan.’ ‘It was just a bad dream. You’re still in shock.’ Sumitra looked around wild-eyed, still needing confirmation that the chamber was clear. Kausalya and she were alone in the room. A maid appeared at the doorway, looking in inquisitively. Kausalya waved her away, then picked up something from the bedside table. She turned back with a drinking vessel in her hands and brought it slowly to Sumitra’s

lips. ‘Here, drink some water.’ Sumitra took a sip, still shivering from the memory of the dream. ‘Enough,’ she said, sitting up further. She caught Kausalya’s wrist, spilling a little water. ‘Kausalya, tell me. Were you able to catch the shrew? Did you and Guru Vashishta confront her and tell her that I saw it all?’ Kausalya moved the vessel to her other hand and put it back on the bedside table. ‘We confronted her. We told her all that you described to the guru and me. About your seeing her in the maharaja’s room, straddling him, biting him . . . ‘ ‘Like a snake! A giant she-snake with huge fangs!’ Sumitra held up two fingers inverted before her own lips to show how large the fangs had been. ‘And she wasn’t just biting him. She was poisoning him. I saw the venom dripping, Kausalya. It stained his angvastra. The mark must still be there. And devi help us, I think she put her fangs into his neck. Devi alone knows what the venom would have done to him in his sickly state.’ Kausalya looked down at the space between them, smoothing the ruffled bedcover. ‘Sumitra, Kaikeyi was in her own bedchamber, deep in meditation. She hasn’t left her chamber for the past nine days. I had placed my own guards on double watch at the hallway to her apartments; they confirmed that the Second Queen hasn’t come out from her rooms even once in all that time.’ Sumitra stared at her. ‘What do you mean? I saw her, Kausalya. I saw her right there in the sick-chamber!’ Kausalya looked up, her face gentle but apologetic. ‘Sumitra, she couldn’t have been in the maharaja’s sickroom. Even the maharaja’s palace guards confirm it. Nobody saw Kaikeyi leave her rooms or enter Dasaratha’s chambers.’ ‘Nobody except me, you mean?’ Sumitra got out of bed, pushing away the sheet with which Kausalya had covered her while she had slept. She went to the window, looking out. The thick drapes were tightly drawn, but the spring sunshine shone brightly through the cracks. She guessed from the angle of light that it was past noon. She had slept the whole morning away. Behind her, Kausalya said cautiously: ‘We spoke to all the palace staff, Sumitra. There’s nobody else to corroborate your story. And the guruji himself met with Kaikeyi. He says she’s so thin and weakened from her nine days of fasting, she couldn’t possibly have done all you said she did. Even if she did somehow pull it off, she certainly wasn’t hissing or lunging about like a serpent. He says she was barely conscious. He ended up trying to convince her to take some nourishment.’ Sumitra turned back to Kausalya, her eyes flashing. ‘So what does that mean? That I made up the whole story? Kausalya, when you found me lying unconscious on the floor of the sick-chamber and revived me, I told you and the guruji everything that had happened. Why would I make up a story like that?’

Kausalya began folding the bedclothes with a slow, deliberate manner that made Sumitra’s heart sink. ‘Sumitra, nobody’s saying you made up the story. It’s just that we can’t find any proof to support your version. Please, don’t get upset again. I know you must have been through a terrible experience. But the guruji feels—’ ‘What? What does he feel?’ Sumitra realised how angry and resentful she sounded and felt instantly ashamed. Harsh words and angry looks didn’t come easily to her. They were Kaikeyi’s weapons. But she couldn’t believe that the nightmare scene she had witnessed in the maharaja’s sick-chamber was being dismissed as . . . as what exactly? Kausalya stood and came to her. She took Sumitra’s wrists in her hands, massaging the pulse points gently, trying to soothe her. ‘There was a stain on the maharaja’s ang-vastra. The guru identified it. I saw it too. In the exact spot you said it would be found.’ Kausalya pointed to a spot on her own midriff, just below her ribs. ‘There.’ A surge of hope leapt in Sumitra’s heart. ‘Then you have proof! The venom from her fangs, it dripped and fell on to his ang-vastra. There’s no way that venom could have come there except if what I saw is true! You have proof!’ Kausalya looked at her silently, continuing to stroke Sumitra’s wrists. ‘That’s what I thought too when I saw the spot. But then the guru identified the cause of the stain.’ She stopped stroking and touched Sumitra’s cheek gently. ‘It was the fruit punch you had prepared for him, Sumitra. A drop spilt on his ang-vastra, that’s all.’ Sumitra wanted to scream again. The nightmare had been more bearable than this reality. At least she could wake up from the nightmare. What did all this mean? That her senses had tricked her? That she had slipped and fallen and struck her head and imagined the whole bizarre scenario? Or that Kaikeyi was behind this too, manipulating everything to cover her tracks? Sumitra pictured Guru Vashishta’s grim face and changed her mind immediately. Whatever the extent of Kaikeyi’s witchery, she couldn’t possibly have come face to face with the sage and deceived him as well. That was simply impossible. But then what was the truth? What had really happened in that sick-chamber? Sumitra took a deep breath. ‘Kausalya, at least tell me this much. If the whole thing was just some kind of nightmare hallucination, then Dasa must be well, mustn’t he? Nothing happened to him because, as you say, nothing happened at all.’ ‘Bhagini,’ Kausalya said, using the affectionate term the two queens shared, meaning literally she-with-whom-I-share-all. ‘There’s something else I have to tell you. Come sit here for a minute.’ They sat on the edge of the bed again, this time on the side facing the window. The afternoon sunshine leaked through the cracks and crevices in the drapes, creating a peculiar sense of being neither wholly indoors nor outdoors. Like a prison cell with a large barred window, Sumitra thought. Now, why did I think such a thing?

Kausalya said softly, ‘Guru Vashishta smelled a strange odour in the fruit punch spilled on the floor and in the stain on the maharaja’s ang-vastra.’ Her deep brown eyes watched Sumitra closely, searching for a reaction. ‘He recognised it at once as the juice of the vinaashe root.’ ‘Poisonroot?’ Sumitra said, not understanding at first. ‘But that’s impossible! Why would anyone put poisonroot in Dasa’s punch?’ She clapped her hands to her face, horrified. ‘Devi! If he drank vinaashe root, then—’ Kausalya shook her head reassuringly. ‘The maharaja is going to be all right. Guru Vashishta and I entered the sick-chamber not an instant too soon. The guru sent for the antidote right away. We were able to revive the maharaja. Fortunately, he didn’t imbibe too much of the drug. The vaids say that given his condition, the drug might well have put him into a permanent coma. Or worse.’ She added slowly: ‘If we had arrived even a few minutes later, the maharaja might not be with us today.’ Sumitra stared up at the woman who was not just her senior in the family hierarchy but also her dearest friend. At that instant, despite her dishevelled and distraught state, Sumitra herself still looked more like a young girl than the mother of two fifteenyear-old sons. Her large light-brown eyes glistened wetly in her delicately shaped face. Her innocent mind struggled to comprehend the implications of Kausalya’s shocking revelation. ‘But how could the vinaashe root have got into his punch, Kausalya? I made it myself with my own hands. I know how poisonroot smells—how it stinks! I would have known at once if it was mixed with the other herbs. Besides, if you and Guru Vashishta say that Kaikeyi wasn’t in the sick-chamber, then nobody else was there either. There was only the maharaja and myself.’ Kausalya looked down at her silently, still holding Sumitra’s hands. Her beautiful almondshaped eyes brimmed with an emotion that was part sympathy and part sorrow. Sumitra stared at her, suddenly understanding the full significance of Kausalya’s words. ‘Devi spare us,’ Sumitra said, choking on the realisation. ‘You believe that I put the poisonroot in his punch? That I tried to poison him?’ Kausalya shook her head. ‘No, Sumitra. I know how much you love Dasaratha. You would give your life for him. Why, after he deserted me for Kaikeyi, I turned bitter and angry. It was all I could manage to keep from actually wishing him ill. I wanted to curse him, Sumitra! I hated him for what he had done to me.’ The First Queen shook her head, trying to banish those bitter years of neglect and betrayal. ‘But you, Sumitra? He neglected you as much as he did me. Yet I saw how you took it. I used to cry on your lap, you remember? You used to comfort me like a little mother! You couldn’t bring yourself to hate him even then. I know you can’t hate him now, when he’s weak and ailing and so full of regret.’

Kausalya paused to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Sumitra waited, knowing there was more. After a short pause, Kausalya went on, ‘But as I’ve said already, the guards confirm that nobody else went in or out of the sick-chamber between the time that I left to go see the guru and the time that the guru and I returned together. You admitted it yourself, only you and Dasaratha were there together. Alone.’ And a giant anthropomorphic serpent with Kaikeyi’s face, Sumitra thought silently. But I can’t prove that. Just as I can’t prove that I didn’t do what everybody thinks I did in that chamber, even though I know I didn’t do it. Kausalya went on, her hesitation making it clear that she didn’t enjoy saying what she was about to say, but that it had to be said anyway. ‘The guru thinks that perhaps you were distraught with anxiety for Dasaratha’s condition. That perhaps the maharaja, in one of his sudden fits of delirium, begged you to give him something to sleep peacefully and make the transition to the afterlife without further suffering. We all know how you can’t bear to watch another person suffering, Sumitra. So maybe . . . and I don’t believe this myself, mind you . . . but perhaps it’s possible that you ground up some vinaashe root with your herbs and you mixed it into his fruit punch and then gave him a sip. And as you watched him fall unconscious, you were overcome with guilt and shock at what you’d done, and fainted dead away.’ Kausalya stopped, her face reflecting her pain at saying these things. She searched Sumitra’s face for some confirmation or denial of what she’d just said. Sumitra finished for her: ‘And then my mind, unable to accept what I had just done, conjured up a wildly fanciful tale of Kaikeyi turning into a giant serpent and stinging the maharaja into his coma.’ Kausalya’s eyes widened. She started to say something, then stopped as Sumitra motioned her to wait. Sumitra’s voice was low but steady. She was over her upheaval and fear now. Not a woman given easily to anger, she was beyond that hot state of fury. She was cold as Himalayan ice. ‘Because it’s easier for me to believe that Kaikeyi turned into a snake and attacked Dasaratha than to accept that I poisoned him.’ Kausalya stared at her silently, uncertain whether to speak yet or wait. Sumitra said, ‘That is what you believe, isn’t it, Kausalya? That’s the explanation that you and the guru came up with after reviewing all the facts of the situation. That halfdelirious, agonised Dasaratha cajoled and convinced docile little Sumitra into drugging his punch. And now her fragile feminine mind can’t deal with the monstrosity of such a deed. That more or less sums it up, doesn’t it?’ Kausalya nodded unhappily. ‘Something like that. But Sumitra, we understand, we know you didn’t mean to do it. We’ve all been under a great strain of late.’

Suddenly Sumitra felt very tired, as if she hadn’t slept in weeks. In a way that was partly true: since Holi she had napped only a few hours each day, spending all her time in the maharaja’s sickroom tending to his needs. Shouldn’t have bothered, she thought bitterly. Should have just mixed up a good batch of poisonroot fruit punch and poured it down his throat nine days ago, would have saved us all a lot of grief and heartache. She giggled at the absurdity of the thought. Kausalya looked at her with new concern. Sumitra shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not turning hysterical. It’s just so bizarre, it’s almost funny.’ But once she had said it, she didn’t feel like laughing. A thought occurred to her. ‘Tell me, Kausalya, this scenario you and the guru came up with to explain this morning’s events, does Dasaratha corroborate your version?’ Kausalya shook her head slowly. ‘He doesn’t remember anything. Only that you offered to make him some of your famous fruit punch and he tried to convince you to give him something else, but he can’t remember what that other thing was exactly.’ She hesitated before adding: ‘He doesn’t know about our theory, of course. It would only make him feel worse.’ Her tone had a plea in it. ‘Of course,’ Sumitra agreed without rancour. ‘I won’t say a word to him. How is he now?’ ‘He’s all right, just a little shaken. He had only just begun to recover this morning, you know. This incident—’ ‘Yes, I understand.’ Sumitra stood up. ‘What do you and the guru mean to do now? Arrest me? Imprison me in my chambers? Throw me into the dungeons?’ Kausalya looked horrified. ‘Never! We love you, Sumitra. You know that. I never said that I believe this is what actually happened. It’s just—’ ‘The only explanation that fits all the facts,’ Sumitra finished wearily. ‘Yes, I know. In that case, Kausalya, if you don’t mind, I’d like to bathe and change my clothes and say my prayers. I would have done it in the morning, but somehow in all themelee, I just don’t seem to have found the time. If you’ll excuse me.’ Kausalya stood up. ‘Of course. I’ll be with the maharaja. Maybe, after you’ve finished, you should rest a while longer. You look like you need it. You’ve been under a great deal of strain these past nine days.’ Sumitra nodded and added silently: I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot more strain in the days to come. Kausalya went to the doorway. ‘If there’s anything you need . . . if you need to talk about this some more . . . ‘

‘I’ll come to you. Of course. Good day, Kausalya.’ Kausalya paused a moment longer at the threshold. Their eyes met for an instant and something passed between the two women. Something that was part regret and part confusion. And all sadness. The First Queen turned and made her way down the corridor. Sumitra watched her go, feeling as if she had just lost her best friend in the whole wide world. She shut the door, latched it, leaned her head against the softly scented pinewood, and began to cry.

SEVENTEEN They ran into trouble in the late afternoon. The sun was behind them now, beating relentlessly down on their backs, searing the nape of Rama’s neck. From the cool touch of the rig against his bare back, he knew that the leather was soaked through with sweat. So was his ang-vastra, reduced now to a limp rope-like garland hanging around his neck and wound around his arms to keep it out of the way. They had been travelling for over eight hours without pause, he estimated. A little after noon, the brahmarishi had exhorted them to eat some fruit and salt and drink some water, but Vishwamitra himself had not taken a morsel. In fact, Rama realised, in the nine days they had been together, he couldn’t recall ever seeing the seer-mage eat a full meal. Small wonder then that not a single one of the three-hundred-strong Brahmin procession had uttered a word of protest at either the relentless pace, the searing heat, or the lack of a rest. Old and young alike, the Brahmins and brahmacharyas of Siddhashrama had followed their guru stoically. There was no more chanting or recitation– there wasn’t enough energy for that–but the entourage had trudged on without protest or complaint for the better part of the day. Around noon, they had left behind the rolling grassy plains where wild horse, elephant and rhino roamed freely and entire clans of lumbering hippopotami rolled cumbrously in mud-pools, and the path had begun undulating constantly, seemingly unable to stay flat any longer, while thickets of wildbrush, sage, bamboo and bizarre profusions of lavishly multi-hued wildflowers bounded it on either side. The path widened steadily and the ruts continued to deepen as they went northwards, a considerable improvement over the narrow grassy dirt-track that had led them out of Siddh-ashrama. It never actually became a proper road, at least not one that any Arya cartographer would officially label a ‘marg’, but clearly this part of the route saw fairly regular traffic. The trees bordering the path provided some welcome shade and the air grew slightly cooler as they toiled steadily to a higher level above sea. Rama spied flashes of movement in the depths of the woods they passed by and several times glimpsed the tip of a busy tail or the glint of dark feral eyes. But no animals troubled them. Even the most ferocious predators shied away from a procession of over three hundred humans travelling with elephants, horses and bullocks. Even the occasional lowing of the bullocks or whinnying of horses from the rear of the line was perfunctory, like little animal exclamations rather than nervous complaints. After a while, the road seemed to rise and fall in waves like an ocean. The swells grew higher each time, until they could see nothing of the land ahead until they reached the top of the next rise. They crested yet another of these rolling swells and were rewarded by a dramatic change in view. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra came gradually to a halt, raising his staff high above his head to

let the procession know that he intended to stop. ‘Slow!’ his strong booming voice called out. The message rippled down the line as noisily as the quintet of parrots flying squawking overhead, their long green and red tails flashing brightly against the ocean-blue sky. A few of the older rishis had begun to doze sitting upright in their carts. They came awake at once. The younger acolytes peered around the rear of the bullocks, trying to see what had warranted the unexpected halt. With a series of creaking, clanking, lowing and tongueclicking sounds, the pilgrim procession ground to a halt. The same little lisper who had amused the company earlier emitted an unselfconscious yawn, stretched mightily, and repeated his now-famous phrase: ‘Omharithwaaa!’ bringing a brief smile to the faces of everyone except Rama and Lakshman, whose attention was focused on the brahmarishi. Vishwamitra hefted the staff and used it to point ahead, explaining the decision that lay before them. They were in an overgrown meadow bordered by bamboo thickets. Up ahead, Rama saw, the cart-track they were following curved sharply right and wound its way eastwards for as far as he could see. About a hundred yards further ahead, just about where the Vajra bigfoot had stopped on seeing the main procession halt, a thin, sketchy line wound its way through the brush, wavering upwards into the lower slopes of what seemed to be a range of rolling hills of varying heights. The path, if it could be called that, disappeared into the dense woods of the hills. The hillside was cloaked with densely growing trees all the way up its height, which seemed to rise to at least three hundred yards. ‘Rajkumars, heed me,’ the seer-mage said, using his staff to point ahead. ‘Those hills lie just below the southernmost boundary of the Videha nation. If we were to follow that narrow winding path up through those hills, in less than a mile we would be able to look down on the River Shona. The river marks the southern border of Videha. The capital city, Mithila, is less than a day’s journey from there.’ He pointed to the left. ‘The boundaries of Kosala are four yojanas in that direction, at the point where the Shona curves northwards. Its west bank then marks Kosala’s easternmost border and its east bank marks Videha’s westernmost border. Do you follow me thus far?’ Both Lakshman and Rama agreed they did. This was basic geography of the Arya nations and they had studied it well at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul. The seer-mage nodded and raised his staff to point to the far right. ‘Twenty yojanas in that direction the Videha nation rubs shoulders with the kingdom of Banglar, the easternmost Arya nation and the blessed place whence hails Rajkumar Rama’s noble mother Kausalya-maa.’ Vishwamitra then pointed ahead again, tracing the main cartpath’s winding line upwards to the right. ‘There lies our marg. The nameless dirt path on which we stand travels two

yojanas north-east then goes due north for another yojana and a half before turning north-west until it reaches the River Shona. The river runs weak and shallow there and can be crossed easily on foot. We shall breach it and continue north-west across open fields, passing through the town of Visala and continuing until we reach the sacred Ganga. On the blessed banks of that great river we shall spend the night. From the Ganga’s north bank, it is perhaps ten yojanas to Mithila city.’ The sage lowered his staff. ‘Do you have any questions, rajkumars?’ Rama spoke for both Lakshman and himself. ‘Guru-dev, why not go up the hill and down the other side? We would reach the River Shona in an hour or less and Mithila city is less than ten yojanas thence. We would cover a third of that journey before this day ends, break for the night at a spot of your choosing and arrive in Mithila well before noon tomorrow. It would save us two-thirds of a day’s journey.’ The brahmarishi nodded. ‘This is the reason why I halted our company, young Rama. Few travellers venture this far south, yet those who do so invariably face this very dilemma. To take the road through the hills or follow the long way around. As you have grasped already, the marg we intend to follow circumnavigates the entire range, taking us over five yojanas out of our way and adding a further two yojanas as well. At our current pace of one yojana per hour, that would be seven hours more than the direct route.’ The sage paused. ‘But there is a reason why sensible travellers always take the long way. It is safer.’ He indicated the narrow upward-winding path again. ‘That wooded way is indeed quicker and easier. But there is a price to pay for taking it. As the Vajra captain reminded us this morning, those hills are rife with bandits and outlaws, as well as wild predatory beasts of several species. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent travellers have lost their lives or their virtue, and surely all their valuables, upon those hills. If we were to take that route, we endanger the entire company.’ Rama inclined his head respectfully. ‘Guru-dev, whatever your choice, we shall follow gladly. But may I say that in the event of our being waylaid by the bandits you speak of, my brother and I would not hesitate to protect every last life and limb in our entourage.’ Lakshman said, ‘Rama speaks truly, maha-dev. If assaulted, we would ensure that not a single hair on a single Brahmin’s head should be harmed.’ Vishwamitra’s eyes twinkled. ‘Not that they have much hair to protect!’ Rama and Lakshman grinned involuntarily, surprised at the sage’s sudden flash of humour. Vishwamitra shook his head slowly. ‘But jesting apart, rajkumars, I would rather that we avoid violence where possible. Our mission to cleanse the Southwoods was an unavoidable one, made even more imperative and urgent by the growing brazenness of the Lord of Lanka. But fighting bandits in the hills is not necessary to our cause. And as our studies teach us, even a Kshatriya must do all he can to avoid violence, resorting to it only when all other means fail. In the present circumstance, violence is easily avoided. We shall take the main path and go around the hills.’

Rama wanted to ask the brahmarishi why, if his mind was already made up, he had stopped and discussed the whole question in the first place. But it didn’t behove a shishya to question a guru on his motives. Besides, the brahmarishi’s wisdom was unquestionable. Kshatriyas who wilfully sought out fights were looked down upon. Even so, he was surprised to feel a twinge of regret that they wouldn’t be taking the more dangerous option. It’s almost as if I want a fight. He dismissed the thought at once, feeling guilty for having even conceived it. ‘Jaise aagya, Guru-dev,’ he said, joining his palms together. Vishwamitra raised his staff to order the company to resume their journey. Just as he strode forward, the first scream erupted. It was distinctly human. A man crying out hoarsely in extreme terror and agony. It was cut short abruptly. Droves of birds of every colour and breed, disturbed by the blood-curdling cry, rose into the air, darkening the afternoon sky as they wheeled about. Bandars chattered in the trees. Dry leaves and brush rustled as other, smaller beasts of prey reacted to the sound of another being in mortal pain. Mirroring exclamations travelled through the Brahmin procession. Rama and Lakshman exchanged a glance. Ahead of them, the Vajra bigfoot had raised their trunks and were rolling them about excitedly, twitching their tails as well, but too well disciplined to issue a sound. A lookout seated facing backwards on the last bigfoot glanced up at the hills then back at the procession to see if he was expected to give the word to call a halt. The brahmarishi strode on as if nothing had happened. A second scream erupted, this one much louder and more startling than the first. It was more a clash of howls than a scream, really, as if two beings, human and inhuman, were fighting to the death. The throaty animal howl was cut off with brutal abruptness. Immediately after, the human voice issued a sharp, high-pitched cry. The ensuing silence was more chilling than the screams.

EIGHTEEN Rama and Lakshman had drawn and strung their bows the instant the second scream began. Without slowing their pace, they scanned the hills intently. It was impossible to see anything through the dense, close-growing northern trees. Behind them, nervous murmurs broke out in the Brahmin procession as the ashramites debated the source and cause of the blood-curdling screams. The Vajra bigfoot leading them had begun lowing uneasily, shaking their trunks from side to side and flapping their ears. They’re battle elephants, they know violence, Rama thought. Just as he now did. ‘Guru-dev,’ he said, ‘it appears that someone is in trouble up in the hills.’ The seer-mage was so still and silent at first that Rama thought he might be absorbed in another trance state. Then Vishwamitra’s fist opened and slid down the length of his wildwood staff, gripping it lower. He raised the staff, calling a halt yet again. The procession lurched to a standstill. Yet another outburst of screams and howls shattered the still, hot afternoon, causing a great commotion in the procession. Some Brahmins were reciting mantras to ward off asuras. But Rama didn’t think those screams had been caused by asuras. Those were some kind of animal. And humans of course. Locked in mortal conflict. A queer sensation rippled through the muscles of his back and arms. A brief memory of the battle in the Bhayanak-van flashed in his mind’s eye. He tightened his grip on his bow, the string creaking as he drew it to its limit. The sound of hoofbeats drummed steadily from the rear of the procession, growing louder and closer. Vajra Captain Bejoo was coming up again, and this time he didn’t need to ask the reason why they had stopped. Ahead, the Vajra bigfoot squad also came to a lumbering, thumping stop. The brahmarishi had remained curiously silent after calling the halt. Rama addressed him again. ‘Guru-dev, my brother and I ask permission to go up into the hills to investigate the situation. If bandits or wild animals are preying on innocent wayfarers, it is our dharma to go to their aid.’ The seer-mage looked at Rama thoughtfully. ‘True, rajkumar. But what if those are not innocent wayfarers but bandits themselves who are fighting the wild beasts of the hills? Whom would you save then? The savage beasts or the murdering mortals?’

Rama blinked. The question was completely unexpected. Did that mean that the brahmarishi knew what was happening up there? Of course he does, Rama admonished himself. If he could sniff out Lanka spies in a city as populous as Ayodhya, he can easily sense what’s happening on the hill up there. He struggled to find an appropriate answer. ‘If that were the case, Guru-dev, I should attempt to put a stop to the violence and send both groups their separate ways.’ The brahmarishi looked at Rama intently. His voice was unusually soft, almost as if he was speaking to himself. ‘Truly blessed, Rani Kausalya.’ A fresh burst of noise exploded into the nervous stillness. This one was a veritable orchestra of murderous shouts, yells of pain and rage, and a series of clashing sounds that were unmistakably weapons at work, including the familiar metallic ringing of steel striking steel. The sounds carried for miles around, disturbing the birds and fauna of the entire region and alarming the Brahmin procession further. The youngest acolyte was lisping his ‘Omharithwaaa!’ frantically over and over again. This time nobody was laughing. The brahmarishi cocked his head thoughtfully. ‘It appears that your choice of opponents may have increased to three now, rajkumar.’ Rama waited but the brahmarishi didn’t explain further. Instead the sage added: ‘Go with my blessings.’ Rama and Lakshman shot off at a pace that made the grassy ground blur beneath their feet. They thrashed through the undergrowth, reaching the narrow hill path in an instant. They plunged into the shadowy dimness together and vanished from the sight of the procession. Bejoo had started once again towards the front of the procession on hearing the first scream. He was almost there when the second scream erupted. The blood-chilling sound alarmed a skittish calf just ahead and the distracted young brahmacharya minding it lost his grasp on the tethering rope. The calf turned, unnerved by the violent screams, and bolted left across a downy meadow, heading for the thicket. Two of its fellows followed eagerly, their dangling nose-rings tethered by the same rope. The brahmacharya called out in alarm and leapt down from the cart to chase after them. He landed directly in front of Bejoo’s cantering horse and froze foolishly. Bejoo pulled up sharply to avoid running him over. He held up his hand to indicate to his men following behind to halt as well, then gestured impatiently to the wide-eyed acolyte to get out of the way. A fresh round of screams from the hills confused and scared the boy further. He stayed firmly in Bejoo’s way. ‘Your calves are getting away, boy!’ Bejoo said. The boy whooped, slapping the side of his shaved head, setting his pigtail wagging, and ran after his animals. Several other young acolytes ran to help him.

By the time the path was clear for Bejoo to ride on, the rajkumars were already sprinting up the side of the hill. He cursed under his breath to avoid offending the Brahmins and spurred his horse to a full gallop. As he rode past the seer-mage, he could have sworn Vishwamitra was smiling grimly up at him. He veered off the path and up an overgrown hummock at the foot of the first hill. The two Vajra riders who were posted with the bigfoot regiment for purposes of coordination appeared ahead of him, still on the path. He yelled at them to follow him and they swung their horses around with practised ease. From the thundering of hoofbeats behind him, he knew that at least half of the forty-odd horseback Vajra Kshatriyas were already riding up to take up a defensive position around the procession. Those were standing instructions. Bejoo cursed again, aloud this time, not caring if any holy men could hear him. He had anticipated a possible ambush on their way to Mithila. But his scenarios had not envisioned the rajkumars leaving the procession to go seeking out trouble, dammit! Now he was forced to make the difficult choice of leaving either the Brahmins or the rajkumars unprotected. He made his decision and yelled an order to one of the two horseback scouts who were on his flanks now. The man saluted and turned back towards the Brahmin procession. He would ride to the acting lieutenant of the horse squad and convey Bejoo’s order to bring the Vajra chariots up from the rear to form a picket formation around the Brahmins, thus freeing the majority of the horses to ride after Bejoo as back-up. They would be a minute behind him now, but their presence might be invaluable. Judging by the number and variety of those screams, the fight up in the hills involved a sizeable number of participants. He rode fiercely up the hillside, thrashing through wild brush and overgrown limbs, vines and creepers. He had to leap over fallen logs, and duck and swerve to avoid being knocked off by tangled vine-webs and mossy branches. The remaining scout followed him with difficulty. Bejoo ignored the scratches and minor slashes he received, pushing his mount as hard as he dared up the overgrown hilly path. The princes had run so swiftly, he knew they must be empowered by Brahman shakti. If he didn’t make a superhuman effort, he would reach them too late to help much. He didn’t want another repeat of the Bhayanak-van battle, where he had arrived on the scene almost at the close of the fighting. Up ahead, he heard another yell, this one less a scream than a cry of rage. Angry shouts followed. And above the drumming of his own heart and the pounding of the hoofs he caught a faint metallic sound that could only be weapons clashing. Someone was fighting up on the hill; several someones from the sound of it. He cursed again. Why did the rajkumars have to get involved? What did they think they were doing anyway–acting as the Kosala nation’s voluntary roving police force? This wasn’t even Kosala territory. Whatever was going on up there, it wasn’t their fight. If the rajkumars were so chivalrous and eager to protect the innocent, they could simply have asked Bejoo to send a quad or two to investigate. Did they stop to think? To consult Bejoo, a much-

decorated veteran and a high-ranking Kshatriya trusted by their father himself, a former teacher to them? No! They had simply discussed the matter with their new guru and gone running off into the wilderness to be heroes again. Bejoo cursed once more and rode harder. An instant later, he broke out of the tortuous path and found more open ground. The going became a little easier as he rode on upwards through what seemed to be an ashwood grove. He was almost at the top now. Bejoo knew this region. It was notorious for its high incidence of highway robberies and ambushes. After the last asura war, several Kshatriyas of the armies of the united Arya nations, exhausted by their ordeal, had forsworn their oaths and taken to the hills. Usually they would be considered deserters, but the aftermath of the war had left everyone disturbed and confused and it had been decided to simply let them go their way and live their lives as generation-exiles, meaning that even their progeny could never claim citizenry of any Arya nation ever again. The authorities had assumed the deserters wouldn’t last long in this wild land anyway. That had been twenty-something years ago, back when the Bhayanak-van, whose stillsmouldering ashes were situated only a few miles to the south-west, was still rife with asuras, and this whole region had been desolate and uncharted. These hills had been so insignificant, they hadn’t even been named. As ashrams sprouted up across the southern boundaries of the nations and this route had slowly come into use, stray incidents of banditry had been reported with increasing regularity from the unnamed hills. But it hadn’t been worth the manpower or effort to clean the place up. Besides, the hills were a no-man’sland, belonging neither to Videha nor to Banglar. And they were certainly no concern of Kosala. So what am I doing, riding up a hillside after two princes of Ayodhya on a sunny spring afternoon? Exercising my Vajra? Something like that, Bejoo guessed. He spurred his horse up a last bank, her hoofs scrabbling briefly. To her credit, she never made a sound of protest, just kept her head down and worked her way up with the bit held tight between her teeth. He breached the rise and gained relatively flatter ground running east by north-east. Sounds of weapons and angry cries were clearly audible now, coming from up ahead, and Bejoo led his horse that way. He rode through shadow and clear light, tree shade and open patches, across a hardpacked coppery soil strewn with old leaf-fall. To his left, winking through gaps in branches, in a winding valley almost a thousand feet below, the placid waters of the River Shona gleamed silvery blue in the afternoon sunlight. The sounds from up ahead grew increasingly strange and incomprehensible. As he caught echoes of unmistakable animal grunts and cries, Bejoo flashed back to a memory of the battle in the Bhayanak-van, when he and his men had finally caught up with Rama, Lakshman and the brahmarishi, battling hybrid asuras in the deep Southwoods. That incredible sight would haunt his dreams for ever. The memory reminded him of Bheriya for some reason, bringing an unexpected twinge

of regret to his heart. Bheriya was gone, really gone. The man he had considered his surrogate son was dead. He brushed the thought aside fiercely. This was no time to think of dead surrogate sons. He had a duty to perform and two princes to protect, dammit! Then he burst through into a clearing and his horse reared in alarm as they came across a sight almost as bizarre as the one they had encountered back at the Bhayanak-van. He reined her in with difficulty. ‘In the name of Shani!’ Bejoo exclaimed in sheer amazement. What had the rajkumars got him into this time? Rama felt the surge of power in his veins as he breasted the top of the slope. He felt as if he had merely climbed a ten-yardhigh hummock rather than a three-hundred-yard hill. Lakshman was right by his side. ‘Which way, brother?’ Lakshman asked, scanning the thickly wooded hilltop. Rama replied by putting a hand to his right ear, miming listening. Lakshman nodded, listened, then pointed right. They sprinted that way. Bright diamonds winked up at them from the valley to the left as they ran: the River Shona. Rama could see why travellers were tempted to cut across the hills. It was such a short way over. Besides, the hills–or at least this one thus far–seemed quite placid and tranquil. But he knew that was deceptive. Already, his awakening Brahman-attuned senses were growing aware of a peculiar sensation. It was like a creeping, crawling itch on the back of his neck, like a thousand very tiny pinpricks being inflicted all at once, too tiny to do harm individually, but infuriating in sum. He sensed watchers in the woods, eyes gleaming darkly from treetops, behind trunks, even from loose soil and leaf-fall mounds on the ground. The population wasn’t as sparse as first appearances suggested; they just didn’t wish to show themselves to these two-legged intruders. His feet pumping rhythmically beneath him, Rama dodged rabbit-holes, snake-holes, anthills, tree trunks, and a surprisingly large number of enormous beehives that hung low, almost at eye-level beneath the mishmash of banyan, oak, ash, pine and bitter elm trees, while his mind analysed the messages his other senses were receiving. What had the guru said? Remember the tiger. Restraint. A chisel, not a hammer. True enough: why use the hammer of Brahman when his Kshatriya skills might be enough to deal with the situation? A part of him wanted to use that hammer, to give in to that electrifying surge of Brahman shakti. To feel that numbing shock of divine effulgence passing through his cells, the indescribable ecstasy of drawing upon a power so vastly infinite, it could destroy universes and reshape existence itself. Not just that; he wanted to use the dev-astras again. To unleash forces so immense, they were named for their divine destructibility. Devastras: literally weapons of the gods. He wanted to yield to the flow of Brahman, to awaken the other Rama, the one who was a fighting machine, an unstoppable engine of destruction. And once unleashed, that Rama would not stop until every living foe in sight was dead. He forced himself to

exercise self-restraint, to obey his guru’s order. The words of his first teacher, Guru Vashishta, rang in his ears like a mantra. First, assess. Then negotiate. Only when all else fails, resort reluctantly to violence. And even then, never strike the first blow. The sounds from ahead grew louder. Rama had returned his arrow and bow to the rig on his back when Lakshman and he had begun running. Now, he drew his sword in a smooth motion, lopping off a tree trunk looming in his way. By the time the severed limb fell to the leaf-thick ground, he was twenty yards ahead. Lakshman followed him, perhaps just a stride after his brother. At Rama’s current pace, that meant Lakshman was all of three yards behind. Rama didn’t know why his brother wasn’t as empowered as he was by the shakti of the maha-mantras, but it was so. He accepted it just as he accepted the surge of energy that flooded his muscles, accentuating that indescribable feeling of . . . invincibility? Godlike power? Whatever it was, he was starting to like it now, and liked the way it made him feel, the way it made all other normal everyday considerations seem trivial and distant. Karma and dharma. His eagerness to return to Ayodhya. His concern for his mother’s unexpectedly renewed relationship with his father. His father’s fading health. His own approaching coronation. The real reason for this unscheduled detour to Mithila. All of it faded before the shakti of Brahman like a trickle from a cupped hand drowned out by the roar of a waterfall. Right now, the only thing that mattered was sword and muscle. Blood and bone. Life and death. Rama drew in a breath and leapt an enormous, impossible leap. He arced up, up to almost five yards height, slashing easily at obstructing leaves and branches, scything his way through into the clearing ahead. He exploded into the clearing like an apparition out of thin air, releasing an ululating cry that carried for miles around, and landed with an impact like a small tornado. A cloud of dust and leaves swirled around him. ‘Ayodhya Anashya!’ he cried. Ayodhya the Invincible! Lakshman put every last bit of energy he had into keeping up with Rama, and found he couldn’t. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t run as fast, it was as if Rama was just physically so much more powerful that it was pointless even trying to keep up with him. Lakshman guessed that he was running at a pace of at least ten yojanas an hour. Ninety miles an hour! That was amazing by any standards. But even so, he seemed to be struggling to catch up with Rama. His brother’s legs were treadmilling as effortlessly as a sprinter doing a practice run on a training exercise, and even as he ran, Rama’s head turned sharply this way, then that, scanning, observing, scouring the wooded slope like a tiger exploring its territory with preternaturally developed senses. Rama was changing again, he knew, into the killing machine he had become in the battle. Somehow, that didn’t make Lakshman feel very glad. For some reason, the sight of his brother transforming from a mild, soft-spoken, dutiful young Kshatriya into a savage

fighting machine beyond human comprehension disturbed him profoundly. But he could feel the Brahman shakti throbbing in his own body and experienced a sense of overwhelming super-confidence. His doubts melted away as he entered a similar trancelike state. As they approached the site of the disturbance, Lakshman watched Rama crouch low like a cheetah preparing to spring, then leap impossibly high into the air. He watched in admiration as Rama flew through the trees, sword slashing at obstructions, and disappeared from view. Lakshman put all his effort into one final burst of speed, and exploded into the clearing ahead just in time to see his brother standing half crouched in the midst of a bizarre tableau, the air swirling angrily with the dust and disturbed leaves of his landing. The reverberations of Rama’s war cry rang through the air and Lakshman echoed him. ‘Ayodhya Anashya!’

NINETEEN Prime Minister Sumantra scrutinised the young Vajra Kshatriya standing before him. The soldier was clearly the worse for wear, his face revealing the rigours of his long, hard ride and his slashed uniform and blood-spattered limbs leaving no doubt that he had recently been at arms. He bore the three bands that marked his lieutenant rank, below the jagged lightning-slash symbol of the maharaja’s Vajra regiment. Sumantra didn’t know Bheriya personally. His duties as prime minister of Kosala covered the entire gamut of administrative and governmental matters. Military affairs were only one part of his enormous responsibility, and while he was aware of every nuance of the overall picture, he could hardly be expected to know every soldier on sight. But Mantri Jabali, the minister for defence and military administration, recognised him and that was good enough for Pradhan Mantri Sumantra. ‘Well met, Lieutenant Bheriya,’ Mantri Jabali was saying now. ‘Your appearance testifies to your need for rest, refreshment and, um, hygiene. But circumstances demand that you delay those graces and deliver your missive first.’ Vajra Lieutenant Bheriya inclined his head formally. ‘Mantriji, I would have it no other way. My message is of far greater urgency than my personal needs. I am grateful to you and to Pradhan Mantri Sumantra for granting me this immediate audience.’ The prime minister nodded, acknowledging the man officially. ‘Go ahead then, Lieutenant. Deliver your message. We are as eager to hear your words as you are to speak them.’ Bheriya looked up at Sumantra, who was standing at his formal post to the right hand of the sunwood throne of Ayodhya. The throne itself was empty, and the vast parliament hall nearly so. Sumantra, Jabali, Bheriya himself, Rajkumar Bharat, Rajkumar Shatrugan and an unusually large number of palace guards were the only persons present. Bheriya bowed his head regretfully. ‘Pradhan Mantriji, forgive my inability to fulfil your command. My message is for the ears of Maharaja Dasaratha alone. This was my captain’s explicit command. To disobey it would be to dishonour my caste-oath.’ ‘Lieutenant,’ Sumantra said with a trace of impatience, ‘I understand that you would violate the oath of the Kshatriya by not following your superior’s orders. But Mantri Jabali is the minister in charge of military affairs, which makes him superior in authority to your Vajra captain. And I myself am prime minister of the kingdom of Kosala, entrusted by the maharaja as well as the people of this nation with the governance not just of the seat of Ayodhya, but of the entire Kosala nation. Your captain would not

regard giving us your message to be a violation of his orders, let alone your caste-oath! Come now, time is wasting. Speak your message and I shall act on it immediately if so warranted. This is a direct command, good Bheriya. Speak!’ But the lieutenant shook his head regretfully. ‘Pradhan Mantriji, once again, I beg your forgiveness. My master’s orders brook no re-interpretation. Either I speak with the maharaja alone, or I do not speak at all.’ Sumantra was growing angry, a condition that wasn’t common to his calm, measured disposition. Rajkumars Bharat and Shatrugan, who had escorted the lieutenant from the first gate to the palace for this audience, exchanged a glance. They had already told Sumantra about the man’s refusal to speak to anyone but the king. But Sumantra’s orders were equally clear: until prince-in-waiting Rama returned from the Southwoods, or Maharaja Dasaratha recovered enough to attend to his courtly duties, he was the one charged with governing the kingdom. Of course, he would not take any major action without consulting the maharaja himself, or at the least Guru Vashishta, to whom Dasaratha invariably turned for advice, but it was ridiculous to expect the maharaja to rise from his sickbed to attend to everyone who brought a vital message meant for his ears only. ‘Kshatriya,’ Sumantra said sharply, ‘do you know how many couriers arrive with messages for the maharaja daily? Today alone four other riders have arrived since daybreak, bearing messages of the greatest urgency directly from the maharajas of four Arya nations and intended solely for Maharaja Dasaratha. All four messengers willingly entrusted their missives to me without delay or argument.’ Sumantra pulled out an ornately carved gold seal-ring from a pocket in his robe. ‘I dictated the replies myself and sealed them with the maharaja’s own seal-ring. As you can see, I am fully empowered to act and speak on his behalf. I command you for the last time, deliver your message to me, or face a trial for treason under martial law.’ He held up the hand bearing the seal-ring before the lieutenant could respond, and added, ‘Think carefully before replying. Your honour as well as your life could well depend on what you choose to say.’ Mantri Jabali broke in hastily: ‘I am sure the prime minister does not intend to impose this harsh penalty on you without cause, my good Bheriya. Pray, speak freely and trust us to bear your every word to the maharaja as if you spoke them directly into his very ears.’ The Vajra lieutenant glanced around the hall as if trying to collect his thoughts. Sumantra added as an afterthought: ‘One last point. I am willing to let you speak your message in private, to me alone if you prefer.’ He gestured towards the rajkumars and the palace guards, including even Mantri Jabali. ‘That is the last concession I make to you, soldier. Now speak.’ Bheriya looked up at the prime minister. ‘Forgive me, Pradhan Mantriji. I cannot violate my orders.’

Mantri Jabali stifled a groan of dismay. Sumantra nodded, seething inwardly. Stubborn Kshatriya fool! ‘Very well then. You leave me no choice. Guards, take this man to the city jail. He is to be charged with treasonous disobedience of the maharaja’s law.’ A quad of guards marched forward and took charge of the Vajra lieutenant. Bheriya made no move to resist. Mantri Jabali sighed. ‘Most regretful. Pradhan Mantriji, I will go along with the arrested man to see to his arraignment.’ As Bheriya was led out of the hall, Rajkumar Bharat approached the prime minister. ‘Sumantraji,’ he said, a frown creasing his handsome features, ‘that man has word of Rama and Lakshman and the outcome of their mission to the Southwoods. They may require our aid urgently, or . . .’ He paused. ‘Or worse.’ ‘I am aware of that, Rajkumar Bharat, and am as eager to learn of their condition. But you saw the man’s stubbornness. He left me no choice under the law.’ The young prince chewed his lip anxiously. ‘Yes. But perhaps if you speak to Guru Vashishta, he may find some way to release the man of his oath-obligation. The guru is wise in finding solutions to impossible problems.’ Pradhan Mantri Sumantra nodded. ‘An excellent suggestion, young Bharat. That is exactly what I intend to do right away.’ A disturbance outside the hall attracted their attention. They turned to see Mantri Jabali returning with an uncharacteristic smile on his normally austere features. The guards and their prisoner followed in his wake. ‘The devas are with us today,’ Mantri Jabali said to Sumantra. ‘The situation has been resolved.’ He turned and bowed his head to greet the person following close behind. Maharaja Dasaratha, seated on a travelling chair carried by four palace guards, entered the parliament hall. ‘Sumantra,’ the maharaja said in a tone far softer than his usual booming baritone, but nevertheless as commanding, ‘this messenger wishes to deliver an urgent missive to me personally. I will hear him without delay. See to it that we have complete privacy for a few moments.’ Pradhan Mantri Sumantra smiled. ‘With pleasure, your majesty.’ Addressing the other occupants of the hall, the prime minister clapped his hands. ‘You

heard the maharaja. Everybody except Maharaja Dasaratha and the Vajra Lieutenant Bheriya is to leave at once.’ He descended the steps of the royal dais, passing the maharajah, who was carried up to the level of the throne and assisted in seating himself. In seconds, the hall was clear and Sumantra himself backed his way to the large, ornately carved wooden doors. ‘Aagya, maharaja,’ he said, taking leave formally. ‘We shall be without these doors until you send for us.’ Sumantra emerged backwards from the hall and issued an order to the palace guards standing by to shut and bar the massive doors. The stubborn Kshatriya has his wish, he thought, relieved. He’s alone with the maharaja and can do as his captain ordered. The doors thundered shut. As the reverberating echoes faded away, Sumantra was reminded for some reason of the sound of the city war-gong. It was meant to summon citizens to the walls to prepare for battle, to announce the approach of an invading army. Ayodhya had never sounded that gong because the city had never been attacked or besieged. But if that relic were to be struck, Sumantra was certain it would make a sound not unlike the doors of the parliament hall had just made.

***

Bejoo controlled his horse with a nudge and a twitch of the reins. Her nostrils flared as she smelt the pungent scent of one of the large predators nearby, but she held steady as her master surveyed the scene in one quick sweep. Behind him, the solitary remaining scout reined in his mount as well. ‘By the gods,’ Bejoo muttered under his breath. What had the princes got themselves into this time? The scene in the clearing was as exotic as any Ayodhyan artist could have imagined. Two different species were frozen in a tableau of brutal violence and hatred. On one hand were the humans, a motley assortment of men and women clad in garments roughly woven from bark and hemp-rope. They all looked much alike, as if they might be members of one vast family; this illusion owed more to their similarity in appearance than their features. Their coarse henna-red hair was matted into knotted locks, their faces and bodies were uniformly filthy and unwashed, shiny with sweat, badly healed scars and more recent wounds. Their beggarly garments clung to ill-fed bodies taut with the aggressive, jumpy tension typical of lives lived in constant fear of violence.

A pathetic assortment of weapons were clutched in their fists– chipped swords, longknives, twisted daggers, sharpened rods, rusting tridents, a battered mace or two, and in the massively muscled arms of two enormous bearded brutes, solidly cast ironwood hammers each almost a yard long. They were about thirty-odd in number, and Bejoo had seen enough bandits to know a gang when he saw one. The leader of the group seemed to be a man with a face uglier than any Bejoo had seen before: the flesh had been mauled brutally in some old encounter, gouged too deeply to allow regrowth. The man’s teeth were clearly visible through three gaps in his left cheek; the cheek itself, if you could call it that, consisted of just three stringy strands of flesh hanging loosely. You can probably see his food being chewed when he eats, Bejoo thought, disgusted. He knew only one animal that could inflict such a wound: bear. But he had never seen a man clawed by a bear that badly who had survived to tell the tale. As if in mute confirmation, the scarred leader of the gang wore an iron chain around his neck sporting at least a dozen bear claws, and predictably, his main garment was a faded chewed-up bearskin. The other group in the fight were, not surprisingly, rksas. Bejoo, like all other Vajra Kshatriyas, had a family totem which gave him his clan-name and was his protective mascot in life and battle. This totem was the black mountain bear, or Bejoo. Quite naturally, he had been brought up to regard rksas as a kind of guardian deity. Yet he was sensible enough not to let his reverence for the furry predators overcome his natural human wariness of their short-sighted, hard-of-hearing, bad-tempered natures. At this moment, however, his clan loyalty was calling out to him like conch-shell alarms, driving the blood through his veins and making him eager to join the fray. There were four bears in the clearing. Ten if you counted corpses. The six bears that lay dead were horribly maimed and wounded, their black fur slashed with gaping flesh-bright wounds. Their snarling snouts testified to the struggle they had put up before yielding to superior numbers and metal weaponry. With every fallen bear, at least five bandits lay fallen too. Some were clasped in the crushing embrace that humans mistakenly called bearhugs. In fact, the so-called ‘hug’ was the bear’s way of swivelling its torso from the hips, putting all its considerable upper-body bulk into a cuffing slash of its inches-long claws. The resulting force with which those lethal claws struck usually saw them embedding themselves deep within the victim’s flesh, so a watcher would see the rksa appear to be hugging its prey closely. Each fallen bear had at least two humans apiece caught in its claws in this fashion. Even seeing the gruesome wounds on the bandits brought down by the dead bears didn’t evoke any sympathy in Bejoo. It was clear who was the real predator here. The four surviving bears were clustered together. Bejoo assessed the largest one to be a female in her early middle age. Behind her, partly concealed between her broad back and the trunk of a thick ancient oak, were three cubs of varying sizes. The cubs were very young, too young to be of any real use in a fight against so many armed enemies, but even so they peered out from behind their mother’s flanks, snarling and growling fiercely at the humans who threatened her.

The female was bleeding from several small wounds, none significant enough to be fatal but cumulatively enough to cause great pain and hamper her movements. The bandits wore her down, slash by slash, jab by jab, Bejoo thought, his fury rising as he pictured the desperate last stand of the mother rksa after her adult companions were butchered. Those were the howls of rage we heard—they were sticking her like a dummy at a carnival pig-sticking contest. Despite her wounds, the female stood on her rear legs, presenting the largest possible front, and bared her teeth silently at the ring of bandits who surrounded her. They held their weapons far ahead of their vulnerable bodies, clearly having learned from the example of their fallen companions that the mother bear still had enough fight left in her to take several more of them before she went down. The man with the ruined face was closest to her, supervising the last part of what had been a difficult and brutal clash of the two species. But the bandit leader’s attention wasn’t directed at the cornered bear and her cubs. It was focused on the two humans who were threatening him and his band. These last two were clearly not part of the bandit gang. They were both dressed in the allblack head-to-toe garb of Kshatriyasfor-hire. Wandering mercenaries who travelled from kingdom to kingdom, hiring their swords out to rich merchants who needed bodyguards while ferrying their goods from marketplace to marketplace, entering melees and tourneys for the prize-money, occasionally even signing up with any army that was hiring and paying well. Both had their heads covered with the same black roughcloth and their faces were veiled as well, only their bright eyes visible, shining fiercely. They were an odd couple, one a giant towering over everyone else in the clearing—everyone except the female bear, of course—and the other a slender, lithe Kshatriya a third of his companion’s size. They were armed with the familiar curved swords that Mithilan Kshatriyas favoured, and their backto-back stances revealed their own desperate struggle against the bandit gang. Four or five human corpses lay around them, confirming which side they were on. Bejoo couldn’t quite understand this set-up. He would have accepted the bandits attacking the family of rksas, perhaps slaughtering them for their valuable teeth, claws, fur, even their sexual organs for their mythical aphrodisiacal properties; or the gang attacking the pair of Kshatriyas in the hope of stealing their purses–—ome of these wandering mercenaries did quite well for themselves, and this pair looked well-nourished and decently dressed. But he didn’t understand how the mercenaries, rksas and the bandits all fitted together. One thing was clear, though: the rksas and the Kshatriyas were aligned on one side, the bandits on the other. Which made Bejoo’s choice of loyalty crystal clear. If he and his men entered this fight, they would side with the Kshatriyas, who were at least fellowcaste Aryas, and with the rksas, because they were the Vajra captain’s totem. Besides, he hated bandits. They were nothing more than scum who preyed on unarmed travellers and slaughtered them for a few coins, keeping the women as sexual slaves and the children to

be raised as additions to their gang. He would enjoy dispatching this lot to the realm of Yamaraj. But the boys he was sworn to protect were right in the midst of the tableau, between the bandits, the Kshatriyas and the rksas. As Bejoo watched, Rajkumar Rama began speaking. Rama addressed everyone present in the clearing without regard for whether they were friend or foe, human or animal. ‘In the name of Maharaja Dasaratha, king of Kosala, master of the sunwood throne of Ayodhya, I command you all to lay down your weapons at once and cease fighting.’ Sullen silence met his announcement. Stunned by Rama’s spectacular entrance, the bandits were still gaping at him, and at Lakshman, who was a few yards away to Rama’s left. The two black-garbed Kshatriyas exchanged a quick glance and seemed a little relieved at this dramatic change in their situation. But the bear and her frightened cubs continued to snarl and growl as fiercely as before. Lakshman guessed that to the unfortunate bears, one human was much the same as the next. Even if they could have understood Rama’s words, why should they trust him? He kept his focus as keenly on the rksas as on the bandits, figuring, as Bejoo had just done, that the Kshatriya mercenaries were the only allies he could count on in this face-off. A cornered bear was ten times as dangerous as a bandit. There was no telling what that female might do, or at whom she might direct her wrath. After a pause, someone laughed. The sound was grating, and unexpected. The man who spoke had an insolent tone, his accent a careless drawl that echoed the speech of the Garhwali Himalayas. A mountain man, Lakshman thought. If that was where the speaker was from originally, then he was a long way from his hilly homeland. ‘Rajkumar Rama, we meet again! The devas must have entwined our horoscopes at birth. How else could we meet twice in less than one moon-cycle?’ Lakshman stared at the bandit who had spoken. It was the horribly scarred man, evidently the leader of this ragged band, judging from his appearance and the arrogant way he stood and spoke. For an instant, looking at the disfigured face, Lakshman thought the man’s wounds had just been inflicted, in this very fight; after all, they were rksaslashes, and the man and his band were fighting rksas. Then he realised that the scars—if you could call them that—were very old. He recalled Rama’s encounter with the man named Bear-face, the leader of the gang of poachers hunting the deer near Ayodhya. This had to be the same man, although Lakshman couldn’t figure out how the bandit leader could have got out of jail so soon. ‘You do recognise me, rajkumar?’ the man was saying to Rama. He gestured mockingly at his damaged features, making a coy hand-signal like a classical dancer. ‘Or did you forget

my pretty face so quickly?’ He clicked his tongue mockingly. ‘Ah, I know why you’re here. You didn’t get to kiss my pretty mug the last time we met. So you decided to come a-hunting for me so you could fulfil your heart’s desire!’ A burst of laughter exploded from the other bandits. Some of the other men seemed to recognise Rama too, and one of the younger fellows was staring at the back of his head as if he was contemplating putting his dagger through it. Lakshman tightened his grip on his sword and waited to see what Rama did next. Rama responded in the same measured tone he had used earlier. ‘I repeat: throw down your weapons and live. Or fight on and die. The choice is yours.’ Bear-face hawked and spat on the corpse of a female bear before him. Then he put a sandalled foot on the beast, unmindful of the still steaming mass of intestines oozing from the gashed belly. ‘I seem to recall you giving me similar words on that prior occasion as well, young prince.’ He emphasised the last word as if it was the worst abuse any living being could speak. ‘Right before you caught me unawares with that lucky stone-toss. Well, this time you won’t be so lucky, and my numbers are better than on that occasion. What’s more, you’re in my territory now. No city guards to back you up, no city jail to throw me into.’ He made the infuriating clicking sound again. Lakshman saw the man’s red tongue working inside his horribly exposed mouth and felt his stomach churn with disgust. ‘Not that the city jail kept me long. Do you know the funniest thing?’ Bear-face gestured to his band, all of whom were listening and watching attentively. ‘The young rajkumar arrested me on the morning of Holi feast day, and I was released by the city warden on the same afternoon. Can you guess why?’ Nobody answered, not even the other men who seemed to recognise Rama. Obviously the bandit leader was accustomed to speaking without interruption. ‘Believe it or not–or believe it a lot!–it was on account of this same rajkumar’s coronation announcement! Those Ayodhyan wretches have a custom that when a rajkumar is to be crowned princeheir, or even when he’s just declared as such, they release all prisoners short of actual murderers! So the boys and I, though we didn’t get to pick the purses we’d gone into town for, got off scot-free by the courtesy of this young king-in-waiting right here! Can you beat that? Arrested and then released, both by the grace of the same man on the same day. If that isn’t karma, what is?’ ‘King-in-waiting,’ one of the women bandits said mockingly. ‘Wonder what they feed them maharajas-to-be. The way he came leaping in here, I thought he was that vanar warrior, what do they call him?’

‘Hanuman,’ said another bandit, the oldest of the group. ‘Shut up, you all,’ Bear-face said casually. ‘This here’s no vanar warrior. Least of all a Hanuman. For all his fancy titles and big palace, he’s just a boy. And boys can be killed twice as easy as men.’ Bear-face pointed his sword at Rama. ‘You’re poaching on my territory now, prince. Even jumping like a vanar won’t help you get away this time. We’ll show you how forest Kshatriyas fight.’ Lakshman couldn’t keep silent any longer. ‘You insult the caste of Kshatriya by daring to call yourself one. You’re nothing but a common thief and highway brigand! Do as my brother asks and we may spare your life yet. Otherwise you will be shown no quarter, I promise you that!’ Bear-face turned his head slightly to squint at Lakshman. ‘So this is another of Dasaratha’s whelps, hey? You must be Lakshman then. I heard they sent you two with the seer to fight rakshasas in the Southwoods. What did you do there? Set fire to the forest and burn down all the wretched beasts?’ This provoked another burst of laughter. Several of the men who had looked nervous and unsure when Rama and Lakshman had first entered the clearing now seemed relaxed and supremely confident. He’s showing his men he isn’t scared of us, while buying himself time to figure his way out of the situation. Lakshman found himself reluctantly admiring the bandit leader’s shrewdness. But the man’s words rankled. He was implying that Rama and he had simply burned down the Southwoods rather than confront the asuras face to face. Lakshman couldn’t let that insult pass. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, bandit,’ he replied. ‘You’d probably wet your dhoti if you met a rakshasa right now. Why, look at this scene. It takes three dozen armed bandits to terrorise one female bear! And I’m sure you’d let your men kill her and only step forward to poke your sword at the poor cubs at the very end! Don’t talk about things you know nothing of, vermin! Even a sudra gutter-cleaner can convert to Kshatriya-caste more easily than a wretch like you!’ Bear-face’s features darkened with sudden rage. ‘Call me a sudra, will you? I’m a Kshatriya, you hear? A Kshatriya! I’d face an army of asuras right now and skewer them alive! I’d face the Lord of Lanka and make him eat my steel! A Kshatriya, damn you!’ His followers raised their left fists and echoed their leader’s claim. Rama’s voice cut through it all. ‘Then act like a Kshatriya, bandit. Yield, or die. This is your last warning.’ Bear-face spat at Rama. The phlegmy effusion came nowhere near the prince of Ayodhya, but the vulgarity of the gesture itself shocked Lakshman.

The bandit leader yelled his response hoarsely. ‘I didn’t get to meet your mother last time, prince. You should introduce me to her now. I’ll show her what a real Kshatriya is like—’ That was as much as Lakshman could take. He was about to respond to the bandit’s insult in the only language the man would understand when he saw Rama had reached the end of his patience as well. Lakshman watched as Rama’s eyes, clear and calm up to this point, suddenly blazed bright searing blue, casting a ghostly light that made the bandits nearest to him gape in astonishment. Motes of glittering gold swirled in those Brahman-empowered eyes. His entire body vibrated with blood-madness. Rama’s voice rolled across the hills like the song of a creature neither wholly human nor animal. ‘Your tongue is too sharp, bandit. You just cut yourself to death with it!’ And Rama swung his sword at the two bandits nearest to him, slicing their bodies in half with one lightning-quick slash. The slaughter had begun.

TWENTY Dasaratha resisted the urge to groan aloud as he tried to make himself comfortable on the raj-gaddi. He found it hard to believe that he had sat on this throne for more than two-thirds of his sixty-year lifespan. Sat it, and governed the mightiest Arya nation from its high eminence. From this royal dais of Ayodhya, like the captain standing on the wheel deck of a great ship-of-war, he had steered this great nation through wars and famines, droughts and floods, earthquakes and avalanches. Governed and held united a crore of citizens, all of ten million strong, the largest Arya nation in population and prosperity, if not in geographical size. And the largest in military strength. As a raj-Kshatriya, a king-warrior by birth, Dasaratha had always learned that a strong army in times of peace was the most effective way to ensure the continuance of that peace. After the Kosala army was ravaged and depleted by the last asura war, Dasaratha had girded his loins, gritted his teeth, and, at a time when other monarchs might while away their days in feasting and carousing, rebuilt his nation’s army to twice its former size and strength, restructuring, re-organising, re-arming, and in every way putting the bitter lessons of that last terrible conflict to good use. All right, so he had done his share of feasting and carousing as well—perhaps a bit more than his share, as his now-decrepit physique testified to—but he had never relented in the execution of his great Peace On A War Footing, as his campaign came to be called in time. The result was an army so efficient, so powerful that no human nation would dare an act of aggression against it. In the old days of his ancestors, it was customary every ten years or so to hold an ashwamedha, the horse ritual. A white stallion was sent forth across the kingdom, to roam freely over the lands of smaller lords and nobles, rajas and ranis, selfruling clans and insular districts. The king and his army followed close on its heels. Anyone who dared stop the horse, be he a solitary Kshatriya stupidly seeking a good mount or a leader of a dozen clans, would have to contend with the army following in its wake. In this manner, the ashwamedha would sweep the entire kingdom, ensuring that every last lord, raja and clan chief was still loyal and obedient to the maharaja. Dasaratha had performed the horse ritual too, a long time ago, but today, his democratic parliament was attended by representatives of every clan, tribe and district of the kingdom. There was no need to lead an army out to ensure the loyalty of all his people: they were glad to come to him and offer their vows as often as he summoned them. Right now, it was all he could do to stay upright on the massive sunwood throne. Even though he had been able to sit up since this dawn, he was already depleted and feeling through for the day. The early-morning incident with the drugged fruit punch had exhausted him further. He still didn’t understand how Sumitra could have accidentally

mixed vinaashe root into the punch. The Third Queen was soft-hearted, not soft-headed. As he took a moment to settle himself on the throne and clear his throat to speak, he wondered for the umpteenth time if there had been an element of sabotage involved. Not on Sumitra’s part of course, but on the part of some serving girl perhaps. Every employee of the palace was regularly screened and blindly loyal to the throne, but such things did happen in every house where power, wealth and glory lived beneath the same roof as mortal beings. It didn’t bother him that Guru Vashishta and Rani Kausalya had dismissed his suspicions. They were more concerned about his recovery than about anything else. If they had known he was coming here to the parliament hall to meet this courier, they would have restrained him with their own hands. Fortunately for him, when a court messenger had brought him the news, he had been alone for a brief spell—alone except for the confounded quad of guards that were now placed within his sick-chamber! The guards had protested but he had overruled them by ordering them to carry him to the hall on the travelling seat. Only now had they been compelled to let him out of their sight, and only for the brief time it took this Kshatriya to deliver his vital message. He mustered as much dignity as his condition would allow and leaned forward. ‘Go ahead, Kshatriya. Speak your message.’ The Vajra lieutenant named Bheriya—Shatrugan had briefed his father on the way down—bowed and knelt at the foot of the royal dais. ‘My lord honours me with this audience. Forgive me if I have caused any offence to Pradhan Mantri Sumantra, Mantri Jabali, or to anyone else in the commission of my duties. I was only following the explicit orders of my captain.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Dasaratha said impatiently. ‘I understand perfectly. You are forgiven for any lapses and hereby absolved of all charges levelled against you. I command you now, speak your message.’ The man rose to his feet once more. He lifted his head until he could stare up at his king. Dasaratha was briefly startled by the man’s directness. It was not customary for a common Kshatriya to meet the eyes of his sovereign when enthroned or otherwise. He had already noted the Kshatriya’s dishevelled condition and minor injuries. He had seen far worse. Couriers often delivered their missives with their life-blood staining the floor and their bodies gaping with mortal wounds. This man seemed quite robust and able in comparison. He was young too, and not unattractive to look at. Dasaratha knew that if Bejoo had entrusted this warrior with the second-command of his prized regiment, then Bheriya must be a Kshatriya to reckon with. But all that was of no matter now. Right now, all Dasaratha cared about was the message the man carried. This was the reason why he had made this short but excruciatingly difficult journey in his present condition.

When the man didn’t speak again for another long moment, Dasaratha frowned down at him. ‘Kshatriya,’ he said, ‘I commanded you to speak. Deliver your message without further delay.’ What happened next took Dasaratha completely by surprise. Had he been in good health and alert, he would have sensed something amiss even before the hall doors thundered shut. But the Vajra lieutenant gave no sign of treachery until those massive doors were closed. And when the man began to change, he acted so swiftly that Dasaratha barely had time to register what was happening let alone react to it. The man named Bheriya looked up at Dasaratha with eyes as crimson as the wine of the angoor-grape. The grimace on his face was as white and as wide as the eternal grin on the face of a bleached skull. ‘Aja-putra!’ said the Kshatriya in a voice so eerily familiar that it made Dasaratha’s heart thud as though a hammer was striking his chest. ‘We meet again. This time you will not escape the field as easily! I shall finish the job I began that day on the plains of Kaikeya!’ Dasaratha gripped the arms of the sunwood throne and watched in horrified amazement as the Vajra lieutenant began climbing the steps of the royal dais, coming directly at him with outstretched clawing hands reaching for his throat. *** Bejoo watched as Rama leapt, rolled and ran through the clearing, hacking down bandits like a tiger let loose in a sheep pen. Most of the outlaws barely had time to raise their weapons before the rajkumar cut them down. The light of Brahman shakti shone in the prince’s eyes, and his sword reaped a terrible harvest. Rajkumar Lakshman had joined the fray. He was slaying as fiercely as Rama, if not as fast. The two black-clad mercenaries were in the fight as well. Taking advantage of the distraction caused by Rama’s attack, they were ridding themselves of the five bandits who had ringed them in. And almost as if she understood that this was her best chance at freedom, the bear made her move, charging forward to swing mightily left, then right, impaling two screaming bandits on her claws. She howled in rage, biting deep into a third man’s neck, his blood gushing into her open jaws and splashing across her shoulders, dyeing her black coat shiny red. Her cubs followed, staying close behind their mother while clawing in all directions. One lucky swipe tore through a female bandit’s thigh, the same woman who had compared Rama’s leap to that of the vanar Hanuman. She fell screaming to the ground, her leg gouting blood. Bear-face scanned the clearing, taking in the shocking speed with which his band was being decimated. It was barely a few seconds since the bandit leader had last spoken. Already, half his followers lay butchered. And Rama was wheeling through the air, cutting bloody swathes and terrible arcs of destruction, hewing trees and limbs alike, filling the

air with splashes of blood, bright jugular sprays that made dappled patterns across trunks and leaves, slicing through flesh, punching through bone, severing muscle and sinew, piercing, hacking, chopping, jabbing, slashing, a one-man war machine. Bejoo’s sword was raised and he wheeled his horse around, keeping a tight hold on her reins. No matter how many battles she might have been through, the scent of freshly spilled blood and the chaos of violent combat always made her skittish. It was only her superb training and character that made her stay in the thick of things. He got in a few blows, bringing down one bandit who was trying to impale one of the rksa cubs with a rusty spear. But the fight was ending before it had begun, the bandits shaken by the rajkumars’ fighting power. Bear-face looked furious, his mangled features contorted into a mask of screaming frustration, ‘Kill them! Kill them!’ he screamed over and over again, shoving men and women into Rama’s and Lakshman’s paths, but only succeeding in adding more victims to the slaughter count. Bejoo had felt the trembling of the earth beneath his seat for several moments, but now he heard the familiar conch-shell signal and the shouted exhortation from behind. His Vajra riders had arrived. He swung his mount around, waving his sword in a circle above his head. His acting lieutenant, a young lad with the totem of the golden leopard named Sona Chita, understood the signal, and led the Vajra riders around the main action, fanning out to surround the clearing and fence in the enemies. Usually Bejoo would have ordered them directly into the thick of the fray; Vajras were trained for instant hit-andrun action, not protective or defensive manoeuvres. But it was obvious that the rajkumars needed no aid in finishing off the bandits, and Bejoo feared that in his current trance-like state Rama might even dispatch a few Vajra riders before realising that they were friend not foe. He waited as his men rode around the clearing. The outcome of the fight was now inevitable. Seeing the arrival of reinforcements, Bear-face responded at once. The bandit leader knew when he was outnumbered beyond hope. Yelling to his surviving fellows to retreat, retreat, retreat, he ran as fast as his heels would take him, heading for the end of the clearing away from the approaching Vajra riders. The two enormous brutes who had flanked him escaped as well, their sheer bulk unmistakable as they followed their leader. Bejoo guessed they were the bandit chief’s personal bodyguards. Bejoo watched, chagrined, as the leader and a handful of his quicker-footed followers slipped into the woods while the Vajra reinforcements were still some twenty yards short. He considered sending them after the fleeing bandits but decided there would be time for that later. First, he had to focus on his primary responsibility. In moments, the Vajra riders had completely closed the ring. The dust in the clearing began to settle, sunlight catching the motes and reflecting off blood-spattered metal and leaves. The rajkumars slowed and grew still at last, realising there were no more opponents left to fight. As Bejoo watched with continued fascination, Rama’s eyes slowly lost their blue and gold light and returned to their natural black once more. The prince lowered his sword and

scanned the clearing, examining the destruction he had wrought. Bejoo turned to look at what the rajkumar was gazing at, trying to gain an insight into his mind. What was it like to experience such power? To have the divine shakti of Brahman flowing through your body? To be possessed by the ability to face and defeat any foe? This was only the second time he had seen the rajkumar fight, but already he respected his prowess as highly as any of the greatest warriors he had seen in action. The two black-clad mercenary Kshatriyas also lowered their swords. They seemed stunned by the sheer extent and speed of the destruction. Looking around, the short, slender one appeared shocked by the number of bandits killed. ‘How?’ said the Kshatriya, his voice husky with emotion. ‘How did you do all that? So fast?’ Rama glanced around. The question was directed at him. ‘My brother and I were inducted with the mahamantras Bala and Atibala.’ He added tersely, ‘By Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, whom we are oath-sworn to serve.’ ‘Vishwamitra,’ said the larger Kshatriya, his voice low and strangely accented. ‘The legendary one? Then the rumours are true. The Seven walk as One again. And the land will be bathed in fire until such time as either the Lord of Lanka or the Lord of Light remains. The Last Battle approaches.’ Lakshman and Rama exchanged glances. Rama replied: ‘I do not know what you mean by that, friend. We are rajkumars of Ayodhya, heirs to the kingdom of Kosala. We were recruited by the sage to rid the Southwoods of asuras, which we did. We don’t know anything about Seven walking as One.’ ‘Who is the Lord of Light?’ Lakshman asked curiously. Bejoo decided it was time to step in. ‘Rajkumars, we have not yet been introduced to these two strangers. You ought not to converse with them until I have questioned them and established their credentials. They could well be allies of the bandits who fell out with their leader.’ Almost as if to confirm his words, the larger of the two Kshatriyas roared with fury and strode forward, brandishing his sword.

TWENTY-ONE ‘Allies of bandits?’ The larger Kshatriya pointed his sword at Bejoo menacingly. ‘Get off that horse and say that, Kshatriya! I will show you whose allies we are!’ ‘Nakhu!’ The shorter one barked the single word sharply, stepping forward. ‘These are our friends. The captain meant no offence with his words.’ So the smaller one leads the pair. Bejoo was surprised. He gestured to the two Vajra riders who had galloped up behind the larger Kshatriya, ready to defend their captain. They backed up their horses a yard or two, still eyeing the large warrior suspiciously. The short Kshatriya caught the arm of his companion and spoke into his ear. The difference in their sizes was so immense, the shorter one’s head only came up to the taller one’s midriff. Bejoo estimated the shorter one to be at best five feet and seven inches of height, fairly below average for a grown Kshatriya. The taller one was easily seven and three-quarters, or even more than eight feet tall. His head was almost at Bejoo’s shoulder level, and Bejoo was mounted! Bejoo, himself substantially shorter than the six-foot average Kshatriya height and overly sensitive about his lack of stature, found himself taking an instant dislike to the tall mercenary. From the glint in the veiled man’s eyes, the disaffection was mutual. The short one’s whispered instructions seemed to pacify the taller Kshatriya slightly. His eyes continued to glare angrily at Bejoo from above the veil but he lowered his sword, deferring to his shorter companion. The short one nodded perfunctorily at Rama and Lakshman, then at Bejoo, speaking gruffly. ‘My name is Janaki Kumar and this is my close companion Nakhu Dev. We are travelling Kshatriyas currently between employers. We heard the sounds of the bears howling and tracked the sounds. When we saw the bandits slaughtering the innocent animals, we felt compelled to help. We were in the process of dealing with them when you arrived.’ Bejoo waited for a moment, then realised that was the end of the man’s explanation. ‘Is that all you wish to say, Kshatriya? No thank you to the rajkumars for having saved your life?’ ‘Saved our lives?’ said the tall one, eyes flashing again. ‘What do we look like to you? Boys in need of daiimaas to protect us? Those bandit vermin were not fit to wet our swords. I could have handled all of them alone if I’d had to!’ Bejoo was needled by the man’s tone and words. ‘You were hopelessly outnumbered,

man! Those bandits would have cut you down in another eye-blink if we had not arrived when we did. At least have the humility to admit when you’re in over your head! There’s no shame in admitting you’re outmatched.’ The tall mercenary raised his sword again, shaking it threateningly at Bejoo. ‘Outmatched is a word that you must be familiar with, Vajra! It’s not a word in our speech. A single Jat Kshatriya would have been sufficient to deal with that entire band of forest scum! Look to your own sword when admitting humility. I saw how you sat your horse and issued hand signals to your riders while the two rajkumars here did all the real work. You don’t deserve to draw your coin this month! Your masters did all your work for you!’ Bejoo leapt off his horse and strode towards the mercenary. Dismounted, he was a good two feet below the man’s eye level. He didn’t care. He raised his sword in the two-handed grip he favoured, nodding his head at the same time to order his men to stay back. ‘Put your sword where your fat mouth is. I won’t have my courage questioned by cheap hire-by-the-day mercenaries like you! You want me off my horse? Here I am now. My men will not interfere. This is between you and me. Let’s see if you can fight as well as you can boast now!’ ‘ENOUGH!’ The voice cut through the bristling tension, startling the scavenger birds that had begun to gather on the treetops above, scenting the sweet odour of dead flesh. A horse whinnied. Rama strode forward, inserting himself directly between the towering Kshatriya and the Vajra captain before either could make another move. He had sheathed his sword and was barehanded. He held up his arms, facing the captain, leaving his back exposed and vulnerable to the tall Kshatriya, whose sword was still drawn and raised. ‘Captain Bejoo, in the name of my father Maharaja Dasaratha, your supreme commander and sovereign liege, I order you to sheathe your sword at once. I will not tolerate any more needless fighting. Instead of bartering words with your fellow warriors, you would do better to send your men after those escaping bandits. They can’t have got far and your riders might yet catch up with them. I want that leader arrested and taken back to Ayodhya to stand trial. Do you hear and understand me?’ Bejoo backed away at once, lowering his weapon and sheathing it as he bowed to his prince. ‘Yes, Rajkumar Rama.’ He gestured to Sona Chita, his acting lieutenant. ‘You heard the rajkumar! Send half your men after the escapees. The rest of you scour the woods immediately around us and make sure that the area is clear of danger. Move!’ The Vajra riders responded at once, galloping away to carry out their captain’s orders. Bejoo turned back to Rama. ‘Forgive me, rajkumar. My sincere apologies for that unnecessary delay. I meant to give that order as soon as the fighting ended. It was this

hulking dolt who distracted me with his egoistic boasts!’ Bejoo glared angrily over Rama’s shoulder at the tall Kshatriya. ‘Truth be told, I would not be surprised if he was aligned with those forest vermin and was deliberately delaying us from chasing after them!’ The tall Kshatriya raised his left fist, clenching it hard enough that the crunching knuckles sounded like an axeblade being driven into a tree trunk. ‘Vajra! Heed your words! I respect the rajkumar’s fighting prowess and lion-courage too much to raise my sword before him. But if the devas give me another chance, I shall slice you into small strips and feed you your own meat through every one of your nine orifices!’ Rama raised a hand, turning slowly to face the large Kshatriya. ‘Conserve your strength, giant-heart. Nobody questions your ability or valour. I saw you fight. And had my brother and I not arrived here, I have no doubt that your sword alone would have been sufficient to send every last bandit to the arms of Yamaraj. Accept my admiration and my hand in friendship, and let us not fight any more, either in speech or in deed. Agreed?’ The Kshatriya named Nakhu glared down at Rama’s outstretched hand. His eyes lost some of their gloss of anger and softened. He nodded slowly, and held out his own right hand, gripping Rama’s tightly. Then he leaned forward and embraced Rama with fierce strength, clapping him on the back hard enough to raise an echo from the woods. ‘Prince of Ayodhya, you fight like a legend reborn,’ he said gruffly. ‘And you like a legend waiting to be born,’ Rama replied, clapping the Kshatriya’s back just as resoundingly. The tension broken, all of them looked around the clearing, assessing the aftermath of the short but brutally violent conflict. The shorter Kshatriya, the one named Janaki Kumar, looked around at the fallen rksas. He shook his head sadly. ‘What did they do to deserve this? Those butchers slew them neither for need nor greed.’ Lakshman came forward and stood by him. ‘What do you mean? Surely they meant to fleece their skins and valuable parts? Why else would they kill bears?’ Janaki Kumar shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But when we came upon the lot of them, all surrounding that poor brave female and her brood, the leader, that horribly scarred man, he was ordering them to kill every last one.’ Rama joined them, looking down at the savagely gashed corpse of a large brown rksa. ‘Our new friend is right, Lakshman. If they meant to skin these beasts, they would have been more cautious about how they killed them. Look at these wounds. This fleece would not fetch half the price with these slashes and rents. No, I think the one named Bear-face has some old enmity with them. Probably something to do with his own wounds.’

Janaki Kumar nodded sadly. ‘I think Rajkumar Rama has the truth of it. This was meant to be a slaughter, not a capture. Those cubs alone would fetch good prices at any carnival or pit-fight. They would have been using nets and ropes, not weapons and violence.’ Rama turned to look at the shorter Kshatriya. The man’s eyes were a deep soft brown, betraying his intense sensitivity and intelligence. He reached out a hand of greeting. ‘Well met, Janaki Kumar. It is good to come across a fellow Kshatriya who abhors needless bloodletting as much as we do.’ Janaki Kumar took his hand, gripping it firmly. Rama clapped the man on the back as hard as he had done with Nakhu Dev. Janaki lurched forward, then recovered and returned the gesture less enthusiastically. ‘I would not take you for a believer in peace, Rajkumar Rama,’ he said sourly. ‘Not after watching how you butchered those bandits.’ Rama shrugged. ‘It was unavoidable. I made every attempt to talk them out of fighting. You saw how belligerent their leader was. He would not listen to reason—’ Bejoo interrupted. ‘If you ask me, we should have cornered and killed every last one of them. Rid the earth of that scum.’ Nakhu Dev slapped the Vajra captain on the back, using more force than was necessary for the simple gesture. ‘I second the Vajra Kshatriya on that point. Even one bandit is one too many!’ Bejoo glared angrily at the Jat. He was about to say something when the sound of returning horses distracted his attention. The Vajra riders he had sent to scour the immediate area rode up, their leader saluting his captain. ‘Bejoo,’ he said, using the totem name as was customary for all Vajra Kshatriyas, ‘the area is clear of all danger. We had sight of the bear and her cubs, heading northwards. Do you wish us to chase them down?’ ‘No, you fool,’ Bejoo snapped irritably. His back still smarted from the Jat’s casual slap. ‘Let the bears wander where they will, this is their land.’ A moment later, Sona Chita came riding up as well, his face flushed and red with disappointment. ‘A thousand times shama, Bejoo. We found tracks leading to a hole in the ground not far from here. I believe it leads into a tunnel that in turn connects with a grotto of caves within the hills. The bandits seem to have escaped into there. We would have to leave our horses to follow them and if it is one of those labyrinthine mazes, we could be a long while chasing them. What are your orders?’ Bejoo cursed and turned to Rama. ‘Rajkumar, on your command, I can dispatch half my riders to pursue the bandits down the tunnels. The rest of us can continue our journey.’

Rama thought for a moment, a frown creasing his handsome face. ‘No, Captain. They must know those tunnels and caves like the back of their hand. This is their territory. Your men would probably find them eventually, but if there are other bandits in those caves, we would only lose more good Kshatriyas. Call off the search and let us all return to the procession. I must speak with Brahmarishi Vishwamitra about these events.’ Janaki Kumar exchanged an uneasy glance with his partner. Bejoo caught the glance and wondered what it meant. He still had his suspicions about these two. Rajkumar Rama had accepted their word and taken them at face value, but had Bejoo been in charge here, he would have liked to question them a while longer—at the tip of a sword preferably. ‘Rajkumar Rama,’ Janaki Kumar said, ‘in that case we shall take our leave and proceed on our way as well. The hour grows late and we have already been delayed much by this unhappy event.’ Rama nodded, looking distracted. He was still unhappy about not catching the bandit leader, Bejoo guessed. ‘Very well, Kshatriyas. Well met then. Safe journey.’ They returned his wishes and were about to go—with a distinct look of relief on the shorter one’s face, Bejoo noted— when Rama thought of something else and turned back. ‘Oh, by the way, friend,’ he called out. ‘Where exactly are you headed?’ Janaki Kumar called back, ‘Nowhere near your fine city, prince of Ayodhya. Our road takes us the other way entirely. We go to Mithila.’ Rama looked at his brother Lakshman, then at Bejoo, then back again at the Kshatriyas. ‘That is our destination too,’ he said to the black-clad warriors. ‘And if you are headed there as well, then you must accompany us.’ Bejoo had to make an effort not to curse aloud—not at Rama’s words but at the thought of enduring the arrogant tall Kshatriya’s company a moment longer. But he couldn’t protest. His prince had already extended the invitation, and from the look on the face of the shorter Kshatriya, it had been accepted.

TWENTY-TWO Dasaratha was fighting for his life. The Vajra lieutenant’s newly grown talons were gripping his throat in a vice, slowly choking the life out of him. Dasaratha struggled with all the meagre strength he had left. His legs kicked weakly out at his attacker, his arms flailing and beating the man’s sides and chest. It was no use. The very suddenness of the assault had robbed him off the little strength he still had. The man was clearly possessed by some supernatural force. His eyes were glowing red as rubies. His head bulged at the sides, almost seeming to expand horizontally. As Dasaratha gazed up through rapidly blurring vision, he realised with another shock that the man’s head wasn’t expanding, it was multiplying. Out of each of his ears something was emerging. As each lump of shapeless flesh emerged, it grew instantly larger, puffing up like an obscene balloon of flesh and cartilage and bone, to become a whole head as large as the man’s original one. Now, Dasaratha saw with dazed horror, the man had three heads. Out of the ears of the two new heads, two more emerged. Now he had five heads, then seven, then nine. And then, out of the one on the extreme left, one last head emerged, its mouth working soundlessly, like a newborn baby trying to scream its birth-pains. And to Dasaratha’s stunned surprise, the crushing hold on his throat was released and he fell back on the sunwood throne, gasping and choking and retching for breath, precious breath. The man stepped back a yard, just enough to allow all ten of his heads a clear view of the maharaja of Kosala. ‘Aja-putra! We meet again!’ Dasaratha struggled to retain consciousness, fighting the waves of blackness and nausea that surged through his beleaguered senses. He could feel the parliament hall reeling and spinning madly, like the sky seen from one of the carousels he had ridden as a boy, astride a horse yoked to a central pole, a dozen boys and girls like himself riding round and round, clapping and laughing and singing. He could even see his father Aja standing by, watching carefully, ready to leap to the rescue if little Dasa should lose his balance. There were daiimaas and helpers all around the carousel, but it had taken Aja a lifetime to see a son born to his name, and little Dasa was more precious than a thousand thrones. Dasa hadn’t fallen. He had ridden that horse around the pole without once lurching or faltering. His father had taken him down proudly at the end of the contest—Dasa was still sitting long after the other children had cried and begged to be taken off—and had kissed his forehead lovingly.

‘My son rides like a king,’ his father had said aloud. And Dasa had smelled the familiar scent of betelnut and mint on Aja’s breath. His father loved eating paan, and for the rest of his life Dasa would always associate that particular scent with his childhood. There was no scent of betelnut and mint from the creature that stood before him. Only the stomach-churning reek of raw new-birthed flesh and the pungent musk of a wild beast of no discernible species, mingled with the unforgettable fetor of the battlefield— blood, urine, faeces, and the gases of organic decay. This was not his father. This was the beast that had haunted his dreams for the past twenty years, the creature that wanted nothing more than to erase him and his dynasty from existence, along with every other living being on earth. ‘I see you are having some difficulty staying on your throne, Dasa! What is it your Brahmins say? “Easier to sit an elephant in musth than to sit a gilded throne”? Something like that! Would you like some help staying upright? Or perhaps you’d simply like to move aside and let me take your place? I think I’d be able to bring more dignity to that seat than your pathetic choking and reeling!’ All the heads were speaking. Even through his agony, Dasaratha could tell that much. One spoke the first part of a sentence, another completed it. A third began the next statement, a fourth continued it, a fifth finished it . . . They all had distinctly different voices and accents. One or two even spoke in different languages, moving from Sanskrit highspeech to Awadhi commonspeak to Pali to Prakrit . . . it was a devil’s legion of tongues. All the heads grinned and mocked him as he fought to stay conscious. Only the central head stared coldly, its eyes glinting with a deep inner light that seemed to observe all that was happening without actually involving itself. This central head no longer resembled the Vajra lieutenant Bheriya: he had been only a courier designed to carry this message to Ayodhya, Dasaratha now knew. And the message was Ravana himself. Ravana had always possessed great supernatural powers, but to transmit himself through another body across time and space was a feat Dasaratha had not known the demonlord was capable of. Clearly, Ravana’s powers had grown immeasurably since they had last confronted each other. Gradually he managed to gain some semblance of balance. The brutal attack had shocked him more than hurt him physically. But in his ailing, weakened state, even that brief choking had been enough to exhaust his already drained resources. His throat was a rash of pain and wetness where the three-inch-long talons had gouged and pierced his flesh. His mind searched desperately for a means of calling for help while trying to decide what to do next. If this beast attacked him a second time; he would not survive. His only chance was to communicate his distress to Sumantra and the others standing outside. But the doors were barred, at his own request, and the hall was large enough that even his loudest cry—should he somehow get a cry out through this crushed larynx—would go unheard. The massive doors were meant to keep in the cacophony of a thousand debating parliamentarians, not transmit the agonised distress cries of a dying maharaja. Dying? Am I dying then? Is this how I am to go? Thrashing and retching on my own throne, staining the Suryavansha seat with my involuntary effluents? Despoiling this great chair which mighty Manu himself once sat on and whence he proclaimed the great laws

of Arya civilisation? Never! With one ferocious, heart-bursting effort he struggled to sit upright, gripping the arms of the throne to steady himself. Forcing himself to ignore the shooting pain in his chest, the pounding in the back of his head, the pain like a dozen splinters of glass in his throat, he spoke hoarsely to the ten-headed beast. ‘Ravana. You’re foolish enough to come to me. Good. You save me the effort of sending my army to fetch you then. You shall not leave this chamber alive.’ The ten heads stopped smirking and stared at him. Perhaps not all of them. At least two or three retained their fixed, mocking grins. But several others tried to glance at each other, rolling their eyes theatrically, and at least two that he could see—the ones at either end—grimaced and scowled menacingly at his threat. What threat? he thought as he fought to hold on to consciousness. What could I possibly do in my condition to hurt this being out of hell? Yet he felt better simply for having said that, for having put up some honourable show of dignified response. The central head snarled at the one to its immediate right, then looked at Dasaratha and smiled with startling warmth. ‘Very good! That’s more like the Dasaratha I know. What is it your name means in the highspeech? He Who Rides His Chariot In Ten Directions At Once? Meaning that you were able to fight ten enemies at the same time? How quaint of your parents. I remember Aja. He was a good fighter, but much too vain about his looks. He never recovered from that double slash I inflicted on his cheeks. It completely ruined his handsome visage. His self-esteem couldn’t stand the shock.’ The taloned hands shot out, imitating the way he had disfigured Dasaratha’s father’s face, slash-slash. Dasaratha resisted the impulse to wince even when those red-tipped claws came within millimetres of his eyes. He spoke as coldly as he could, using his hoarseness to make himself sound harsh rather than weak and feeble as he really felt. ‘If you have something to say to me, say it. I have no time to sit here and banter with you, Nagadeva.’ Seven out of the ten heads lit up with a variety of smiles. ‘Nagadeva! It’s been aeons since I was called by that name. Serpent-king. Of course you know that the real king of the nagas is Takshak, he who winds himself around the blue throat of Shiva the Destroyer. But since I gained control of the naga legions, it’s quite accurate to call me their king. Among many other titles, of course. And speaking of nagas, they’ll be visiting you soon. Along with the pisaca legions, and the rakshasas, and uragas, and vetaals and all my other creeping, crawling, lunging, leaping and flying associates. Seething like a plague of locusts across your kingdom, and every other Arya kingdom besides.’ The demonlord droned on sonorously, spelling out in gory, gruesome detail the ravagement of the Arya nations he had in mind. He spoke of warships already at sail, landing soon at ports along the western coastline of the subcontinental peninsula; teeming millions of asura forces starting to make their way towards Ayodhya and its

nearest neighbour, the north-western Arya nation of Kaikeya, from which Dasaratha’s Second Queen hailed, the site of the last asura war and the northernmost point the asura armies had reached before being pushed back by the Arya armies led by Dasaratha himself. He’s telling the truth, thought Dasaratha. There was no doubt that this was the reason the asura king had come to Ayodhya, to asassinate him, and before doing so, lecture him on all the horrors he would visit on his race and his kingdom, gloating over his final triumph. But as the creature with ten heads continued his fiendish monologue, Dasaratha’s mind worked on another matter that had unexpectedly come to his attention. Even through his mist of pain and disorientation, the maharaja had begun to see something very strange and interesting. Each time the demon king spoke, the ten faces took different sides in the utterance. As if some disagreed violently, others concurred, and yet others were of a wholly different but not disagreeable opinion. It was not unlike some heated political debates Dasaratha had administered; arguments over borders and river-sharing where a dozen clan chiefs took as many different positions, all appealing simultaneously to the maharaja to heed their individual stand. The only difference was that the ten heads in this case were not on ten different bodies but on one. And just as with the differing heads of state, so also with these differing heads of Ravana, there was a pattern to the apparent chaos. Each time the Lord of Lanka said something, there was always one head that remained silent. While the words came from any or even all of the other mouths, one mouth remained wordless, one pair of eyes watched intently, one face stayed impassive and still, sharply watchful. A glimmer of insight came to Dasaratha then, even as he turned a deaf ear to Ravana’s descriptions of the asura cities that would be built on the ashes of Ayodhya and Kaikeya in the aftermath of the genocide. That’s the head that is in control at that moment. He can use all the heads when thinking or acting, but when he speaks, one head focusses completely on the task and you can see which one it is just from its expression. The face in question always had a look of rapt concentration, as if the effort of speaking aloud took more effort than anything else. And indeed, Dasaratha realised with that inspired insight that sometimes comes to minds pushed beyond the limit of exhaustion and rational thought, might it not be that a being with ten heads would find the simple act of speech to be the most difficult of all physical actions? Because while every other action required the head or heads to control the rest of the body’s limbs, speech involved the heads themselves. What if speaking was the action during which the demonlord was most vulnerable? He held his breath, unable to believe that he had been given such a major insight into the process of Ravana’s inner workings. Not that he knew yet what to do with this information, but he was certain that it would be of some use, somehow, some day. Rama, he thought for no particular reason, I must tell this to Rama when he comes home. It will be helpful to him at the crucial moment. The moment he thought this, he blinked, wondering why it had come to mind. Then it passed into the turmoil of warring thoughts and sensations battling for space in his consciousness.

Ravana fell silent suddenly, several of his heads peering suspiciously at the maharaja. Dasaratha realised he must have smiled involuntarily, unable to conceal the exultant pleasure of his unexpected inspiration. He knew that in another moment the demonlord would make his move and strike him down, washing the sunwood throne in his blood. Still, the very fact that he had gained that brilliant insight into the inner workings of his arch-foe gave him renewed strength and hope. It provided the last ounce of extra courage he needed to put into action the plan he had formulated during the past few moments. He sent up a final prayer to his maker, fully aware that he would probably not survive this last foray. May the devas watch over my family and my people. With a warrior’s cry of rage, Dasaratha threw himself sideways, off the throne. He landed on the royal dais with an impact that felt as if he had broken a rib or three. He lay on the carpeted floor for an instant, then forced himself to rise to his feet again, staggering with all the grace of a drunken dancer to the object placed at the end of the dais. The creature with ten heads bellowed as Dasaratha approached his goal. ‘Foolish one! I was prepared to show you some mercy yet, for old times’ sake. Now I will show you real pain! Pain such as you have never felt or dreamed of before.’ Dasaratha reached the ceremonial gong that stood beside the First Queen’s throne. It was used to announce the formal start and end of a parliament session, indicating to the assembly that they should be seated or rise respectively. The long wooden ringer was hung on a rack above it. He didn’t bother to try to fumble with the rope from which it was suspended. There wasn’t time. He could feel the rushing wind and foul fetor of the demonlord at his back, flying at him with enough force to crush his organs and shatter his bones. Dasaratha swung his clenched fist with all the energy he had left in his body and struck the gong with one resounding blow. The sound echoed through the chamber like a victory bell—or a death knell.

KAAND 2

ONE Sumantra was the first to hear the gong and react. ‘Maharaja!’ he cried. ‘Open the doors! Open them now! Hurry!’ The palace guards rushed to do his bidding. The rajkumars Shatrugan and Bharat had been standing nearby, conversing with each other intently. The instant the gong sounded, they reacted as well, knowing something had happened in the hall. Sumantra gestured agitatedly at them. ‘Shatrugan, go fetch Guruji! Run!’ Shatrugan sprinted away. He was the faster runner of the two; Bharat’s muscular bulk made him a formidable mace-fighter but slowed him somewhat. Bharat drew his sword and stood by Sumantra as four guards lifted the heavy teakwood bolt off the door and lurched sideways carrying it out of the way. Sumantra and Bharat threw their shoulders against the massive ten-yardhigh doors, joining their strength to the ten other guards pushing against them. The doors opened as fast as the laws of gravity and motion allowed, seeming like an eternity. Even as he pushed, Sumantra yelled at a sergeant of the guards to fetch reinforcements and Captain Drishti Kumar, the commander of the maharaja’s personal security. As soon as the doors were ajar, Bharat and Sumantra slipped inside. The prime minister had taken a lance from one of the guards and held it firmly in both hands like a twohanded sword, ready to lunge at the first sign of threat. They entered into pitch blackness: the torches in the hall had all been extinguished. Even the daylight spilling in through the open doorway barely illuminated a third of the long approach to the royal dais. Most of the hall’s fifty-by-seventy-yard dimensions was utterly dark. An eerie silence hung over the vast chamber. Their footfalls and the clanking of the guards’ armour and weapons echoed and rang out through the empty space. Bharat and Sumantra reached the end of the gritty pool of light coming in from behind, and ventured into the sightless dark ahead, making their way towards the dais, not knowing what lay in wait for them. ‘Maharaja Dasaratha?’ Sumantra’s voice was clear and filled with concern. ‘Are you well?’ ‘Pitashree?’ Bharat called, using the formal term of address required by propriety when addressing his father in public. ‘Are you seated on the throne? Where are you?’ There was no answer to their queries. The deafening silence loomed before them like the thick, dense darkness through which they proceeded. Sumantra gave a guard beside him an order to fetch torches. The man passed the

message down the line, but Bharat guessed it might be several minutes before the light arrived. It was still bright afternoon outside and the torch-lighters would not be in use yet. They would have to be fetched, and that would take a moment or two longer. As he stepped slowly ahead into the wall-thick darkness, Bharat could feel the hairs standing on the back of his neck and hands, and a sensation like ants crawling up his thighs. Behind him, several guards spoke invocations softly, urgently. All Arya Kshatriyas feared sorcery far more than they feared mortal injury. The unmistakable sense of magic was thick in the silent, dark assembly chamber. Bharat felt his shin bang against an obstacle. He restrained the impulse to slash wildly with his sword, his mind reassuring his warrior instinct that it knew what the object was. ‘The royal dais,’ he said softly, more for his own benefit than for Sumantra’s ears. The prime minister replied nevertheless, whispering to be heard only by the prince: ‘Bharat, you go to your left, I’ll ascend from the right. We meet at the top in the centre of the dais, by the sunwood throne.’ Bharat whispered a curt ‘Okay’ in response. He moved left, knowing the prime minister would communicate the same message to the guards to ensure that they didn’t tangle with each other in the darkness. Where were those torches? They ought to have arrived by now. He went up the high steps of the dais, lifting each booted foot carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible. The dais, like the rest of the chamber, was carpeted, but the structure itself was wood and would produce a muffled noise if he hit it with his heel. Surprisingly, even the guards behind him and on the other side of the dais made no sound as they ascended the seven foot-high steps to the topmost level. As he lifted his foot to climb on to the seventh step, light returned to the hall. It blazed forth with such startling suddenness that Bharat was momentarily blinded. His sword hand instinctively flew up to shield his eyes, his Kshatriya responses regarding the assault as being an attack like any physical strike. If an assault, it was devastatingly effective: for a few precious seconds Bharat could see only stars exploding and bright colours flashing. If the enemy had chosen to strike him down at that very instant, he would have had no chance. As it was, he was loath to lash out with his sword for fear of accidentally hitting his father, whom he still expected to be somewhere about here. Somehow, the torches in the hall had all regained their light at once. It was impossible, he knew, but it had happened and he had no time to waste debating that trivial detail when all his attention was focused on seeing what the sudden infusion of light enabled him to witness. The sight that met his eyes when they adjusted was the last thing on earth he expected to see. Maharaja Dasaratha was seated on his throne, in that familiar pose in which Bharat had seen him countless times before. A forward-leaning posture, the maharaja’s right elbow resting on the end of his right thigh, almost at his knee. His chin rested on his curled right fist, as he stared pensively into the distance. His crown was on his brow. Although

still showing the wasted appearance caused by his cankerous disease, he sat with the dignity and majesty born of a lifetime of ruling and generations of Suryavansha kings. ‘Pitashree?’ Bharat approached the sunwood throne cautiously, lowering his sword but still unable to rid his mind of the certainty that something was still amiss here. From the far right of the large dais, the prime minister also approached, lance still in hand but point now lowered, his face reflecting the same confusion and suspicion that Bharat felt. ‘Maharaj?’ Sumantra said cautiously. Dasaratha blinked twice, as if pulling his mind out of some vexing contemplation that had involved him for several moments. He looked up at Bharat and his face creased in a weary smile. ‘Arya-putra,’ he said, hoarsely but warmly. ‘Approach me, my son.’ Bharat went to him, sheathing his sword. He felt curiously vulnerable doing so, but had no choice. He couldn’t very well approach the enthroned king of Kosala with naked steel in hand, even if it was his own father—especially if it was his father! On the steps of the dais, caught by the abruptly returned illumination in various poses of stealthy climbing, the palace guards also blinked at one another and sheathed their weapons hastily. They retreated backwards down the steps as Bharat went to his father, bowing their heads and muttering formal apologies for their transgression. Bharat stood before his father’s throne and bent his knee. He felt Dasaratha’s heavy hand rest on his head a moment. It felt unusually warm. The maharaja was running a fever. That was not unusual in itself; the maharaja was ill, after all. ‘My son, rise now. I have important work for you. I wish you and your brother to take two divisions of the army apiece and ride separately to Kaikeya and to Gandahar at once. There you will warn your respective grandfathers of the imminent asura invasion and stay to help them defend their cities. Only after you have repelled the invaders successfully will you return with whatever forces you can muster to help defend Ayodhya.’ Bharat looked up at his father after this astonishing speech. The maharaja’s words left no room for confusion or question. But he still couldn’t comprehend what he had just been told. More than that, it was the bizarre circumstances in which he had been given the command that disoriented him. One moment ago, he had been advancing through the pitch-black hall, anxious that his father had been attacked by some treacherous means, perhaps even by that very Vajra rider Bheriya—even though the man had been checked and found to be exactly what he claimed to be, a Vajra Kshatriya come to deliver a message. And now here was his father issuing a command to Bharat to undertake the most momentous mission of his entire life. Two divisions apiece? With only four in total, that meant half the army would go with Bharat to Kaikeya, the other half with Shatrugan to Gandahar! The entire Kosala army, leaving its capital city unprotected. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra came to his rescue. Bowing formally to his liege, the prime

minister asked in his typical unassuming, sincere way, ‘Maharaj, forgive my asking, but what makes you fear an asura invasion of the capital cities of Kaikeya and Gandahar? We have no word of such enemy intrusions from these Arya nations.’ Maharaja Dasaratha raised his hand and gestured to the far right of the dais. All eyes, riveted on him these past few moments, turned to look at that part of the hall. ‘He brought me the news, under instructions from the Brahmarishi Vishwamitra himself. The unfortunate man suffered mortal injuries and was not aware of it. After delivering his message his strength was drained and he dropped dead, accidentally striking that gong as he fell.’ The man named Bheriya lay at the foot of the ceremonial gong. Even from where he stood, Bharat could see the telltale trickles of blood from the man’s ears, nostrils and mouth that could only mean deep internal injuries. For that one instant, as every pair of eyes in the hall stared in amazement at the fallen courier at the corner of the dais, nobody noticed the maharaja’s face change. For the briefest of moments, Dasaratha’s features flickered like a shadow cast by a torch, seeming to ripple and alter into the visage of his greatest enemy, the Lord of Lanka. His eyes, naturally a clear greyish-blue, glowed and turned ruby-red for that same fraction of an instant, and his lips curled slowly to reveal his teeth in a shadow of a ghostly grin. Then, before anyone could spy this shocking change, his face composed itself once more, and he was Maharaja Dasaratha again.

TWO Maharaja Dasaratha’s weary eyes peered down at his sons and the captain of his guards. Bharat and Shatrugan had expressions of relief on their faces. ‘Pitashree,’ Bharat said, ‘thank the devas you’re safe. When we heard the gong sound and rushed in to find the hall in pitch darkness, we feared the worst.’ Dasaratha nodded. ‘I was alarmed too when all the torches went out at once. Captain Drishti Kumar, do you know what might have caused such an unusual phenomenon?’ The smartly uniformed young officer bowed his head to his sovereign. ‘Forgive me, Maharaj. I am equally at a loss to explain it.’ Bharat said thoughtfully, ‘It must be sorcery. Our enemies were angered because the Vajra lieutenant succeeded in delivering his message and struck him down through the use of black powers. Then they darkened the hall, maybe with the intention of causing harm to you as well, Father.’ Dasaratha looked impressed. ‘A commendable explanation. You may well be right, son. Who knows what powers the Lord of Lanka possesses?’ He rose to his feet unsteadily. Both Shatrugan and Bharat came forward to help him but he gestured them aside. He walked across the royal dais slowly, the effort showing on his illness-ravaged features. Ignoring the corpse of the dead Vajra Kshatriya, Dasaratha made his way to a large wall fresco that portrayed the fan-like shape of the subcontinent, with geographical features painstakingly depicted and the borders of the seven Arya nations clearly delineated. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra, anticipating his king’s need, handed him a three-yard-long pointer which the maharaja used as he spoke. ‘Once again, I’ll explain my orders to make sure that both of you are clear on what you are to do. Bharat, you shall take two divisions of the army and ride post-haste to your grandfather’s palace at Kaikeya. Shatrugan, you will take two divisions and proceed to your grandfather’s palace at Gandahar. You will both remain there with your forces to defend those two great nations against the coming asura invasion. ‘As I have explained, the asura armies will land on the western coast, travelling north-east up the Indus valley until they reach Gandahar and Kaikeya, followed by Bharata. If you stem the attack at those two northernmost kingdoms, they will never make it across the Sindhu Kush pass. We shall break their attack in the very first stage of the war. Once they have been repelled, they will attempt to make their way down to the great Kutch desert, then turn towards the north-east. They will avoid going fully north as that will put them

between the Jat clans and the Five Rivers. Instead they will march further east until they reach Kosala and then Videha, where they will launch their second campaign.’ Shatrugan frowned. ‘But Pitashree, if Bharat and I take our entire army with us, how will Ayodhya defend itself when that happens?’ Bharat spoke for his father. ‘We shall have returned long before then. The asura forces may be able to travel swiftly now because they cross the ocean in ships. But over land as harsh and hostile as the Kutch desert, it will take them several weeks to reach the borders of Kosala and Videha. We will be back home and ready to meet them long before they arrive.’ Shatrugan frowned. ‘But what if they don’t retreat down the Sindhu river valley? Or if they divide their forces into half and leave half to besiege Gandahar and Kaikeya while sending the other half to Kosala and Videha?’ ‘Well said, my son,’ Dasaratha said. ‘Guru Vashishta taught you well at his gurukul. As well as you, Bharat. Your grasp of military strategy makes me proud. It is indeed possible that Ravana may choose to divide his forces at that point. If he makes that mistake, then I shall send word to one of you, most likely Shatrugan, to return with his half of our army. Then all the seven nations shall unite our forces in a two-pronged attack,’ Dasaratha jabbed with the pointer at the sinuously winding line of the Sindhu river and then at the western border of Kosala, ‘and we shall drive them back into the briny ocean whence they came!’ He smiled as both the rajkumars broke out into spontaneous applause, joined by the palace guards who had been watching and listening to their king’s explanation with rapt interest. ‘It will take more than numbers to defeat us, I can promise you that,’ he said, handing the pointer back to Sumantra. ‘Whatever they may choose to do, we will prevail in the end.’ He gestured at the corpse of Bheriya lying beside him. ‘Couriers such as this brave Vajra warrior will bring word of any new decisions I make to each of you. Now, I urge you to ride for Gandahar and for Kaikeya with all the speed that the devas and nature gifts you. Do not stay even to wish your mothers goodbye or to speak to anyone else. Captain Drishti Kumar and Pradhan Mantri Sumantra shall go with you to ensure that the army assembles at once. Since we are already on full alert, it will be a matter of only a few hours before they are ready to embark on the journey. Now, let us spend no more time on words when swords are what are needed. Go at once, my sons. Ayushmaanbhav!’ Bending to touch their father’s feet to take his blessings in the traditional Arya way, Bharat and Shatrugan rose again with eyes glossy with emotion. They turned and strode out of the hall, followed closely by Drishti Kumar and Pradhan Mantri Sumantra, leaving only the maharaja’s personal quad of bodyguards and a few other soldiers, who began removing the body of Bheriya. Dasaratha descended the steps of the royal dais. He walked to his travelling seat. The four bodyguards were standing at its corners, waiting for him to be seated.

The maharaja glanced once again at the fallen Vajra lieutenant’s body, now being carried out by the palace guards. His haggard mouth twitched with a faint ghostly smile as he watched the body being taken across the parliament hall to the yawning open doors. A figure stood silhouetted in that open doorway, the outline leaving no doubt that it was Guru Vashishta. As Dasaratha hesitated, his hand on the top of the travelling chair, the guru strode forward, advancing towards the maharaja. Guru Vashishta gestured to the palace guards lined up alongside the royal dais. ‘Leave us.’ The officer in charge of the quad glanced uneasily at the maharaja. Dasaratha, standing by the travelling seat, his bodyguards ready to raise it once he sat, nodded once. The officer gestured to his men and they filed out quickly and efficiently. The maharaja looked at his bodyguards and dismissed them as well with a gesture. They left unhappily. Twice today they had been ordered to leave their master alone; both times, the maharaja had encountered trouble. Without bothering to look back, Vashishta spoke briefly, a single line from a four-line verse. The hall doors slowly swung shut of their own volition. The last of Dasaratha’s bodyguards leapt out of the way just as the massive doors came together with a reverberating crash. As the echoes died away, the guru walked down the long approach to the royal dais. ‘So, Dasaratha, you have dispatched the army to Gandahar and Kaikeya.’ Dasaratha inclined his head slightly, showing the spiritual adviser formal respect. ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ ‘And this information regarding the asura invasion plan was brought to you by the Vajra Kshatriya?’ ‘Indeed, Guru-dev.’ ‘A man named Bheriya, who served as second-in-command to Captain Bejoo, the trusted commander of your personal Vajra fighting force.’ ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ ‘This Bheriya informed you in a private audience that Ravana’s troops had set sail from Lanka and were heading towards the delta of the Sindhu river. Thence they would travel upriver as far as they could sail, then continue north on foot until they reached Gandahar.’

‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ The guru had reached the travelling chair. He was a yard from the maharaja. The two men were face to face. Despite his decrepit condition, Dasaratha was a large man, a big-boned, well-built warrior who had spent a lifetime engaged in martial pursuits. His muscles sagged sadly, his skin was liverspotted and grey with age, his hair thinning, pouches under his eyes, deep furrows scarring his forehead and cheeks. But he still retained some vestige of his former glory; if not the full strength of the formidable raj-Kshatriya personality that had made allies feel proud and enemies hesitate. He was still a maharaja, and he looked it. He met the guru’s eyes and held them for a moment. Then he looked down, as was appropriate in the presence of a seermage of such great stature. Vashishta had stood thus before each one of Dasaratha’s ancestors, guiding the Suryavansha dynasty for over eight hundred years. And even those centuries of service were only a fraction of the seer’s seven thousand years on this mortal plane. Dasaratha was king indeed; yet Vashishta was a maker of kings. And a destroyer as well, should he choose to become one. But it was not his awareness of the seer’s superior power that caused Dasaratha to lower his gaze and incline his head. It was sanskriti: the Arya code of conduct that required that elders be shown respect and humility under all circumstances. But what the maharaja did next was not called for by Arya sanskriti. He shut his eyes. Guru Vashishta approached Dasaratha. As he came closer, the seer’s eyes fastened on Dasaratha’s face with the full intensity of his searching gaze. It was as if a blazing torch was being held to the maharaja’s face. The blue glow of Brahman flashed in the guru’s eyes, growing steadily brighter. It grew and grew until it was a beacon of searing intensity in the chamber. Had anyone been present at even the far ends of the vast empty hall, they would have been compelled to turn away or shield their eyes, so bright was the glow from the guru’s pupils. Motes of gold and silver danced in the blue light, and a few strands of red winked in and out of the streaming waves emanating from the seer-mage’s sun-bright pupils. The light swirled around Dasaratha, enveloping him in a cocoon of dazzling intensity. His white vastra caught the light and absorbed it, making his very skin seem to turn blue. Dasaratha gasped, his arms pulled away from his body by the uncontestable power of Brahman. The maharaja’s eyes remained closed, but it was evident that the effort was taking a toll. Sweat poured freely down his face and neck, staining his vastra. The lines and furrows around his eyes deepened to knife cuts, his ashen colouring tinted deep blue by the supernatural light. He grunted, his head jerking this way, then that. A great struggle was taking place. Dasaratha’s feet left the ground. The blue cocoon of Brahman light raised him up, and he rose towards the twenty-yard-high ceiling of the parliament hall. His arms were at right

angles to his body, his legs apart, like a man bound akimbo by invisible ropes. His lips parted, showing once-strong white teeth now turning grey with age and decay. His nostrils flared, seeking to draw breath but inhaling only the pure aquamarine light. He floated upwards until he was midway between ceiling and floor. There he hung suspended in the cocoon of Brahman. Guru Vashishta began chanting a mantra. His voice was strong and clear but soft, loud enough to be heard by the maharaja suspended above, but not by anyone more than a few yards away. This mantra was not meant to be recited in the presence of mortals. It was a mantra reserved for devas. Yet Guru Vashishta had to resort to its use now; he had no other choice. There were no mantras that could free a mortal from the possession of an evil asura aatma. Only this one, a mantra meant to give a mortal the power of a deva for the brief fraction of time needed to expel the demonaic spirit from his mortal form. Vashishta continued chanting the mantra. He built to a climax, the musical Sanskrit rhythms rising in pitch and intensity until they were no longer mere words being spoken aloud, but threads knitting the eternal fabric of space and time itself, infusing the possessed maharaja with the light of Brahman, forcing the shakti that held the universe together to enter into every pore, every cell, every atom of the maharaja’s being. Suffusing them the way the blue light suffused every square inch of the assembly hall— even the far side of pillars and the depths of the darkest crevices. Leaving no place for the evil aatma to hide. Once the searing light of Brahman became too much for it to bear, like a rat caught on a sinking ship the asura aatma would either drown in the flood and be absorbed into the flow of Brahman itself, or flee. It resisted as long as it possibly could. Then it could withstand no more. Ten yards above the floor of the hall, Dasaratha’s mouth opened to release a shrill scream. A piercing banshee wail of dismay and disgust. The scream carried through the walls and doors, making the bodyguards and palace guards waiting outside look up nervously and shudder. Strange times had come to Ayodhya. Dark times. Then the maharaja’s eyes flew open. They were blood-red. They resembled the eyes of the corpse of Bheriya when it had begun to transform into the imitation of its lord and master, sprouting the nine extra heads. But no heads sprouted from Dasaratha. Only the eyes glowed bright jewel-red for a moment, blazing with a fevered ruby light that tried to dispel and destroy the light of Brahman. Tried but failed. Then the eyes closed, and the maharaja slumped in midair, his body turning limp and lifeless. The blue cocoon of Brahman holding him up vanished, winking out as abruptly as a torch doused in a pond. Dasaratha plummeted like a sack of grain. The guru caught him easily.

On the tip of his right forefinger.

THREE Once, the River Shona was a flourishing, powerful stream all of fifty yards wide. Now it was reduced to a mere ten yards of shallow but still cheerfully flowing clear water. To either side of this rivulet lay twenty yards of old riverbed, exposed to the sun and sloping upwards on either side until it joined the valley floor. The riverbed was mostly pebbles over gleaming yellow sand, literally the gold, or sona, that had given the river its name. Over time, the name had lapsed into the commonspeak pronunciation, which tended to turn the Sanksrit ‘s’ sound into the easier-to-pronounce ‘sh’. Hence, Sona became Shona, and so it stayed. As the Siddh-ashrama procession emerged from the wooded hill road into the Shona valley, the evening sun picked out the mineral stones in the riverbed and turned them into a glittering display of jewellery fit for a queen. The first to step on to the bed were the Vajra bigfoot, their ponderous feet raising a crunching sound on the pebbles and shale that sounded like a thousand silbuttas grinding spices at once. The crunching grew louder and more varied in intensity and rhythm as the Brahmins and brahmacharyas followed, and by the time the Vajra horses and chariots joined in too, it sounded like a herd of elephants munching on sugarcane stalks. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra went down to the edge of the water and stood gazing at the low evening sun, his staff held loosely in his right hand, ang-vastra flapping in the gentle breeze. It was cooler here than on the main marg they had been on before the incident in the hills, Rama realised, and the thickly wooded area alongside the river shielded them from the low sun’s rays. He and Lakshman stopped beside a large boulder that bore the signs of water erosion over centuries, perhaps even millennia. The boulder was still mossy in places, indicating that the river had been in spate last monsoon season. The two black-clad Kshatriyas who had been walking just behind them stopped a little distance away, conferring quietly. Lakshman indicated them without actually pointing or nodding his head. Rama and he were familiar enough with one another’s looks and gestures to know what the other was referring to without needing to be led by the nose. ‘What do you think their story is, brother?’ Rama shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t they just be what they say they are?’ Lakshman shook his head. ‘Something doesn’t fit. The bigger one said he was a Jat. The other one clearly isn’t a Jat. So what are they doing together? Jats don’t mingle well, as you could see for yourself during that fight with Bejoo-chacha. They’re fiercely loyal to other Jats but they regard all non-Jats as potential enemies until they’ve proven otherwise.

A Jat wouldn’t be travelling with a non-Jat and fighting back to back with him.’ ‘How do you know the shorter one isn’t a Jat too?’ Lakshman sighed and looked down at his hands. They were still stained with blood from the encounter. Not his own blood though. ‘Because if he is, then he’s the shortest Jat I’ve ever seen. The Jat clans are the tallest Aryas, remember?’ ‘Maybe he’s young. He seemed young to me, maybe our age. Maybe he hasn’t finished growing yet.’ Lakshman shook his head. ‘I think there’s a law that says even Jat newborn babes have to be at least six feet tall.’ Rama smiled. ‘A law?’ ‘A maharaja’s law,’ Lakshman said solemnly. Rama looked at his brother, trying to picture a newborn Jat babe, swaddled in black from head to toe, over six feet tall and lying on his back, bawling for milk. Lakshman seemed to be imagining the same picture: both brothers broke into helpless laughter, startling the Brahmins bustling around the riverbed at first, then drawing smiles and grins as the ashramites understood that the paroxysm wasn’t some rare variety of Ayodhyan affliction, simply two young boys sharing a good laugh. Even the gaunt, lined face of Vishwamitra, standing by the riverside, reflected a wisp of amusement at their hysterical attack. When they had regained control of themselves, Rama punched Lakshman in the shoulder. ‘Don’t make jokes like that. These Brahmins think of us as the heroes of Bhayanak-van. We have a reputation to live up to now.’ Lakshman punched him back. ‘So? Heroes can’t laugh once in a while? Next you’ll say we can’t go into the woods to relieve ourselves because they musn’t suspect we’re human! Or maybe you think we should wait until nobody’s looking and then sneak away? And while we’re at it, we should sleep with our eyes open and never drink or eat either so they think we’re avatars!’ Rama put a hand on Lakshman’s chest and pushed him. ‘Who says avatars don’t drink or eat or sleep or . . . act human? That’s why they’re called avatars, not devas, silly! They’re just reincarnations of devas born in human guise.’ Lakshman pushed Rama back. ‘So maybe the Brahmins think we’re devas. Immortal, invulnerable, superhuman.’ He pretended to tap his chin thoughtfully. ‘And I bet devas don’t have to go into the woods to relieve themselves. Not more than once every thousand years or so!’ Rama wrinkled his nose and waved a hand at Lakshman. ‘Go back to Ayodhya! I disown you. You can’t be my brother.’

Lakshman pretended to gawp in amazement. ‘I’m not your brother? That explains it all! No wonder you’re always so serious and I’m always trying to make you relax and have a laugh or two. If you were maharaja, you would pass a law against jesting or laughing!’ Rama nodded. ‘Like the law against Jat babies being less than six feet tall at birth.’ Lakshman looked at him. Rama tried to keep a straight face. A moment later, they were both laughing hysterically again. ‘Rajkumars?’ Rama struggled to get his laughter under control and looked around. The original subject of his conversation with Lakshman stood before them. Nakhu Deva’s dark eyes scowled suspiciously above his veil, while Janaki Kumar just looked curious, even a bit amused. The shorter man’s voice reflected his amusement. ‘Are we interrupting something?’ Lakshman managed to stop laughing long enough to say, ‘Just a little debate on the lawful size of babies.’ ‘Babies?’ Janaki Kumar’s eyes looked puzzled. Rama nudged Lakshman in the ribs to make him stop laughing. ‘You must excuse my brother. His head is addled by the sun.’ Janaki Kumar seemed to understand. His eyes twinkled. ‘I see. I do hope he recovers quickly.’ Rama smiled. ‘Was there something you desired, Janaki?’ ‘Janaki Kumar, please. I prefer to be called by my full name. Janaki is a very common name. It causes confusion.’ Rama wanted to add that Janaki Kumar was just as common. Instead he said, ‘I apologise that you were unable to speak more fully to our guru. He was keen that we should reach the Shona so we could make camp well before sundown.’ He was referring to the aftermath of the fight in the hills. When they had returned to the procession and briefly outlined what had occurred, Vishwamitra had listened without comment, then had suggested that since the hills were clear of danger for the moment at least, they would take that road rather than the long way around and camp by the River Shona for the night. Rama had wanted to introduce the Kshatriyas to the brahmarishi but Vishwamitra had immediately called the order to march forward again. Rama had told the Kshatriyas he would formally introduce them when they were camped and the sage was more relaxed.

Janaki Kumar didn’t seem to mind the delay. ‘Please don’t apologise, rajkumar. A sage of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s stature has more important things on his mind than meeting every passing Kshatriya on the road to Mithila. We just wanted to thank you and your brother once again for aiding us in that fight against the bandits and for inviting us to join your company.’ Rama noted that Lakshman had managed to get his hysterics under control at last. ‘Truth be told, Janaki Kumar, it’s a pleasure to have you with us. My brother and I are so eager for news of Mithila. Perhaps you’ll sit with us awhile and talk with us about your fine capital city.’ Lakshman added with a painstakingly maintained straight face, ‘And your fine rajkumaris Sita and Urmila.’ Rama kicked Lakshman in the shin. Lakshman cocked an eyebrow, then kicked Rama back. Nakhu Dev looked at them suspiciously. ‘What about Rajkumari Sita?’ Rama shook his head self-deprecatingly. ‘Just a little jest between my brother and me.’ Nakhu Dev scowled at Lakshman. ‘I don’t like jests about my rajkumari.’ ‘Your rajkumari?’ Lakshman raised his eyebrows and waggled them. ‘I thought she was the whole kingdom’s rajkumari. Unless Videha has begun allotting princesses to each citizen individually!’ Rama shot Lakshman a warning glance. ‘My brother really doesn’t know when to stop. He means no disrespect by his jests.’ ‘That’s all right,’ Janaki Kumar said in an odd tone of voice. Nakhu Dev continued to scowl angrily at both Rama and Lakshman. The giant looked as if he might challenge them to a fight at any second. Rama looked about for some means to dislodge Lakshman from his childish mood and to change the track of the conversation. The Siddh-ashrama Brahmins had begun to corral their livestock nearby, and the lowing and mooing of the cattle was growing louder and more distracting. He gestured at the riverbed. ‘Shall we walk by the river a short way? We could talk more freely about Mithila and get to know one another better. I am keen to ask you many things about your beautiful city.’ Janaki Kumar’s slender shoulders twitched in a small shrug. ‘As you please, Rajkumar Rama. But I must warn you, I am a simple wandering Kshatriya with no great insight into the affairs of kings and kingdoms. I know nothing of Mithila politics apart from what is generally known.’ ‘And what is that?’

They walked downriver slowly, the gravelly sand crunching noisily underfoot. Rama and Janaki Kumar were abreast, with Lakshman and Nakhu Dev behind. A gentle breeze wafted from the west, bringing scents of wildflower and honey. The riverbed wound sharply around a bend, almost turning into its own course before unwinding to the right again. The curve took at least a hundred yards to straighten out and took them out of sight of the main campsite, although the noise from behind remained clearly audible. Rama broached the conversation with the most innocuous question he could find. ‘So, Janaki Kumar, which part of Videha do you and your companion hail from?’ Janaki Kumar glanced back at his tall companion before replying vaguely, ‘Oh, you know the life of a travelling Kshatriya, rajkumar. We belong to everywhere and nowhere.’ Rama didn’t comment on the answer. He wished they would remove their veils and headcloths. The masking added a layer of inscrutability. Although reading the shorter Kshatriya’s eyes wasn’t that hard a chore: bright, alive, and very attractive to look at, they seemed to be clear indicators of the emotions and thoughts passing through the Kshatriya’s mind. ‘Tell us about Mithila then. What business takes you there? A new assignment perhaps?’ Again that quick exchange of looks between the two, then Janaki Kumar replied, ‘Yes. An assignment.’ ‘Whom will your swords serve there?’ Janaki Kumar slipped a finger between his ang-vastra’s neckline and his skin. The cloth was damp with sweat-stains and the unmistakable salt-rings that revealed that the Kshatriya hadn’t changed garb in at least a day or two. He worked the finger around from side to side as if trying to loosen the tight upper garment. ‘Nobody you would know, rajkumar. Just a client.’ ‘I know many people in Mithila, Janaki Kumar. By name if not personally. At least not for a few years—it’s been a while since my brothers and I visited your fine capital.’ ‘Brothers,’ Janaki Kumar said quickly. ‘Yes, you have two more brothers, do you not? How are the rajkumars Bharat and Shatrugan?’ ‘They’re well, thank you. At least they were well when I saw them last nine days past. We look forward to being reunited with them once more, as well as with the rest of our family. So, as I was saying, if you will tell me your new client, it’s quite likely I might know him or her by name.’ ‘I sincerely doubt it, rajkumar,’ Janaki Kumar said, deflecting the question once more. They had reached a point where the side of the riverbed on which they were walking tilted as the river swung into the inward curve. They found themselves walking on the

sloping sand-andshale incline that grew more sharply graded by the yard. Janaki Kumar rose steadily to become a head higher than Rama, while Lakshman had the unusual opportunity of equalling the Jat Kshatriya’s formidable elevation. Rama sensed another of Lakshman’s quips coming on and quickly continued before his brother said something else to offend the Kshatriyas. ‘Well, surely your new employer must be someone important if he or she has coin enough to hire two excellent Kshatriyas such as yourselves. Is he a trader or merchant? A keeper of stores perhaps? A grain transporter? A brewer? A goldsmith?’ Janaki Kumar seemed to be growing hotter by the minute. His hands now played with his headcloth’s band, as if it had suddenly grown too tight for comfort. He continued to sweat despite the pleasant breeze blowing downriver. His attention was riveted on negotiating the sloping curve of the bank and he didn’t meet Rama’s eyes, making it even more difficult to read his expression. ‘Nobody of note, rajkumar.’ Lakshman spoke up. ‘They work for the royal court of Mithila.’ Rama glanced back, as surprised as Janaki Kumar, whose eyes blinked rapidly as he looked back at Lakshman.

FOUR ‘W-w-what makes you say that, Rajkumar Lakshman?’ Janaki Kumar asked, faltering slightly. Lakshman continued breezily, ‘The way you fight. You aren’t just any ordinary travelling Kshatriyas. You two are army-schooled. As part of our training, my brothers and I were made to study every notable fighting style in the Arya nations as well as several major ones from foreign lands. I know the Mithila martial style when I see it.’ He paused before adding with a smile, ‘And I must say, I’ve not seen it executed so well in my life.’ Nakhu Dev spoke unexpectedly. ‘The rajkumar is generous. Both you and Rajkumar Rama fought magnificently as well. I saw you use several different styles. Even some favoured by my clan.’ ‘You mean the Jat clan?’ Rama said quickly, seeing his opening at last. This time Janaki Kumar’s eyes flashed hotly at his companion. Rama actually saw the hulking Kshatriya wince and look down momentarily, as if bowing in apology. Janaki Kumar answered for both of them. ‘My friend is of Jat origin, yes. But his sword is now in service to Videha.’ ‘And Videha’s king?’ Lakshman added quickly. Janaki Kumar stumbled. It was a steep slope and damp from the last flood-rise, and the Kshatriya was obviously distracted by the conversation. His foot gave way beneath him and he would have tumbled down the side of the bank. His legs flailed for purchase on the slippery pebbled slope. A shower of shale flew out from under his heels, pelting Lakshman’s thighs. Rama reached out quickly and caught the Kshatriya around the waist. ‘Easy, friend.’ Janaki Kumar twisted around angrily. ‘LET ME GO! RELEASE ME AT ONCE, OR I’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD OFF!’ Rama reacted, astonished. He released the man at once. Janaki Kumar, still not stable on his feet, fell promptly on his rear end and slid all the way down the slope. He landed with a splash in a puddle of thick brown river mud, where he sat, stunned. Lakshman came up to Rama, touching his shoulder. ‘What got into him?’ Nakhu Dev rushed past them both, hurrying down the slope to aid his friend. The man’s sheer size worked against him. His right heel slipped on a mound of smooth river-

polished pebbles and shot out at a right angle to his waist. He landed on his rump as well, began to slide, tried to halt himself with his hands, lost his balance and tumbled head over heels. Janaki Kumar was just trying to raise himself from the thick sucking mud when Nakhu Dev landed beside him with an enormous whump, splattering mud outwards in a radius of at least five yards. A few small drops reached Rama and Lakshman as well. Nakhu Dev swore in guttural Jat dialect. ‘By my mother’s funeral pyre!’ They couldn’t help it. Both princes burst into another paroxysm of helpless laughter.

***

Manthara raked her nails down her own cheeks. Her skin crackled like aged parchment, peeling and hanging loose in ragged strips. There was little flesh on her bony face, but what little was there gaped wound-red. Wetness trickled down her face, dripping slowly on to the chaukat before which she sat. The flame was doused but the metal rim of the chaukat was searing hot, and as her bowed head touched it she smelled the familiar stench of singed hair and burnt skin; it mingled with the aromas of the burnt remains of the Brahmin boy that lay in the chaukat. Her latest victim, procured by Manthara herself on a late-night foray. She tore her arms and shoulders, ripping whole shreds from her withered body. Her hunched back quivered with the ecstasy of the agony. She ripped, tore, clawed, gouged, until it was impossible to tell her own blood and gristle from that of the sacrificed child. The chaukat and the area around the yagna square was splattered with the evidence of her self-inflicted injuries. Finally, after several minutes of this torture, the fire blazed up, black as coal and glowing at its heart with a hypnotically compelling image. It was the ten-headed visage of the Lord of Lanka, her master. Her god. Manthara exuded a squeal of ecstatic pleasure and paid obeisance to her deity. ‘Swami, I am blessed to be graced by your divine presence.’ Dispense with the formalities. I have other matters to attend to - and other devotees. Is it done? ‘Yes, my lord. I was able to create a diversion that prevented the guru from reaching the parliament hall in time this morning, thus giving the twice-lifer the time it needed to transfer its aatma to the unconscious body of the maharaja. I extinguished the torches in the hall and relit them only after the transfer was accomplished.’ Not the details, hunchbacked hag. Just the results! Was it done, I asked, not how

it was done! ‘It was done, master. Possessed by the aatma, the maharaja delivered the orders to send the army to Gandahar and Kaikeya, just as you desired. They left this morning.’ And that leaves Ayodhya defenceless now? ‘As utterly as a common whore! Your forces can ride into the city with no fear of substantial opposition!’ Substantial? Does that mean that there might be some opposition after all? ‘Nothing worthy of concern, great one. Just the PF garrison. Old doddering veterans and raw green recruits. You could hack through them single-handedly!’ She added with a smirk, ‘And I will be here to sabotage their pathetic efforts and hasten their collapse. Ayodhya is yours for the taking, my master!’ So it seems. She hesitated; then, when she realised that nothing further was forthcoming, she said cautiously, ‘Swami, may I ask when you propose to invade?’ The fire sprang out at her, catching her unawares. It put out both her eyes, poking fingers of flame into her eye-sockets. Her visual organs bubbled and boiled in her skull. She screamed with the pain. Concern yourself with matters of your own level, hag. I don’t discuss my strategy with my own wife Mandodhari; why should I reveal it to you! ‘Forgive me, my lord!’ she babbled. Trickles of eye-fluid ran into her open mouth, sizzling. ‘I meant no offence! I merely thought perhaps I could serve you better if I knew—’ You can serve me by completing the mission I entrusted you with before this one. ‘Swami? You mean the poisoning of Dasaratha? I did my best, my master. But the seer is always vigilant for attacks on the maharaja’s person. Now more than ever.’ Then attack him from a direction the seer does not foresee and cannot prevent. ‘How, my lord? I am feeble of mind, but if you instruct, I will follow dutifully.’ Use his own family against him. Put the last phase of our plan into action now. Use Kaikeyi to attack Dasaratha. If we can’t poison his body, we shall poison his mind. ‘Your wish is my command, swami! I have prepared her well for precisely this moment. I shall send her at once.’

Not at once, you fool. Wait awhile. I will let you know when the time is right. Meanwhile, continue to breed discontent between the other members of the royal family. You did well to separate Kausalya and Sumitra. They had grown sickeningly close to each other and to the maharaja. Focus your attention there and keep Kaikeyi ready for the final step. ‘It shall be as you say, my master. I shall—’ The fire died out. Manthara could feel its absence, as well as the absence of the king of the asuras. He had left her presence. She rose shakily to her feet, and made her way blindly to the door. It was only when she was leaving the secret chamber that she realised that her sight had been restored. Her self-inflicted wounds had been repaired as well. It took great pain and damage to summon up the lord of the asuras, but once he was satisfied with the acolyte’s devotion, he always healed the damage through his mastery of Brahman. She shuddered to think what might happen if some day Ravana failed to be pleased by her efforts and left her in that state of agony. She put the thought out of her mind and focused on the task at hand. She would need that wretched serving girl again. Where was the wench? As the hunchbacked daiimaa scurried out of her apartment in the Second Queen’s palace and down the long torchlit corridors, she failed to notice the pair of eyes observing her discreetly. The eyes were almond-shaped, as delicate as a doe’s, and as pure and gentle. But on this occasion, they were also filled with righteous conviction and distrust. Third Queen Sumitra stepped from the alcove where she had lain in wait for the past few hours. After a glance back to make sure that Manthara was well away, she entered the daiimaa’s apartment and began to search.

***

The two Kshatriyas had managed to clean themselves off in the river as best they could. They were both still sulky and silent, and Janaki Kumar kept shooting fiery glances at Rama and Lakshman as if they had been responsible for the mishap. It was all the princes could do to keep from laughing again. When they were presentable again, Janaki Kumar rose swiftly and said, ‘Rajkumar Rama, my companion and I have had a change of heart. We desire to go directly to Mithila rather than camp overnight with you and then journey tomorrow.’ He added gruffly, ‘Our business is urgent and we would rather not waste time sleeping when we could be halfway to Mithila by dawn.’ Lakshman raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean to journey by night?’ He addressed his question to the taller Kshatriya, Nakhu Dev, but it was Janaki Kumar

who replied again, speaking for both of them. The slender Kshatriya’s tone was sharp enough to cut glass. ‘Rajkumar, I’ll have you know that the raj-marg to Mithila is the safest in the Arya nations. A virgin could walk naked clad in the finest jewels and arrive at the capital unmolested.’ Lakshman’s mouth fell open. ‘Do they usually do that? Travel naked clad in fine jewellery down the raj-marg? I had no idea Mithila virgins were that adventurous!’ Janaki Kumar glared up at Lakshman. His veil was still crusted with drying mud, causing it to droop in some places and cling in others. ‘It was meant to be a figure of speech.’ ‘Ah, but I hear Mithila virgins have fine figures too! You really know how to provoke a man’s imagination.’ Lakshman looked up at the sky and whistled. ‘I’ll be dreaming all night of naked virgins prancing down the raj-marg!’ He added mischievously: ‘Clad in fine jewellery, of course. By the way, would that be silver or gold?’ Janaki Kumar turned haughtily to Rama. ‘Is your brother prince always this offensive when referring to women, Rajkumar Rama? Or does he derive some insidious pleasure from insulting Mithila women in particular?’ Rama smiled apologetically. ‘Lakshman was just making a jest, friend. You mustn’t take offence at his innocent remarks. He’s always been something of a mischief-maker.’ Lakshman raised his arms. ‘That’s me! Master of mischief and good times!’ He grinned and winked at the two Kshatriyas. ‘Don’t Mithila Kshatriyas tell jokes about their women? Or would you prefer that I joke about Ayodhyan women instead? They look quite splendid too when walking naked down the raj-marg clad in fine—’ Rama broke in hastily. ‘Lakshman, go see if Guruji is inclined to meet our new friends formally. Quickly, before it’s time for us to perform our evening rituals.’ Lakshman shrugged good-naturedly and sauntered off upriver towards the brahmarishi. Rama turned back to Janaki Kumar. Suddenly, Nakhu Dev emitted a choking sound. People twenty yards away turned to look at him curiously. The enormous Kshatriya coughed apologetically into his fist. ‘Forgive me, rajkumar. I just now pictured Rajkumar Lakshman’s description of naked virgins prancing down the rajmarg, and . . .’ The warrior paused, his face twitching beneath the veil. ‘It is quite funny, you have to admit, Janaki.’ ‘Nakhu Dev,’ his shorter companion retorted sourly, ‘if you’re going to start getting giddy-headed and join in that chauvinistic jesting, maybe you’d rather join the Vajra Kshatriyas instead of journeying to Mithila with me. Nakhu?’ He put a peculiar emphasis on the last word, making Rama wonder if that was the taller Kshatriya’s real name or just an alias. And why did the shorter man insist on being called by his full name, Janaki Kumar, even by his travelling companion? They were surely an

odd couple! He was about to suggest to the Kshatriyas that they at least join them for the evening ritual and some hot supper before setting off when Lakshman returned, followed closely by a Vajra rider. It was Sona Chita, the acting lieutenant of the Vajra. He had ridden close to the river to avoid the slanting, slippery slope of the right bank. He reined in as he approached them, saluting smartly. ‘Rajkumars,’ he said, his horse’s hoofs splashing as it pranced in the shallow water of the river. ‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra requests your presence back at the camp to perform the evening rituals. And Captain Bejoo requests you not to wander this far from our sight again.’ Lakshman snorted. ‘Tell Bejoo-chacha we’re not little boys with runny noses any more. We can take care of ourselves now, as you probably witnessed up on the hills a while ago.’ Sona Chita grinned. ‘No argument on that account, Rajkumar Lakshman. But the captain takes his responsibility very seriously. These are unfriendly woods and there’s no telling what might assail you.’ Rama gestured to Lakshman not to retort again, and said to the Vajra Kshatriya, ‘Thank you for the message. We are turning back towards camp.’ Sona Chita saluted smartly and turned his horse around, splashing water energetically. He raised the reins to give the horse its head then added belatedly: ‘And the brahmarishi also said to make sure our new Kshatriya friends join us. He insists that they share our humble hospitality tonight.’ As the Vajra lieutenant rode away noisily, Rama found himself feeling oddly pleased. The Kshatriyas wouldn’t be able to refuse the brahmarishi’s invitation; to do so would be to insult him grossly. It would give him a chance to spend more time with Janaki Kumar. He didn’t know why, but he found the slender Kshatriya’s company and conversation strangely pleasing. He was looking forward to talking to him about several topics of minor interest. Just then he happened to glance at Janaki Kumar. He was surprised at what he saw. The expression in the Kshatriya’s eyes couldn’t have been more sour if he had just bitten into an imli ka butta. The two rajkumars and their black-clad companions made their way up the riverbed, bare feet crunching softly on the gravel. None of them noticed the eyes watching them from the shadowy depths. Four pairs of them, all softly glowing like fireflies in the lush darkness. As they went around the curve of the riverbed, four pairs of snouts, three small and one large, pushed their way through the bush they were standing behind.

One of the bear cubs made a low mewling sound, reaching up to pluck what looked like a clump of blueberries from the bush. It put the clump in its mouth, chewed, then growled and spat out the mouthful, only a few yards behind the sentry, who continued downriver slowly, swinging his pike. The mother bear slapped the cub on its snout, eliciting a babyish mewl. The female turned her snout in the direction the two rajkumars had gone and sniffed several times, as if trying to memorise a certain scent. Then she opened her jaws slightly and emitted a sound that sounded curiously like human speech, except gruffer. ‘Rama,’ the bear said tenderly, the affection and gratitude in her voice unmistakable. ‘Rama.’ ‘Rama,’ repeated her cubs obediently. ‘Rama.’ All except the smallest one, who was still snuffling over being cuffed by his mother. His sister nudged him. ‘Vaba,’ he said sulkily.

FIVE The company was too large to be accommodated at one fire. They had done the next best thing: building a dozen fires in a circular formation. The riverbed at this point was wide, almost thirty yards across, and the fires were perhaps five or six yards apart. The Siddh-ashrama Brahmins had seated themselves in such a manner that everyone faced inwards but slightly to the north. The result was a roughly circular congregation of seated Brahmins all converging towards a point at the top of the circle, not the centre. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra sat on a rock at this focal point, his staff lying behind him. On the outer rim of the circle of Brahmins sat the Vajra Kshatriyas, forming a protective perimeter. Captain Bejoo stood almost apart from the whole group, his face still clouded with conflicting emotions, sharpening the blade of his shortsword with a pumice stone. He glanced up sourly as the rajkumars joined the congregation, nodding perfunctorily. He spat a mouthful of blood-red tobacco-stained paan juice every now and then to the side, evoking irritated stares from the nearest Brahmins, who disapproved of tobacco consumption in any form. Everybody seemed quite comfortably settled by the time Rama and Lakshman arrived and took their places. Rama scanned the assembled faces quickly but couldn’t see Janaki Kumar and Nakhu Dev right away. The two princes made their way through the ranks of Brahmins, seated cross-legged with their hands on their knees. Several Brahmins were standing by the fires, supervising the cooking. The smells coming from the enormous pots were delicious and Rama could see the younger acolytes waiting eagerly to be fed. Except for a little fruit and water on the journey, nobody had eaten since that morning. They found a space reserved for them right up front, immediately before the boulder on which the sage was seated. The Kshatriyas were there already. All four of them seated themselves cross-legged and waited for the brahmarishi to begin speaking. Rama found himself seated diagonally opposite Janaki Kumar, and for some reason found his attention drawn to the slender Kshatriya’s face. The mercenary had performed the evening ritual with them, and his piercing eyes caught the firelight in a way that was oddly hypnotic. Janaki’s eyes were surprisingly bright, brighter than anyone else’s in the congregation that Rama could see. They had seemed dark and soft earlier in the sunlight, but now they had a way of catching the light and holding it within that was fascinating to see. Like the eyes of predators which caught light at night-time, except that his eyes were neither feline nor feral. They were very human and very striking, filled with a glowing intensity that collected every sight, every observation around, sparing nothing. Rama found himself compelled to glance often in the lad’s direction until the sage began speaking. Janaki seemed not to notice at first, but at one point, when Rama glanced that way suddenly, he found the Kshatriya watching him with the cool, studied gaze of a fisherman watching a dolphin race alongside his boat—neither as a potential catch nor as a threat, simply

watching. Janaki raised his gaze to meet Rama’s eyes, their views locked, and it seemed to Rama that a faint flicker of a smile passed over the youth’s face. But it was hard to tell with the veil. The brahmarishi began speaking, and Rama’s attention turned to the sage. Vishwamitra spoke quietly, yet his voice seemed to carry across the riverbed to even the farthest listener, who was Bejoo. The Vajra captain put down his sword and sharpening stone and listened to the seer. ‘I know all of you are eager to partake of some nourishment. This has been a long day and the past days have been difficult ones too. In a few moments, we shall eat together. I know that some of us,’ here the seer’s eyes passed over the two princes of Ayodhya and the black-clad mercenaries and then flicked to where Bejoo sat, ‘have weighty concerns on their mind. All doubts will be pacified, all questions answered. This shall be done after we nourish ourselves. But first an important sandesh to all of you. From this point onwards, our company will divide into two groups.’ A ripple of surprise met this announcement. Vishwamitra went on, ‘My good Brahmins of Siddh-ashrama, you will travel to Mithila directly via the rajmarg. Maharishi Tulsidas will lead you well.’ He indicated the elderly rishi who had stood up when his name was spoken and now greeted the congregation with a namaskar. He resumed his seat as the guru continued. ‘The rajkumars and I will take the Visala road to Mithila. I invite our new Kshatriya friends to accompany us as well.’ Rama glanced at Janaki Kumar. The lad looked startled by the seer’s announcement, as if unsure of how to respond. Fortunately for the young warrior, Captain Bejoo spoke at that moment. ‘Swami, may I enquire as to why the company must split up?’ Vishwamitra replied, ‘Owing to certain developments too complex to explain here and now, the rajkumars and I must visit Visala before travelling on to Mithila. I do not wish to delay the rest of the company. The good ashramites of Siddhashrama have waited eagerly all year to attend this philosophical festival. Taking this detour would cause them to miss the first day and also the inaugural yagna. Hence the rajkumars and I shall travel separately from this point onwards.’ The sage added as an afterthought: ‘However, you and your Vajra Kshatriyas may freely choose which group you wish to travel with. After all, you are not under my spiritual guidance and may do as you please.’ Without waiting for an answer, the sage went on, ‘We shall all meet in Mithila then. I urge all you good Brahmins to make directly for the congregation halls specially provided in

the fields adjacent to the royal complex. There you will be well cared for and all your needs met. Those of you who have attended this annual conference will know full well that Maharaja Janak’s love for men of faith and philosophical debate is matched only by his generous and warm hospitality. I am sure we shall all come away from this trip a little wiser and more insightful about matters that are central to our way of life and thought.’ Vishwamitra raised his head. The sky was a deep dusky blue, and few birds were flying now. The sounds of night insects were growing steadily louder as twilight fell as rapidly as a black scarf descending. ‘It is past sunset now. Let us all perform our agnihotra and then take some nourishment prepared by our Brahmins. The Kshatriyas shall be fed at the two cookfires further upriver. This segregation is unavoidable as they consume flesh and our Brahmins do not. After breaking my fast with my good ashramites, I will join the Kshatriyas for a while in order to discuss tomorrow’s journey. I urge all of you to take an early night’s rest and be refreshed before the long journey tomorrow. Swaha.’ ‘Swaha!’ responded the congregation in one resounding chorus. Everybody began moving eagerly towards the cookfires. There was only one thing Brahmins loved more than prayer and penance, and that was good food.

***

It took Guru Vashishta the better part of the day to complete the ritual spiritual cleansing and make sure that Dasaratha was totally free of all evil influences. Both the healer and the afflicted remained through those many hours locked in a bond of Brahman. The evening shadows were lengthening across the assembly hall floor when Vashishta ceased chanting the smriti mantras—the most secret Vedic knowledge of all—and was finally satisfied that this new crisis was also past. Still holding the maharaja on the tip of his finger, the guru lowered Dasaratha gently to the floor. This part of the hall was furnished with large, comfortably stuffed mattresses that Aryas liked to stretch out on while conducting business or pleasure. He placed the unconscious king on one such seat. Dasaratha returned to gravity, his bulk indenting the overstuffed mattress. The guru watched him closely for several moments, then finally felt satisfied that the maharaja was breathing normally and out of danger. He rose to his feet and strode towards the doors of the hall with an energy that belied his considerable age. A single phrase from his lips parted the towering doors. The palace guards moved aside to let the seer pass. He gestured to their leader.

‘The maharaja is exhausted and needs rest. Have him taken to his sick-chamber.’ The guards rushed to do his bidding. Vashishta turned to face the sizeable group that awaited him anxiously. First Queen Kausalya was there, but the other two titled queens were conspicuous by their absence. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra, Captain Drishti Kumar and his father Senapati Dheeraj Kumar were present as well, along with Mantri Jabali, Mantri Ashok and the other members of the ministerial cabinet, and several other nobles and officials of the court. The anxiety on all their faces was as plain as a spoken question. ‘Council of Ayodhya, pray, enter within the assembly hall. We have important matters to discuss.’ They followed him in without question. Their wan, anxious faces and small number were a stark contrast to the busy, bustling, clamour that normally filled the vast chamber. Vashishta stood at the foot of the royal dais and turned to face the council of ministers and the First Queen of Kosala. A volley of questions erupted, everybody speaking at once, eager to know the meaning behind the sage’s cryptic comments. Only the maharani awaited her chance to speak. Vashishta raised a hand, showing them his palm. ‘Silence. The maharaja is well. He is tired now and will sleep long and deeply. But when he awakens he will be refreshed and well.’ A hoarse cheer rose from the assembly. Two or three assistants ran down towards the exit to convey the news to the criers, who would pass it on to the citizenry. The others remained, still looking anxiously at the guru. He resisted the urge to sigh. The exorcism had taken a great deal out of him. But their questions would have to be answered. First Queen Kausalya spoke first, asking anxiously, ‘Gurudev? Was there an attack on the maharaja?’ Vashishta sighed. ‘It vexes me to say aye, maharani. This morning the attempt on his life was physical and brought him to the very brink of mortality. But the later attack was spiritual.’ ‘Spiritual, maha-dev?’ Vashishta nodded. ‘Yes, maharani. The courier who arrived this morning was no normal Kshatriya. He was one of Ravana’s own minions.’ Consternation and dismay met this announcement. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra’s face creased into a mask of anger. The guru held up his hand. ‘But do not fear. The danger is past. Twice today the Lord of

Lanka has attempted to take our liege’s life. Twice he has been foiled. The devas watch over Maharaja Dasaratha. The man named Bheriya was in truth a twice-lifer. He was ambushed and killed last night on the road to Ayodhya. The king of the asuras infused the empty vessel of his body with the aatma of another long-dead man. This wretched being was sent here by the Lord of Lanka to deliver a false message.’ The faces of the ministers and the maharani were chalk-white with shock. The sage turned to the First Queen and said gently, ‘Maharani, the king has need of your healing touch. I request you, attend him in his sick-chamber and let me know the minute he awakens.’ Kausalya nodded and withdrew without any argument. The First Queen had sat on the sunwood throne long enough to know that even a maharani could not deal with every problem at once. This was a matter for the guru and the royal council. She also understood from the subtle change of tone in the guru’s voice that he wished her to stay close to the maharaja. An enemy who could make two attempts on the king of Ayodhya’s life was capable of making another. She exited the hall with the same quiet grace and dignity with which she always conducted herself. After she was gone, the guru had the doors closed again. For the third time that day, they were barred shut.

SIX Bejoo wished the Brahmin caste had never been created. The Vajra captain sat on his bundled saddle and horse armour, scowling darkly enough to keep everyone else at bay. He wanted to be left alone. Around him, his Kshatriyas had already finished their meal and were sipping some fermented grape juice in place of their nightly soma. He would have paid a hundred rupees for some soma or even some cheap local wine, but there was none to be had for love or money in this godly part of the country. A plantain leaf with chunks of roasted meat, charcoaled vegetables on a stick and segments of fruit lay in the captain’s hands. As he ate, he watched the Brahmin camp downriver. The Siddh-ashramites had already finished their supper and were now singing, clanging their bell-clappers together in noisy rhythm to the beat of their devotional chanting. He wondered how they got their energy, carrying on that way after covering a dozen yojanas on foot and supping on vegetarian fare. What was it they said? ‘Prayer is meat and soma to the true devotee?’ Maybe there was something to it after all. As for himself, his bones ached as if he had walked those hundred-plus miles beside them instead of having ridden them out on his mount. He suspected that it was the stress of riding without any definite purpose that had worn him down more than the distance covered. O Shani-deva, he thought wearily, I’m getting too old for this traipsing around with Brahmins, going nowhere and doing nothing useful. If not for the little stir-up on the hill, he would barely have been able to put food in his mouth; a true Kshatriya earned his meat. Even there, it was the rajkumars who had done most of the fighting. A few yards to his left, the two rajkumars and their new Kshatriya friends sat eating and talking to one another. Bejoo noticed Rajkumar Rama laughing whole-heartedly at something Janaki Kumar had just said. Clearly, the prince enjoyed the slender mercenary’s company—they had spent their meal-hour talking and laughing more than eating. The wind was blowing across the river and Bejoo had heard several of the lad’s words as well. The Kshatriya clearly had a nimble mind and a witty tongue. Rajkumar Lakshman didn’t seem as taken by the Kshatriya - the junior prince had found himself on the receiving end of that sharp tongue more than once, to Bejoo’s delight. It wouldn’t hurt Lakshman to realise that there were wits sharper than his own. Around the Kshatriya campsite, Bejoo could hear the sounds of his men laying down pallets for the night. Despite the fact that it was early spring, the weather had turned surprisingly warm. After sunset a little bite had come into the wind, but it was barely a nip compared to the freezing chill of the northern nations. Bejoo and his Vajra had camped out without tents in temperatures close to freezing in the mountains of Gandahar. This was like a summer bask in comparison.

He was still having some difficulty dealing with this whole trip to Mithila. And now the sage wanted to take them sightseeing! At least, that was what it sounded like to Bejoo’s ears. Why would they want to leave the main company and take a detour to Visala? To see the Ganga, that was why. The holy river of the Arya nations, its waters regarded as sacred and magical, the Ganga flowed past Visala, right through the Gautama groves. Bejoo was prepared to bet his horse that the sage wanted to bathe in the holy water and offer prayers. The Ganga was the holiest of rivers and the place where it flowed through the Gautama groves was of special significance to seers. No doubt the sage would want to take his ceremonial dip in the waters there before proceeding to Mithila. Maybe even spend another day or two showing the rajkumars the botanical wonders of the Videha plains. Why, at this rate, they would be lucky to return to Ayodhya in time for Deepavali! At times like this it seemed to Bejoo that these stubborn, aloof and superior-aired pundits had been put on earth only to vex and frustrate Kshatriyas. And the brahmarishi in particular was probably a fully ordained maestro of the art of Kshatriya vexation! The subject of his ire appeared just then, a tall, strong figure making his way upriver over the pebbled bank, his staff crunching as loud as a bigfoot hoof each time it struck the ground. Bejoo didn’t fail to notice the faint blue sparks that rose from each contact of the staff. That was the other thing that made him uneasy about Brahmins: they leaked Brahman power like a firefly leaked light. It made his hackles rise. Bejoo trusted things that could be seen, touched, tasted, felt, smelled—and hacked, stabbed and lopped off, not to put too fine a point on it. The very sight of the Brahman sparks made his stomach queasy. How did one fight powers like that? He put his leaf of food aside, unfinished, and stood up. Protocol, always protocol. Until the Brahmins decided to listen to the voice of the devas instead of Arya rules, at which point protocol, with everything else mortal, went out of the window and down into the stinky moat. Bejoo slapped his hands on his flanks, carelessly wiping them clean, and went to receive the brahmarishi. When he saw the sage making his way towards the rajkumars, however, he stopped and waited. He was within hearing distance of the group and watched as all four young men rose at once at the sight of the seer-mage. They had finished their meal and their leafplates had been disposed of moments earlier. The rajkumars bowed and performed reverent namaskars to their guru. ‘Pranaam, Guru-dev,’ Rajkumar Rama said. Lakshman echoed his brother. The sage’s voice was as serene as the idyllic valley in which they stood. ‘Pranaam, rajkumars. Have you eaten and rested well?’ ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ ‘Good,’ the sage replied. ‘For we shall be leaving in moments.’ Rama looked surprised. ‘Leaving, Guru-dev?’

‘We shall travel by night to hasten our arrival at Mithila.’ ‘Then we shall not be stopping at Visala en route?’ ‘We shall indeed. Without visiting Visala our journey to Mithila would be fruitless.’ Rama and Lakshman exchanged a puzzled look. Bejoo noticed Janaki Kumar glancing at his companion as well, his eloquent eyes speaking silent words to the larger Kshatriya. ‘Jaise aagya, Guru-dev,’ Rama replied. ‘Very good, rajkumars. Now prepare yourselves for departure. We shall leave shortly.’ Bejoo stepped forward. This was all news to him. ‘Maha-dev,’ he said, forcing a tone of polite reverence into his voice. ‘It would not be safe to travel by night. My Vajra—’ ‘Your Vajra will slow us down, Captain Bejoo,’ Vishwamitra said calmly but firmly. ‘They must travel to Mithila by the rajmarg with the Siddh-ashrama procession. However, if you so wish, you may accompany us. But you must hurry and give your men last instructions. My company will not wait for stragglers.’ Stragglers? Who did the mage think he was talking to? Bejoo swallowed his indignation and said in as level a voice as he could manage, ‘But Guru-dev, I am oathsworn to protect the rajkumars. Without my Vajra—’ The seer cut him short. ‘Bejoo, in the nine days you have been with the rajkumars and myself, have you ever felt that they lacked protection in any way?’ Bejoo tried hard to come up with a suitable retort but found himself unable to think of a single word. The rajkumars were more than able to protect themselves. Bejoo’s duty had become purely ceremonial. ‘No, maharaja,’ he said at last. The moment he said it, he wanted to bite his tongue off. He had addressed the sage as ‘maharaja’, implying that he now accepted Vishwamitra as his supreme liege. But it was too late to take back the error. If the seer noticed, he gave no sign. ‘Then let us end this tired line of argument,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Decide now. Will you accompany us on our mission or will you ride with your Vajra? Remember also, we walk in the light of Brahman. We are not permitted the luxury of chariots or mounts. If you come with us, you must come on foot. What is your decision?’ ‘I shall come with you,’ Bejoo said. ‘Maha-dev.’ The sage’s penetrating gaze stayed on Bejoo for a long moment. ‘Good,’ Vishwamitra

said. ‘I am glad to hear it, Captain Bejoo. You are a fine Kshatriya and we shall need every sword and bow before we reach Mithila.’ Bejoo didn’t know whether to blush or to blink at the unexpected compliment. And was he mistaken or had the sage addressed him with a mite more respect than he had earlier? ‘Captain Bejoo’ instead of the perfunctory ‘Kshatriya’? Then the full implications of the seer’s last words sank in. What did the sage mean by saying they would need every sword and bow? It sounded ominous. Was he planning to get into a scuffle with bandits on the road again? And what had he meant by their ‘mission’ to Visala? Bejoo had heard nothing of any mission before now. But Vishwamitra had already turned away to face the four young men again. ‘Now, Rajkumar Rama, I think it is time for you to introduce me to our new fellowtravellers. Our road to Mithila is long and fraught with many perils. It would be best if we all get to know one another as closely as possible.’ The sage’s diamond-bright eyes glinted in the flickering firelight as he looked at the two Kshatriyas. ‘It would not do to travel together without knowing one another’s identities, would it?’ Bejoo saw that the sage directed his words pointedly at the slender Kshatriya. The young man dropped his eyes at once, but Bejoo thought he did so out of respect, not fear. Bejoo observed not for the first time that the shorter Kshatriya was unusually smallproportioned and thin. Bejoo himself was very short for a Kshatriya, or for an Arya, and as a young boy he had been thin and weak as well, until he had come under the tutelage of a senior warrior who had chalked out a diet and training programme that had slapped on the slabs of muscle bulk that he now possessed. That man had been Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, and under the veteran general’s tutelage Bejoo had blossomed into a champion wrestler, kabbadi player and mace thrower, winning several dozen tournaments before he was given command of the Vajra. He made a mental note to take the slender Kshatriya aside later and give him some pointed tips on how to turn that delicate frame into a muscular body. Rama presented the two black-clad Kshatriyas formally to the brahmarishi. ‘Guru-dev, this is Kshatriya Janaki Kumar and Kshatriya Nakhu Dev. They are travelling warriors for hire. They were on their way to Mithila when they heard the sounds of the bear family being attacked on the hill and went to their rescue. We fought the bandits together.’ To the mercenaries Rama said: ‘Kshatriyas, pay your respects to the brahmarishi Vishwamitra. His legendary stature is too great for me to have to repeat here. My brother Lakshman and I are both oathsworn to the great sage. He is our guru.’ ‘Pranaam, Guru-dev,’ both Kshatriyas said, almost at once. They had already greeted the sage as he approached, but did so again without hesitation, paying their respects formally this time.

Bejoo noted curiously that both lads avoided meeting the seer’s eyes directly. He assumed it to be the effect of the brahmarishi’s formidable reputation and imposing personality. He was about to find out how wrong that assumption was.

SEVEN ‘False message, Guru-dev?’ Sumantra’s voice sounded like a choked cry for help from the bottom of a deep well. ‘Indeed, prime minister. The news of the asura army’s impending invasion.’ Everybody began speaking at once. Mantri Ashok spoke loudest. ‘Guru-dev, do you mean to say that there will be no invasion?’ ‘Alas, mantriji. If only things could be that simple. Nay, there will surely be an invasion. Even as we speak, Ravana’s forces are making their way across the subcontinent like a venomous serpent slithering towards its prey. This part of the message was true enough. It was the point of first attack that was falsely given.’ The seer-mage paused. He had everyone’s undivided attention. ‘The asura forces will indeed attack Gandahar and Kaikeya. Their ships will carry them up the Sindhu river to those two northwestern Arya kingdoms just as you have been informed.’ The guru paused, glancing around to make sure he had the undivided attention of the entire council of ministers. ‘But those ships will carry only a small fragment of the asura forces, not the entire army as you have been led to believe. Because the attacks on Gandahar and Kaikeya are merely diversionary tactics intended to draw the Arya armies to those distant nations, and away from the real target of the Lord of Lanka.’ Sumantra sat forward in his seat, looking alarmed. ‘The real target, Guru-dev? You mean, apart from Gandahar and Kaikeya, there will be an attack on another Arya city or kingdom?’ ‘Exactly, prime minister. While a fraction of the asura armada is making its way up the Sindhu river, the majority of that vast fleet has already landed on the shores of Salset and Kerall, and are even now working their way northwards.’ Northwards! Every face in the hall turned to the map on the wall. Their eyes focused on the western coastal regions of Salset and Kerall and travelled upwards . . . to the kingdom of Kosala, with the city of Ayodhya marked in bold, right in the centre of that trajectory. ‘Ayodhya?’ Mantri Jabali cried out in frustration and rage. ‘But our army has been sent to the north and the north-west already, split into two halves travelling in two separate directions! They are both already a full day’s march away. It will take a night and another day to send a messenger after them to call them back!’ ‘Maha-dev,’ the prime minister said agitatedly. ‘Pardon my questioning your actions thus, but why did you not inform us of this vital news earlier, when there was still time to stop

our army from marching?’ Guru Vashishta was standing nearest to Sumantra. He laid a large, gentle hand on the prime minister’s shoulder. ‘Because, good Sumantra, I myself only learned of it a few moments ago. It took me that much time to rid the maharaja’s evil-infected soul and brain of the havoc the possession had caused. After delivering its message, the evil aatma left the reanimated corpse of the messenger and passed into our maharaja’s body. It was no easy task to exorcise it from his being. My first concern was saving Dasaratha; only then could I attempt to discover the true motive behind the possession.’ A deathly pall of silence fell over the group. ‘We are lost then,’ Mantri Jabali said at last. ‘If the asura hordes attack before our army returns, we stand no chance. Even mighty Ayodhya cannot withstand an asura invasion without sufficient soldiers to man its defences. Our siege infrastructure itself requires twenty-five thousand soldiers working at all times to operate efficiently. Even if we put all the PFs to work round the clock, it will be insufficient.’ ‘Calm yourself, Mantri Jabali,’ the guru said calmly. ‘The asuras will not attack Ayodhya.’ ‘They will not?’ Sumantra said, looking as confused as the minister of war and the rest of the council. ‘But mahadev, you just said—’ ‘Trust me, good Sumantra, all you wise and brave ministers of Kosala. The Lord of Lanka’s first goal is not our seven-walled city. He knows that Ayodhya the Unconquerable is too formidable a target against which to pit his forces directly. He will come here, but only after he has cleared a space around us and isolated our proud land from the other Arya nations. In order to do that, he intends to first focus his attack on our sister kingdom of Videha. It is the capital of that peaceful country that he first intends to overrun.’ The sage directed their attention back to the wall map. ‘His main target in the first crucial offensive will be the city of Brahmins, Mithila.’

***

Vishwamitra looked at the shorter Kshatriya intently. ‘Janaki,’ he said, his hand stroking his flowing beard thoughtfully. ‘An interesting name. It literally means “of Janak”. And Janak of course is Maharaja Janak, king of Videha and master of the moonwood throne of Mithila. What is your relation to his majesty, lord of

Mithila?’ The slender Kshatriya kept his head bowed, clearly awed by the brahmarishi. ‘Guru-dev, despite the meaning of my given title, I am not of the blood of royals. Although Maharaja Janak is my liege, as he is the liege of every citizen of Videha.’ Bejoo thought he saw a faint wisp of a smile play across the sage’s weathered, beardenshrouded face. What had the Brahmin found so amusing about the Kshatriya’s reply? It had sounded straightforward enough to Bejoo. The lad was probably just some knockaround bastard, conceived of a prostitute or dancer, had learned the sword from some army irregulars and when he was old enough to walk straight had decided to go into business for himself and make a few rupees. It was a tediously common history. ‘A very interesting reply,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Observe, rajkumars, how intelligently your new friend plays with the vocabulary and grammar of our great national language. “My given title” is what was said, not “my given name”. And indeed, Janaki can be a title as well as a name, its meaning being “of Janak” as I have already mentioned. Then your friend says, “I am not of the blood of royals”. And that is another shrewd choice of phrase. For Maharaja Janak’s heir, titled “Janaki”, was indeed adopted by the lord of Mithila, rather than birthed by his queen. And of course, every citizen of the Videha nation, highborn or low, regards Janak as his liege. So your new friend cleverly answered my direct question with an elegantly worded and quite suitable response that nonetheless succeeded in revealing nothing of the speaker’s true identity.’ Bejoo stood up straighter, frowning. What was this new twist? Rama and Lakshman were looking at the sage with perfectly matched expressions of befuddlement. ‘Guru-dev,’ Lakshman said in a puzzled tone, ‘are you saying that Janaki Kumar lied to you just now? That he is in fact related to Maharaja Janak?’ ‘Not just related, Rajkumar Lakshman,’ the brahmarishi replied. ‘I say your new friend is none other than Janak’s own adopted child. The heir to the moonwood throne and future ruler of Videha in the same way that your brother Rama is prince-heir of Kosala.’ Bejoo blinked. What was the sage talking about? That delicate-looking fellow there? Royalty? Heir to the throne of Videha? Impossible! The fellow was a good fighter, that was true, but . . . but . . . Bejoo was unable to restrain himself any longer. He had drifted slowly closer as the dialogue between the sage and the Kshatriyas had grown more intriguing. Now he said, ‘Forgive me, maha-dev. I apologise for interrupting. But the maharaja of Videha has no sons. There is no prince-heir to the throne of Videha!’ The sage smiled, his ancient grey eyes twinkling in the warm reflected light of the campfires. ‘I did not say that Janaki here was a prince. I merely said that this person was the heir to

Videha’s throne and Janak’s own adopted child.’ Lakshman said, ‘But, Guru-dev, Bejoo-chacha is right. Maharaja Janak has no sons, so how can Janaki Kumar be his adopted child?’ Vishwamitra turned his eyes again to the slender Kshatriya. ‘Janaki Kumari, not Janaki Kumar. A title that is cleverly used in place of a name, concealing the user’s true identity, just as the black veil and garb of the travelling Kshatriya is cleverly used to disguise the wearer’s true form and appearance.’ Bejoo looked at the slender Kshatriya, still not fully understanding what the sage meant. Then it registered with the sharp clicking of a final bolt falling into place. ‘IMPOSTER!’ Bejoo roared, drawing his sword and stepping forward. ‘VAJRA! TO ME!’ The riverbed exploded into a flurry of activity as half a hundred Vajra Kshatriyas left off whatever chore they were engaged in to run to their leader’s side. Some of them tossed aside chunks of roast meat to lunge for their weapons. In an instant, Bejoo’s yell still echoing through the upper slopes of the hill behind them, every Vajra Kshatriya was within ten yards of the brahmarishi and the four young men, their swords, lances and bows out and ready for action. Their boots crunched noisily on the riverbed as they shifted slowly closer, directing their weapons at the two black-clad figures. The taller Kshatriya had already drawn his sword and turned to face the Vajra Kshatriyas. Nakhu Dev made a gesture of warning to the nearest of Bejoo’s men, cautioning them against coming any closer. Downriver, the Brahmins of Siddh-ashrama ceased their devotional chanting and fell silent, peering towards the Kshatriya camp as they tried to make out what this new crisis entailed. Bejoo took a step forward. ‘Rajkumars! Step back, away from those two. My men and I will deal with the asuras.’ ‘Asuras? When did I say these were asuras, Captain Bejoo?’ The tone of amusement in the bramarishi’s voice confused Bejoo further. He glanced at the sage. ‘Guru-dev, did you not just pronounce this man an imposter in disguise?’ ‘Not at all,’ Vishwamitra replied calmly. ‘I merely said that Janaki Kumar is in fact Janaki Kumari.’ Bejoo stared at the sage. ‘So doesn’t that mean—’ He broke off abruptly. ‘Kumari? But that would be a girl’s title.’ ‘Indeed, which is precisely why our young Kshatriya friend here removed the last vowel,

to masculinise it.’ Bejoo turned his attention to the slender mercenary. ‘Kumari?’ he repeated, feeling foolish. ‘But that would make him a her!’ He gaped at the Kshatriya-for-hire. ‘A woman? In disguise?’ ‘Two women in fact, Captain Bejoo. Her companion is in fact named Nakhudi Devi, which was cleverly altered into Nakhu Dev to sound more masculine.’ Bejoo stared at the two black-clad figures. Rama and Lakshman had turned to look at them as well, giving the Vajra captain a clear line of sight. He quickly re-appraised the shorter and more slender of the two. Yes, that one could certainly be a woman. That would explain his . . . um, her delicate shape and lack of musculature. But the bigger one? That hulking giant with shoulders like a bigfoot’s knee? Could that towering mass really be a woman? ‘Don’t fret, Captain Bejoo,’ the sage went on. ‘Anyone would have been deceived. Those black garbs are quite effective. Their voices made them appear young men. And Nakhudi Devi’s enviable size and strength defied the usual expectation. If it’s any consolation to your injured ego, you should know that Nakhudi Devi is in fact the chief of the princess’s royal bodyguards and her closest trusted companion. Naturally, I have not laid eyes on either of them before as I have only recently emerged from my long bhor tapasya, but it is not the first time that I have met a princess travelling incognito in her own kingdom. Who else would she choose to accompany her on her adventure except her most trusted bodyguard? Besides, I doubt that Nakhudi Devi, like any sworn personal retainer, would allow herself to live if she ever let her mistress out of her sight. Even if the rajkumari wished to travel alone, the very idea of her dearly loved bodyguard committing aatmahatya for having failed in her duties would give her pause. By accompanying her, the princess avoids an unnecessary tragedy while Nakhudi Devi continues to fulfil her sworn duty to protect the rajkumari.’ ‘Rajkumari?’ Bejoo barely recognised his own voice, it was so hoarse with surprise. The seer-mage gestured sorcerously. As if whipped off by an invisible and powerful wind, the veils on the faces of the two Kshatriyas were peeled away. They fell on the pebbled floor of the riverbed. Amazed eyes stared at the delicate if grimy features of the two women, one flushed with embarrassment and impotent fury, the other still suspicious and aggressive. Vishwamitra spoke aloud, adding a touch of theatricality to his voice: ‘I give you the princess-heir of Videha and the future ruler of the moonwood throne of Mithila, Rajkumari Sita Janaki!’

EIGHT ‘Mithila?’ Mantri Ashok seemed unable to believe the guru’s words. ‘But they are followers of ahimsa. Their army is not even a standing force. Ayodhya city alone has twice the Kshatriyas of the entire kingdom of Videha!’ ‘Besides,’ Sumantra added, ‘with their annual philosophical festival in progress, their attention will be diverted to spiritual matters. Their gates will be opened to all visitors, their defences lowered. They are least prepared to face an outright assault by . . . ‘ The prime minister’s voice trailed off as he realised the implications of his own words. ‘They will be as easy prey as fledgling swans in a pond filled with gharial!’ ‘Indeed,’ the sage agreed sadly. ‘This is the very reason the Lord of Lanka proposes to attack Mithila first. Once he has control of Mithila, his path is clear to Ayodhya. Banglar is too distant to send forces in time, and Gandahar and Kaikeya will be occupied with their own sieges. The lord of asuras will finally be able to lay siege to the one Arya city that has never been besieged before. And to do this, he must first storm Mithila. From what I gleaned from the wretched mind of the asura spirit that possessed our liege, I learned that the asura armies are already making their way northwards. They will reach Mithila in two days or less.’ ‘But that’s even worse,’ Mantri Ashok cried out. ‘Mithila is three days’ march from here. Even if we call our army back and instruct them to go to Mithila, it will take all of five nights and four days to reach Maharaja Janak’s city. We will be too late to help them!’ ‘Even so,’ the sage said grimly, ‘this is our only recourse. Couriers must be sent out at once, asking rajkumars Bharat and Shatrugan to turn their divisions around. Better we reach our fellow Aryas in Mithila in four days than never. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra, I propose you ride personally to warn Rajkumar Bharat, while you Mantri Jabali go after Rajkumar Shatrugan. You must leave within the hour. From the information I gathered, the asura attack on Mithila will begin tomorrow at nightfall. As you know, contrary to the Arya code of war, asuras fight at night as well as by day. By sundown tomorrow, Mithila will face the most hideous army of asuras ever assembled.’ Mantri Kasyapa spoke, his normally austere facade giving way to open anxiety. ‘But what will be the use, Guru-dev? We will be too late. Including the time taken to contact our forces and turn them around, it will take four days of hard marching to reach Mithila, even if we wear out our animals and soldiers getting there. Surely Mithila cannot hold out that long?’ He looked around at the other ministers for confirmation. Mantri Jabali nodded grimly. ‘Mithila will not stand one night against such an assault, let alone four! With the philosophical festival to add to the burden on their already meagre

security forces, I’d wager they’ll fall within an hour or two. It will be a slaughter worse than the first asura war. Those unfortunate Videhans will be as innocent and unsuspecting as our founding fathers were when they faced the horror and fury of the first asura invasion.’ The minister raised his piercing eyes to the guru and to the prime minister. ‘Forgive me, Guru-dev, pradhan mantriji. I would make a suggestion which may not sound very Arya in its aspect, but I would make this offer for the good of all our citizens whom we are sworn to protect.’ ‘Speak, Jabali,’ Sumantra said. Vashishta nodded his encouragement. Jabali took a deep breath, released it as a sigh and said, ‘As minister of defence it is my duty to propose a military strategy that ensures the continued safety of our own kingdom and capital city. If Ayodhya falls, all Arya falls. This is not just a homily handed down from generations, but a basic military fact. We are the only Arya nation positioned geographically in a manner that enables us to aid any or all of our neighbour nations. As we have seen from past encounters with the asura vermin, our only hope lies in unity. If the Lord of Lanka were to capture Ayodhya,’ he bowed his head for a fraction of a second, ‘and note that I still say ‘if’ . . . if that foul day ever fell upon us, then Ravana would have the most advantageous base from which to launch assaults on all the Arya lands. The guru has already informed us that smaller but significant asura forces will attack the other Arya nations. With Ayodhya as his centre, the lord of asuras can catch all our brother Aryas in pincer-actions, besieging them until their resources run out. Within months, perhaps as long as a year at best, all of the subcontinent will be in his fist.’ The mantri made a fist of his own right hand and clenched it tight. The knuckles and joints cracked loudly in the silent assembly hall. Jabali looked at the faces of each person present in turn. ‘This is the only reason why I propose what I am about to say. I submit to this council that we recall our army to Ayodhya and redeploy them in preparation for a siege. If Mithila is to be attacked tomorrow night, then the asura armies will be at our gates in three, perhaps four days. This gives us enough time to stock our granaries, bring as many citizens as possible within the city walls and strengthen our defences. Thus, we may yet withstand the might of the asura hordes and repel the Lord of Lanka.’ The silence that met this proposal was broken by Mantri Kasyapa, his voice almost a sob. ‘You mean that we should leave Mithila to face the asura armies alone? That we should abandon our brothers and sisters? How can you suggest such a thing, Jabali? I know you are hard of heart, you must be to become minister of war, but this is beyond hardness. This borders on betrayal!’ Mantri Ashok said, ‘I agree with Kasyapa, Jabali. I see the logic of what you propose, but how can we save Ayodhya and let Mithila fall? How can we not go to the aid of our fellow Aryas?’ Pradhan Mantri Sumantra raised his hand. ‘Let us not grow too emotional. I too feel outraged at the thought of leaving the Videhans unaided. Yet Mantri Jabali speaks wise

words. If we go to the Mithilans’ aid and are too late, our army will be caught between the two kingdoms, on the open road, exposed and vulnerable. Under such conditions, we will be no match for the superior numbers and strength of the enemy. We all recall the titanic struggle Maharaja Dasaratha had to endure on the fields of Kaikeya. What Mantri Jabali has proposed seems harsh and cold, it’s true. Yet the alternative may be harsher still.’ Mantri Kasyapa rose to his feet angrily. ‘If we are to choose between helping Mithila and saving our own skins, I will vote for Mithila no matter what the outcome. Better that we die fighting on the open road than cluster here behind our seven walls while the Videhan nation is raped and razed by Ravana’s monstrous hordes. We have all seen how hideously the asura species treat their enemy. This is no Arya civil conflict we speak of, where rules of war are maintained and the code of the Kshatriyas is upheld even in the thick of battle. The survival of an entire kingdom is at stake!’ Guru Vashishta spoke calmly. ‘There is a third alternative. Neither abandon Mithila, nor abandon Ayodhya.’ Everybody turned curious eyes to the sage. Vashishta said, ‘Mithila must hold out until our army reaches them. They must put up a fight fierce enough to keep the asura armies from reaching the Sarayu river. If they hold the enemy there for four more days, our forces can reach them and press them back. Meanwhile, we also send word to Banglar in the east and Marwar in the west to join our army at Mithila. They ought to reach Mithila at best a day after our forces, just in time to press home the attack.’ The council exchanged glances, their expressions varying from surprise to wonder. Sumantra spoke for all of them when he said slowly, ‘A brilliant plan, maha-dev. Truly magnificent. The open plains of the Videha nation would then be our ally rather than our foe. We could attack the asura force on three fronts, and drive them back southwards. What do you say, Mantri Jabali, might not this be a viable strategy?’ The pinched face of Jabali cleared slightly. ‘Oh yes. It would work. The asuras are not good on flatland, we’ve seen that before. And they get confused and disoriented when attacked from more than one direction–it forces each species to transgress into the other’s area and causes huge internal conflict and outright fighting. They could even end up fighting one another as much as our armies. It could certainly work.’ The minister’s face clouded again. ‘But I have a pertinent question for Guru Vashishta. Gurudev, how can we expect Mithila to hold out for those four crucial days? Everything would depend on that. If they fell even a day too soon, all would be lost. For the plan to work successfully, it is imperative that Mithila must make a stand like no other stand in Arya history. It would be like pitting an ant-hill against a herd of elephants.’ The guru nodded.

‘Well spoken, mantriji. But I believe these ants of Mithila might just be able to keep the elephants at bay long enough to save the ant-hill from destruction.’ Jabali looked confused. His expression was mirrored on the faces of the other council ministers. Only Sumantra watched the guru’s face earnestly. He had spent enough time with the sage to know when he was speaking of matters that were beyond mortal ken. Guru Vashishta looked around at the anxious and curious ministers. ‘Ants can sting,’ he said. ‘And when enough ants work together, their sting can be enough to bring down even an elephant. I think Mithila might just be able to produce one giant surprise.’

NINE For one long, stunned moment, the entire company was silent. The sounds of the river valley seemed to grow louder to fill the sudden vacuum: leaves whispering in the wind, the gurgling of the rivulet, horses nickering softly, bigfoot pawing the shale and noisily eating the grass and fruits collected by their mahouts. The scents of wildwood and honey, roses and thyme, neem and chandanwood filled the air. The pungent but not unpleasant animal odours of horse and elephant mingled with the strong perfume of nightqueen blossom, reminding Sita of the compound behind the princess gardens where she had learned to ride as a little girl. Its wall separated that end of the princess’s palace from the stables, and the bougainvillea creeper overhanging that wall was interwoven with the branches of a nightqueen blossom tree, its strong scent mingling with the aroma of horses. But this she noticed only in an abstract, subconscious way, just as her ears took in the natural, animal and human sounds around her without her mind fully registering the meaning of those sounds. Right now, the only sound Sita could hear was the deafening thudding of her own heart. The only scent in her nostrils was the scent of her own fear. When the veil was removed by the brahmarishi’s sorcery, she felt bare, vulnerable. She wanted to pick it up and cover herself at once. To scream out loud and run away from these gawking, gaping people. To sink into the earth and be embraced by the allencompassing arms of Prithvi Maa, the form in which the Mother Goddess Sri presided over the world, and Sita’s own patron deity. She was exposed. Unmasked. Humiliated. It was bad enough to have her identity revealed, it was unbearable to have it done thus, so publicly. She could feel every pair of eyes as keenly as if they were two-tined pitchforks goring her flesh. Most of all, she could see Rama, standing closest to her, staring at her with an expression that was all the more shocking because it wasn’t displaying shock or horror or disbelief, like the other faces around her. Rama was smiling. As if his jest-prone brother Lakshman had just voiced another of his silly, grossly unfunny jokes. ‘It isn’t funny,’ she snapped at him. ‘This isn’t a joke for your pleasure.’ Rama’s smile remained unchanged. His dark pupils gleamed, twin campfires reflected in them. Wind ruffled his dark locks gently. He continued to smile at Sita. She turned her attention to the gawking crowd of Brahmins who had drifted upriver to watch the unfolding drama. They were staring at her in stunned amazement. ‘And the rest of you, if you want entertainment, go find the nearest tavern or dance hall! This isn’t a free show provided for your amusement!’ Several of the more senior rishis exclaimed, offended by her tone as well as her words.

To tell a Brahmin to go to a wine hall or dance performance was akin to asking him to deny his faith. Perhaps there were a few dissolute Brahmins somewhere in the world who did indulge in such fleshly pleasures clandestinely, but these were Siddh-ashrama hermits not city pundits! As she had expected, the sharpness of her words did the trick. In moments, most of the Brahmins had moved away, returning to their evening chores. Only a few brahmacharya acolytes continued to steal guilty glances at the two women. Sita flashed her angry eyes at the Vajra captain next. Bejoo was literally gaping at her, his lips parted as he stared at the two women. More specifically, he was staring at the taller of the pair. He seemed to be physically unable to take his eyes off Nakhudi. ‘And if you don’t order your men to move away and sheathe their weapons, you’ll see a bloodier fight than that little encounter with the bandits!’ Bejoo blinked. He rasped shortly: ‘Vajra. Stand down.’ The Vajra soldiers retreated, still staring curiously at the women in black. Nakhudi made one final menacing gesture with her curved sword before sheathing it expertly in its waist harness without even a downward glance. Sita saw Bejoo’s eyes flick down, following the sword’s descent, then return at once to the bodyguard’s face. He looked like a man who had just offered a flower gift to a deity then raised his eyes to gaze upon the deity’s visage. ‘And you can put your eyes back in your head, Captain. She won’t grow any taller if you keep staring.’ Bejoo looked suddenly embarrassed. He sheathed his own sword and glanced briefly at Sita. ‘Why does the princess-heir of this great nation travel in disguise and without adequate protection?’ ‘The first question answers the second,’ Sita said curtly. Bejoo stared at her dumbly. Rama spoke, addressing the captain while keeping his amused eyes on Sita. ‘The rajkumari means that since she is travelling in disguise, it would be pointless to bring along her entire royal entourage. She might as well hang a sign around her neck announcing who she is.’ Understanding dawned on Bejoo’s face. He kept his eyes on a point midway between Rama and Sita. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding looking at the taller woman again. Rama went on, ‘As for why she’s travelling in disguise, I have a fair idea what her motive might be, but perhaps the rajkumari would like to tell us in her own words?’ ‘The rajkumari would rather jump in the River Shona and drown,’ Sita said. Lakshman made a show of looking at the shallow stream flowing beside them. ‘Better

find another river. Frogs couldn’t drown in this one.’ Nakhudi glared down at Lakshman. ‘When you address my mistress, you must speak politely and preface your words with her title, rajkumari.’ Lakshman waggled his eyebrows at the bodyguard. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, Rama and I are rajkumars. So if we do as you say, we’d all be adding a lot of extra syllables to our sentences. What do you say we drop the formalities and just use our first names and save all of us a lot of breath and energy?’ He ended with a broad wink. Nakhudi strode forward, her face darkening. ‘Enough!’ Sita moved to join her companion, turning to face the others. Now Vishwamitra, Rama, Lakshman and Bejoo were on one side, facing into the light of the camp-fires, their faces clearly illuminated, while Nakhudi and she had their backs to the fires, their faces shrouded by flickering shadows. ‘What my motives were in travelling incognito are none of your concern, rajkumars,’ Sita said. ‘But out of respect for the venerated brahmarishi, I shall share this information with you.’ ‘Your graciousness makes me want to supplicate myself in undying gratitude,’ Lakshman said. Rama nudged his brother. ‘Enough,’ he said softly. Lakshman subsided reluctantly. Sita studiously ignored Lakshman. Instead she directed her attention to the sage. Inclining her head, she joined her hands in a namaskar. Her tone lost its sharp edge and grew humble and respectful. ‘Guru-dev, it was foolish of me to expect to deceive your infinite wisdom and insight. But such was not my intention. I had no expectation of meeting such a venerated seer-mage on the road to—’ She broke off abruptly. ‘On the road,’ she finished simply. ‘On the road to Dandaka.’ The seer’s tone was final. He was telling, not asking. Sita stared up at Vishwamitra dumbly for a moment before answering, unable to conceal the shock she felt at the seer’s words. She found her voice at last. ‘Indeed, maha-dev. That is where my companion and I were headed.’ Vishwamitra nodded grimly. ‘You heard the tales then. Of asuras massing in the Dandaka-van and Bhayanak-van, and other areas south of the sacred rivers. And you requested your father to send scouts to investigate the rumours. But Maharaja Janak’s preoccupation with spiritual matters precluded him from seeing the depth of your

anxiety. And so, when he failed to be moved by your entreaties, you decided to take matters into your own hands.’ Sita nodded, awed by the seer’s intimate knowledge. ‘It was just as you said, Guru-dev. My father is a good man, but his days are spent increasingly in philosophical discussions and the performing of yagnas. More and more, he has come to believe that ahimsa is the only road to salvation. He has almost completely disbanded the armed forces. The entire kingdom of Videha now has barely one full division to guard its borders and police its capital city. Every time we receive news of some new asura movement or attack–such as the recent invasion attempt on Ayodhya–he dismisses it as idle gossip with no basis in fact.’ She shook her head in frustration, remembering how hard she had tried to convince her father on that last morning, and how he had smiled indulgently and nonchalantly at her and tried to change the topic to her marriage plans. The sage nodded. Sita felt as if he understood every thought, every emotion she was experiencing now and had ever experienced. His eyes were filled with such bottomless empathy. When he spoke his voice were tinged with a hint of sadness. ‘And so you decided to bring him proof that this was not idle gossip. You took your trusted bodyguard into your confidence and convinced her of the merit of your plan.’ Nakhudi spoke, her gruff voice softened by her respect for the seer. ‘My people have known of the Lord of Lanka’s plans for many moons now, sire. But city Kshatriyas regard our clans as warmongers and refuse to listen. They forget that back when war was a way of life, it was the rakshak clans and our clans that watched and warned all the Arya nations. Too many years of peace have made the people soft and thick-bellied. We have forgotten the lessons of our mothers and gurus.’ The large warrior chanted aloud: ‘Always watch, always prepare. Carry a sword with you to prayer. Never forget, never forgive. No rest as long as our enemies live.’ She ended by making a gesture of grief at a lost one’s memory. ‘My father, mother, four sisters and two brothers all died in the last asura war. I was too young to fight, or I would have gone to Vaikunta with them.’ She clenched her fist on the pommel of her sword. The sound of the leather was audible to Bejoo, five yards away. The seer nodded. ‘Strong words, Jat. Angry words. As one who has walked the earth from the time of the First asura War to the present day, I understand your anger and feel for your pain. But Maharaja Janak too saw many loved ones lost in the same war; his own bow and sword were drenched with asura blood in that last terrible conflict. I know this even though I was engaged in bhor tapasya, for events of such magnitude cannot escape even a seer absorbed in transcendental devotion.’ Nakhudi and Sita frowned at the sage, trying to understand his meaning. He went on gently, ‘Both of you misjudge Maharaja Janak’s desire for peace and nonviolence as a failing. Yet it is the very opposite of a fault, it is a great virtue. The desire for peace and

ahimsa is the true sign of the enlightened Arya. It takes great courage to embrace the way of the word over the way of the sword. Maharaja Janak’s acceptance of the principles of ahimsa and peace are just as brave as the taking up of arms.’ The two women were silent. Vishwamitra smiled. ‘You disagree. After all, you reason, I am a Brahmin, and a Brahmin would of course favour peaceful non-violence over armed aggression any day.’ He shook his head. ‘I will not preach to you. These things you must understand through direct experience.’ He glanced up at the dark night sky. ‘But the hour grows late and we have a mission to fulfil tonight. Go on, Rajkumari Sita. Continue your tale. After your father rejected your advice yet again, you and your companion donned the black garb of travelling Kshatriyas and left the palace and the capital city unrecognised. You travelled southwards, heading for Dandakavan, the unexplored forests beyond the vale of Chitrakut hermitage. For this was the part of Videha that was mentioned in most of the rumours. You wished to see if there were asuras there, perhaps even slay a few yourself. Then you could return home and convince your father to allow you to lead an armed contingent back to the Dandakavan to deal with the menace.’ Sita nodded, her eyes still reflecting her awe at the seer’s insight. ‘Yes, Guru-dev. It was as you said. But we never reached the Dandaka-van. We were crossing the hills when Nakhudi smelled bandits nearby.’ Nakhudi nodded. ‘Even a noseless man could smell them a yojana away.’ Nobody argued the point. Sita went on. ‘We crept close to the bandits. They were waiting for something, we saw. We assumed they were laying an ambush for some unsuspecting merchant carting spices or silkworms up from the southern territories where such natural wealth is profuse. We did not know then that they were lying in wait for rksas. We overheard the leader of the clan, the scarred one they called Bear-face, speaking to another bandit. He was speaking of the coming asura invasion, of how the Lord of Lanka’s hordes were already making their way across the great ocean. ‘He said that once the asura armies came north, they would swarm across the land like a plague, laying waste to all in their path. But he and his gang would be spared, for they served the dark lord in their own small way. By slaying the vanars, rksas and kachuas which are the only enemies of Ravana among the animal species. That was why it was important for them to kill as many rksas as possible before the asuras came. Then they would be able to travel as allies with the hordes and join in the sacking and plundering of Ayodhya. ‘He spoke of a jail warder there whom he would torture to death in his own dungeon, and of things he and his gang would do to the female members of the royal family.’ Sita glanced to the right, her eyes meeting Rama’s briefly. Then she looked down, clenching her fist in exactly the same way that Nakhudi had done. ‘It was horrible hearing such things. Nakhudi and I wanted to rush them and cut them down right there and

then. But there were too many of them. Then the rksas came by and the bandits attacked and began. . . began slaughtering them. And we could take no more. We jumped into the fray. And moments later, you appeared.’ She shrugged. ‘The rest you know already. Once again, I am grateful to you for assisting us in our attempt to save the rksas from those vile miscreants. But now that you know who I truly am, you will probably understand why I must leave you as well. It is imperative that Nakhudi and I return to the capital as soon as possible. We must return to Mithila and inform my father of these things I have heard and seen. He must be persuaded to arm the city and prepare for its defence.’ She focused her attention on Rama, her voice reflecting her urgency. ‘More importantly, Rama, Lakshman and you, with the permission of Guru-dev of course, must return to Ayodhya at once. There was no doubt in the bandit leader’s mind that Ayodhya is the primary target of the asura invasion.’ Sita turned back to the brahmarishi, folding her hands, and went on earnestly. ‘Guru-dev, I humbly request you to permit us to leave your company and proceed directly to Mithila. I shall inform my father of your imminent arrival and we shall receive you in Mithila with all due respect and hospitality. But you must allow my companion and I leave to go to the capital with all speed. We cannot afford to take the long diversion to Visala.’ Vishwamitra moved his hand a few inches down the length of his staff, the wildwood rasping against his palm. ‘Rajkumari Sita, your father has raised you well and wisely. You are a young woman of great resourcefulness, intelligence and maturity, and I assume, once you have washed the grime of the road off your face and garbed yourself in more alluring garments, great beauty as well. However, you are mistaken in your assumption. The news you seek to carry home to your father is not only inaccurate and grossly misleading, it is in fact planted in your ear by those very forces that you seek to warn Maharaja Janak against.’ Sita stared at the sage in dismay. ‘Guru-dev?’ Nakhudi swore. Then immediately apologised to the seer. Vishwamitra ignored both the curse and the apology. He said instead, ‘My good princess, your intentions and efforts were admirable. But you only heard a small part of the full information and deduced the rest from it. It is true that the ultimate goal of the asura invasion is to take Ayodhya. But it is not their first goal!’ Sita stared up at the sage. ‘But maha-dev, if not Ayodhya, then where? What other target could the Lord of Lanka have in mind?’ Vishwamitra’s face darkened as he raised his staff and brought it down once resoundingly

on the gravelly riverbed. It made a crunching sound like glass breaking underfoot. Sita glanced down and saw that the small smooth stones of the riverbed had shattered into fragments and splinters beneath the force of the apparently small blow. ‘The main asura army will attack neither Banglar nor Kosala, nor even Gandahar or Kaikeya. While there will be sorties carried out on all the Arya nations, the main thrust of Ravana’s forces will be directed at only one capital city. The asura army will pass through these very lands, across this riverbed on which we now stand.’ The sage lifted his staff and pointed in a north-eastern direction. The blazing intensity of the campfires turned the seven-foot staff into a twenty-yard-long shadow racing across the riverbed to the far bank and the edge of the woods. There it vanished into dense darkness. The seer’s voice was so quiet, it was almost lost beneath the crackling of the logs in the fires and the renewed chanting of the Brahmins in their camp downriver. Yet every one of them heard his words clearly, and felt the chill they brought to their hearts. ‘The attack will be directed at Mithila.’

TEN Jatayu was overcome by a great desire to spread its wings and emit the loudest, most earshattering screech it was capable of producing. It was slowly going mad with impatience and frustration. How much longer was it expected to wait like a common lackey or steward-at-table? Was it not Jatayu, king of vultures, proud descendant of the mighty Garuda himself, creator of all birdkind? Had it not led its black-winged hordes in numerous battles, often providing the decisive advantage that swung the seesaw of victory? Had it not slain over a thousand brave Kshatriyas with its own talons and beak? Had it not dispatched uncounted thousands of other mortals, Brahmins, women, children, and other castemen who dared to oppose its master, the Dark Lord of Lanka? Even in the cosmic assault on Swarga-lok, the celestial realm of the devas, had it not led the sky attack, swooping down through a barrage of Brahman bolts that decimated more than half its fellows in a few eye-blinks? Had it not personally avenged its felled companions by setting ablaze the towers of the heavenly city, distracting the king of devas Lord Indra long enough for Ravana’s ground troops to gain a vital ingress in the city’s battlements? Did it not father a thousand thousand fledglings each year, every one devoted from birth to the bloody cause of the king of asuras? And now, on this momentous day, did it not come bearing vital news for Ravana’s many ears? News that the Lord of Lanka himself had commissioned it to seek out? Then why was it kept waiting here in this hall of horrors like a common foot-soldier on dog duty? Not just a few moments but several days had it waited for an audience with its lord and master, precious days in which its valuable news was losing its potency as surely as water leaking from a punctured waterskin. It started to unfold its leathery wings, sorely tempted to vent its fury in the natural way of its species. It was not the way of the Jatayus and Garudas to be treated thus. To be kept waiting in hallways for audiences. To be ignored and neglected. Creatures of wing, masters of the open sky, a Jatayu was free to roam the world, unfettered and unbound by the puny limitations of mortal limbs. Why should a Jatayu wait when it could simply leap out of a window and soar away? But there were no windows in the Hall. And the winding corridors down which it had been led by the pair of grunting kumbha-rakshasas—imbeciles! dolts!— had been too labyrinthine. It would never find its way up again to the Roost, the large terrace where the Jatayu forces massed. The Fortress of Lanka was one of the few places that managed to physically intimidate Jatayu. It had no desire to lose its way in these endlessly winding, dark, slime-encrusted corridors and hallways. There were nagas and uragas here,

hundreds of thousands of them. And nagas and uragas loved to eat birdfood. Large as he was, ferocious and fierce and renowned as he was, even Jatayu was ultimately mortal. Landlocked, within an enclosed stonewalled structure like this one, confronted by an army of nagas and uragas, even it would succumb eventually. It shuddered, its powerful shoulder and wing muscles rippling to produce a sound like a thousand pigeons fluttering. No, it decided, its burst of temper subsiding as suddenly as it had simmered. Better to stay here and wait a while longer. No need to go wandering in those unholy places. At least here in the Hall there were others of its kind. And whatever a being’s individual size or strength, there was always more safety in numbers. Still, it peered unhappily down the dark, pillared length of chamber. It had been kept waiting much too long. And it was hungry. If the Lord of Lanka didn’t take audience with Jatayu soon, it would do something, anything. There came a point when even the king of man-vultures lost patience. A sound echoed in the depths of the Hall. Jatayu opened its rheumy yellow eyes, abruptly alert, and scoured the chamber. That was easier said than done. The Hall of the Fortress of Lanka was no mere assembly chamber. It was vast. Even if Jatayu were to spread its enormous wings right now, the vulture-king’s twentyyard wingspan would barely stretch across a quarter of the width of the chamber. And if it flapped its powerful wings and flew upwards, it would not achieve any opposition for well over a hundred yards above its scraggy bald head. In fact, several dozen of its own kin were flying high above even now, small, dark silhouettes as small as bats in the uppermost reaches of the vaulted ceiling. Maybe even hundreds. It was too shadowy in the Hall to see much beyond a few yards clearly. And, like all else in Lanka, there was something about the architecture that defied close scrutiny or accurate assessment. Jatayu had heard the muttered rumour that the interiors of the Fortress of Lanka changed each night, its stones reshaping themselves to the Lord of Lanka’s wishes, even its chambers, corridors, hallways, alcoves, pillars and beams shifting and reknitting themselves into new patterns like a vast architectural kaleidoscope shaken by a monstrous child. Nobody, not even the oldest residents of Lanka—and there were few enough of those— knew for certain just how or when it happened. But there was no question that it did change. Jatayu itself found the Fortress a little different each time it returned. It was unsettling to say the least. It had even heard tell that asuras who dared to brood or plot against their lord simply vanished in the depths of night, their entire chambers replaced by spiralling stairwells that led nowhere, or enormous bulkhead walls, as if the beasts had never existed at all. Such individuals were never spoken of again, by tacit unanimity. It made for a cautious and remarkably loyal populace: who would dare speak against the lord of a fortress whose very stones obeyed his every command - perhaps even to the point of eavesdropping on his minions?

And of all the chambers in the Fortress, the Hall was the most intimidating. Even now, as Jatayu scanned the vast chamber for the source of the strangely unsettling sound, the Hall seemed to defy its attempt to plumb its depths. It stretched out before the vulture-king in an apparently unending succession of pillared arches that extended as far as its keen eyes could discern. A thousand yards? Two thousand? There was no telling for sure, with the far end shrouded in semi-darkness, illuminated only by an occasional flickering torch. The sound came again, this time from right beside Jatayu. The vulture-king started, its wings starting to flap instinctively, its yard-long talons scrabbling noisily for purchase on the slippery floor that seemed to have not a single level flagstone. Its anxiety resulted in more noise than the creature that had materialised beside it. Jatayu screeched in alarm, rearing up to defend itself against the Arya mortal who had appeared out of thin air. The man was clad in the rich garb of a royal house. Gold bracelets adorned his muscular forearms and clasped his taut biceps. Necklaces of solid gold inlaid with precious stones encased his neck. The sound that had attracted Jatayu’s attention had come from the man’s weighty jewellery. His handsome head was adorned by a crown that glittered with fine diamonds, each worth a maharaja’s ransom. His fair skin, muscular form, striking good looks and poised stance marked him out for nobility, certainly a prince from a great house, perhaps even a maharaja. Jatayu raised its talons, prepared to strike out at the enemy. Its leathery wings had unfurled to almost half their length, looming above the puny two-yard-tall human, dwarfing him. One slash of those black talons and the man’s head would lie severed from its body on the floor of the Hall. Before Jatayu could strike, the man raised a hand, gold bracelets jangling again, and smiled beatifically. ‘You might not want to raise arms against your lord, Jatayu.’ The voice was that of Ravana, Lord of Lanka. Jatayu stared, its yellow eyes glaring as fiercely as large bright lamps in the murky dimness of the Hall. Its talons, barely a yard above the human’s head, froze. There was no mistaking that voice: the gravelly, grinding sound of the king of asuras speaking was horrible to hear the first time, and once heard, it was never forgotten. The man smiled sweetly, his handsome face as cheerful as an Arya prince at a royal feast. ‘Does my appearance surprise you?’ Jatayu lowered its talons slowly, trying to contain the sudden urge to shriek and fly screaming up to the rafters. It sheathed its talons, withdrawing them to a third of their formidable length, and its wings shuddered shut with a sound like a canvas tent collapsing. It slumped lower, reducing its height until its eyes were below the level of the human who spoke with Ravana’s voice.

‘My lord, I did not recognise you in that garb.’ The man raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘Garb? This is more than a garb surely? It’s a human body. A quite real and functional one, I assure you. Not the work of maya.’ Jatayu blinked. It could understand maya, the subtle sorcerous art of illusion that asuras had developed over the millennia to aid them in their unending war against the devas and the mortals. It had been maya that had changed Kala-Nemi’s appearance to match that of the seer-mage Vishwamitra when the uncle of Ravana had carried out his intrusion into Ayodhya. But maya was just what the name suggested: illusion. He had never heard of a rakshasa being able to assume a living human body. The man laughed. ‘You’re befuddled, my feathered friend. Unable to grasp the concept. It’s simple enough really. Remind me to tell you about it sometime. Right now, though, we have work to do. I have a mission for you, bird-master.’ Jatayu tried to bow its head. It was difficult, with its body already scrunched down this low. ‘Lanka-naresh,’ it said in as respectful a voice as it could muster, ‘I have yet to report to you on the result of my last mission. I have returned from Ayodhya with news of great import.’ The man waved dismissively. ‘I already know what transpired on your mission, Jatayu. Let’s move on, shall we? Time is short and I have many other urgent matters to attend to.’ The handsome face creased in another winning smile. ‘Many more matters than I have heads, you might say!’ Jatayu didn’t know how to laugh. That emotional expression was not a part of its physiological make-up. It screeched as softly as it could manage, trying to emulate the peculiar sound mortals made when indulging in this inane expression of pleasure. The mortal who spoke with Ravana’s voice grimaced, raising a gold-bedecked hand to shield his delicate human ears from the high-pitched sound. ‘Ah, you need to consider taking voice modulation lessons from the gandhar-vas! But now, let’s get to the point, shall we?’ ‘But master, I have flown a long way to bring you this news.’ ‘And you will fly a long way to carry out the next mission. Pay heed now. I have places to go and cities to ravage, bald-headed one.’ ‘But master, my news—’ The change was astonishing. One moment the Arya human’s demeanour was all smiles and cheerful patience; the next it was a raging mask of fury. ‘SILENCE! YOU DARE TO QUESTION THE LORD OF LANKA? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU WRETCHED CARRION-EATER?’

If Jatayu’s high-pitched attempt at laughter had been offensive to the human’s ears, then the glass-grinding, mirror-shattering timbre of the mortal’s voice was equally painful to the manvulture’s ears. It reared back several steps, sheathed talons skittering helplessly on the slippery floor, cringing at the low, booming tones of the asura king’s voice, as well as at Ravana’s anger.

ELEVEN The echoes of the Lord of Lanka’s shouted words reverberated down the enormous chamber, travelling until they seemed to reach the ends of the island fortress. The chittering, clicking, grunting, hissing, flapping and other bestial sounds of asuras scattered throughout the Hall ceased momentarily as every creature in Lanka shivered in anticipation of the demon king’s temper. With a visible effort, the human composed his face into an unconvincing simile of a smile. ‘Let’s have no more of that, shall we? I have a very important function to attend and I don’t wish to arrive in a bad mood. After all,’ he added, visibly trying to regain the cheerful demeanour he had presented before his outburst, ‘it wouldn’t do for a prince to arrive at a swayamvara in a bad temper!’ Jatayu cringed and grovelled as best as its anatomy permitted. The stones of the Hall’s floor stank of old ichor and other vital fluids from a dozen different asura species. ‘Forgive my impudence, Lanka-naresh. I meant you no disrespect.’ The man waved the apology away self-deprecatingly. ‘Don’t bother. You were just eager to do your job, that’s all. Just remember, Jatayu, that I oversee not merely some military campaign over here. I am orchestrating the invasion of all of the earth! Sometimes an individual shred of news, important as it may seem to the soldier who has spent so much effort in procuring it, becomes insignificant when the larger picture changes. Since I dispatched you to Ayodhya to report on Kala-Nemi and Supanakha’s intrusion, much has changed. The very fact that the intrusion itself failed made your mission redundant. I’ve long since moved on to other, more important considerations. As for your news itself, well, I have excellent sources in Ayodhya that provide me with all I need to know. There’s nothing you can tell me that I have not heard and acted on several days ago.’ That’s because you made me wait several days for an audience. And if my news was so unimportant, why didn’t you just tell me so earlier instead of keeping me waiting like a lackey in this horrible cold and damp hall for all this time? These thoughts flashed across Jatayu’s mind silently, but it saw a flicker of irritation cross the demon-lord’s human features and forced itself to say aloud quickly, ‘Forgive me, great lord. I await your next command.’ Ravana looked at the giant man-vulture for a moment. Despite the ludicruous difference in size, it was the relatively puny-seeming mortal who exuded danger and power. Jatayu kept its beak dipped and its eyes cast downwards. It was more difficult to keep its thoughts blank and devoid of the frustration and resentment it felt, but it made an effort. Finally, the king of asuras spoke again, quietly this time. ‘Take your flock to Mithila. They must be in position to attack in three days’ time. Do not commence the attack until I personally give you the order. Until then, make sure none of your flock is seen by any

mortal. Naturally, they should not be spotted while travelling there either.’ Jatayu shifted uncomfortably from one clawed foot to the other. ‘My lord, I shall do as you say. But it will prove difficult to avoid being seen in the course of the journey. It is a long way to Mithila and there are many ashrams and rakshak outposts that will spot us and send warning of our approach.’ Ravana sighed. ‘Did you think I would forget that? The outposts are taken care of. There will be no warnings given. As for ashrams and gurukuls, fly high, stay above the clouds. And on the day of the attack, there will be ample cloud cover. I shall see to that.’ That means I leave today. What about rest and food? What does he take me for? One of his dispensable rakshasa minions? Jatayu struggled to compose itself before replying. ‘Very well, my lord. In that case, I suggest that I remain at a high vantage until such time as you call upon us to attack.’ ‘That would be appropriate,’ Ravana agreed, looking suddenly distracted. ‘One more thing. When you attack, I wish your flock to direct itself to certain key targets.’ ‘Key targets, my lord?’ ‘Yes,’ Ravana went on. ‘You will focus your attack primarily on Brahmins.’ ‘Brahmins?’ Jatayu blinked in surprise. ‘You heard me the first time,’ Ravana snapped. ‘The Kshatriyas will be on the walls, defending the city. But the Brahmins will mostly be within the city enclave, protected for the most part from our ground assault by all those stupid walls the Aryas love to build. Eventually, we’ll ram through and get them all. But I wish to remove as many of the cursed devaworshippers as possible early in the battle. And walls will be no protection for them against an assault from the skies.’ Ravana gestured with a raised finger before continuing.’So when I give the word, I want you and every last one of your flock to swoop down like hawks on cobras, killing as many Brahmins, seers, rishis, maharishis, sadhus, pundits and their ilk as you can manage in one mass attack. It should be as quick and unexpected as a horde of eagles falling on a nest of newborn serpents. Within moments, every last Brahmin in Mithila should lie dead, savagely shredded by your beautiful talons and razor beaks!’ His eyes gleamed, filled with the epic vision of slaughter. ‘The Aryas will never know what hit them. Without their seers and priests, they will still be able to fight physically. But spiritually, mentally, they will be crippled beyond repair.’ He laughed, gesturing. ‘Because every Brahmin in the kingdom of Videha, as well as the highest-ranked Brahmin representatives from the other seven Arya kingdoms, will be present there, like a field full of fatted calves awaiting slaughter!’

Jatayu resisted the urge to screech in response. ‘Master, it is an ingenious plan. After we are done with the destruction of the Brahmins of Mithila, what would you have us do next?’ Ravana blinked rapidly, as if he had forgotten for a moment that he was addressing someone. He focused his blue-grey mortal eyes on the vulture-king. ‘After Mithila?’ He chuckled sardonically. ‘After Mithila, then Ayodhya. And after that, nothing will stand in our way. But first accomplish this much and show me, bird-king! Don’t underestimate mortals, like so many asuras have done before. They are weak of flesh and short of life but their other qualities more than compensate for those shortcomings.’ Ravana’s eyes glimmered darkly. ‘If you do this for me successfully, if you can show me the ravaged, worm-eaten corpse of every last Brahmin in Mithila city, then I will give you an opportunity for advancement such as you have never dreamed of before.’ The disguised demon-king chuckled again, seductively. ‘What am I saying? Of course you would have dreamed of it. But I can put it within your grasp at last. Do you know what I speak of, vulture-lord? I mean to make you the new king of your kind!’ Jatayu frowned. What new insult was this? It was already king of its kind. Ravana smiled, his mortal face cheerful and handsome again. ‘Not just king of the vultures and foragers, Jatayu. I mean king of all birds. I will place you above even the lord of birdkind himself, the Maharaja of Pakshis!’ Jatayu peered disbelievingly. Could the Lord of Lanka mean what it thought he did? Ravana nodded. ‘That’s right, Jatayu. Do this for me and your path to ascension will be clear of all hurdles. And by the end of my campaign, when the Arya nations lie smashed and bleeding across the land, I will crown you king of Pakshis. You will replace Garuda himself and rule over every last winged being in the three worlds for all eternity!’ Jatayu had nothing to offer in response to that astonishing beak-bending statement. Not even the tiniest of screeches. It was struck speechless and immobile. It was still searching for words to express its inexpressible response to that amazing promise when the Lord of Lanka raised his hand. ‘Enough talk. I will leave you now, my feathered senapati. When we meet next, we shall both have mortal blood on our hands.’ Ravana flashed a brilliant smile. ‘And on our beaks as well! But now, you will excuse me. I have a marriage to attend and little time to waste.’ ‘A marriage?’ Jatayu heard itself say stupidly. It was still dazed at the prospect of being king of all birdkind. ‘Yes. Well, first a swayamvar, of course. But they are generally followed by a marriage, as

even you, my unmoral friend, probably know.’ Jatayu couldn’t understand what attending a marriage had to do with waging a war. So it asked before it could stop itself: ‘Whose marriage, sire?’ Ravana flashed another brilliant smile. This time, it was so dazzling, the vulture-king was actually blinded for a moment. Then Jatayu realised that the brilliance came from the asura lord’s use of Brahman magic, not the whiteness of his teeth. Ravana was transporting himself instantaneously to another location, using the flow of Brahman. An instant before the Lord of Lanka winked out of sight, he spoke one last word, answering Jatayu’s question. ‘Mine,’ Ravana said.

TWELVE Rama had a hundred questions, a hundred things he wished to say to Vishwamitra. About the unmasking of the rajkumari Sita, about the things she had overheard the bandit leader saying in the hills, about the asura invasion that was coming. But moments after announcing that Mithila, not Ayodhya, was to be the first target of the invaders, the seer had abruptly ended the dialogue and told them all to prepare to leave. Bejoo was already giving Sona Chita last-minute instructions about the Vajra, and Lakshman and Rama had begun strapping on their rigs, which they had taken off for the evening ritual and meal. Nearby, Sita and Nakhudi, their faces bare now that they had no reason to mask themselves, were using the brief respite to have a few words privately. Rama found himself unable to keep his eyes off the rajkumari. He was still trying to adjust to the realisation that Janaki Kumar was a woman. Lakshman, on the other hand, seemed mostly embarrassed by the unmasking and studiously avoided both women. Even when Rama tried to catch his brother’s eye, Lakshman grinned sheepishly and looked away. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra walked down to the riverside, his robes flapping in the sudden chill wind from the north that was growing steadily in intensity and coldness. Just a little while earlier, the weather had seemed calm, almost balmy. Now, as if churned up by the drama on the riverbank, it seemed to be confused and agitated. The wind blowing in from the north had a wet, icy edge to it that could mean either hail or rain, or maybe even both. Rama found himself thinking that if he found the wind so cold, surely Sita must find it even more uncomfortable. She had no maha-mantras to shield her from the vagaries of nature. He mentally chided himself for thinking such thoughts. What did he think he could do? Offer her the maha-mantras the way you might offer a lady a cloak? Lakshman nudged him. When Rama glanced at him, he found his brother watching him with a strange expression. For once, he seemed to have no smart witticism to offer. He looked pointedly at Sita and then back at Rama in a manner that was a comment in itself. Rama raised an eyebrow in warning. Lakshman nodded and gestured at the riverbank, at the brahmarishi. Rama and his brother watched as the sage stopped by the edge of the water, standing as he had earlier that evening when they had reached the Shona, and raised his head to gaze in a north-easterly direction. The sage’s arms were raised as well, the wildwood staff clutched in his right hand casting an enormously long shadow that stretched across the meagre river and pointed into the dark depths of the woods bordering the north bank.

***

Bejoo wasn’t entirely certain, but he thought he could hear feel? - the brahmarishi mouthing mantras in that internalised manner of transcendental meditators. Was the sage praying for their safe journey? It was true that travel by night was unadvisable, as Bejoo himself had pointed out, especially in this part of the country where bandit gangs and wild predators were rife. But somehow he didn’t think the brahmarishi would be this anxious about mere dacoits and a few baghs or rksas. There was something else in the air, something imminent. Bejoo could smell the threat of violence already. What was the sage leading them into this time? Not just a holy dip in the Ganga, that was for sure. What was at Visala anyway? And what was their mission there? Most of all, what did it have to do with the impending asura invasion? That was what Bejoo cared most about: the invasion. The instant he’d heard the seer speak of it with such conviction, his first instinct had been to leap on to his horse and ride back to Ayodhya. That was where his place was if war was breaking out again. Not traipsing around the countryside playing daiimaa to a bunch of bald Brahmins and two rajkumars who could take care of themselves. The wind changed just then, carrying the unmistakable drone of sub-auditory incantation, and Bejoo observed with a start that golden and blue motes were issuing from the brahmarishi’s mouth, floating towards Bejoo and the rajkumars and their companions like fire-sparks on the wind. From all around, Bejoo heard the uneasy mutters of his Vajra Kshatriyas as they watched the seer-mage work his Brahman sorcery. Even the Vajra horses and bigfoot grew unusually silent and still. The night seemed to gather in around them, the cookfires flickering and gasping in the wailing wind that had begun to blow, stirring up ashes and leaves. If Bejoo had had any doubts before, he had none now. Clearly, the brahmarishi was speaking an incantation to ensure their safe and successful journey. What vital mission could they be embarking on now that even a brahmarishi of Vishwamitra’s stature felt compelled to ask the blessings of the devas before setting out? He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. He was beginning to think that with the brahmarishi Vishwamitra and the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, it might simply be best to follow them on their adventures rather than be forewarned about what to expect. That way he could focus on being a warrior, not a worry-wart. There were things in this world that a simple Vajra Kshatriya was better off not knowing in advance.

***

Sita felt the chill in the air and resisted the urge to shiver. She felt Rama’s eyes on her. She didn’t want him thinking she was . . . what? Weak? Cold? Why not? He must be cold

too in this weather. Then she remembered, he was protected by the mahamantras. By concentrating, he could dispel physical discomfort, even sleep, hunger and exhaustion if he desired. But that wasn’t the reason she felt reluctant to display weakness before him. It’s because he’s a man. And they’re all so quick to assume they’re stronger, faster, smarter. Except that she didn’t really think Rama was like that. He was . . . different somehow. Not just because he was a prince of the greatest Arya nation. Or the recent champion of Bhayanak-van. If anything, he seemed almost embarrassed about that heroic achievement. It had taken her—in her guise as Janaki Kumar—almost half an hour of indirect and direct probing and clever questioning to get him to reveal some of his true feelings about the battle in the Southwoods. And even then, she kept feeling he was holding something back. Sita had known many champions before; as a princess she had a line of national heroes seeking her hand in marriage at any given time. She was all too familiar with that particular breed of macho, overbearing, full-of-themselves Kshatriya heroes. The champions she had known never held back any details of their conquests or triumphs. Yes, there was something different about Rama. She just wasn’t quite sure what it was. She was drawn out of her thoughts by Nahkudi’s gentle nudge. A gentle nudge from the hulking Jat was like a punch in the shoulder from most ordinary men. Sita looked in the direction Nakhudi was pointing just in time to see the scene unfolding by the riverside. As the brahmarishi’s chanting grew louder, something was starting to happen. The sky immediately above the seer-mage had grown darker and angrier, not just night-black but a deep scarlet-edged, purple-hearted black, like a storm approaching. Except that the storm was restricted to a single cloud that grew steadily, boiling and seething more frenetically with every line the mage uttered. Sita could see blue-tinged lightning flashes exploding within the belly of the supernaturally created cloud. As she watched, it came steadily closer, descending over the section of the Shona riverbed where the Kshatriya camp was situated, bringing with it a darkness deeper than night. As she watched, the seer roared his final words and the cloud roared back at him like a herd of wild elephant, opening a dark maw with which it swallowed up the brahmarishi. Vishwamitra was enveloped completely by the seething cloud that now obscured the riverbed for several dozen yards in a northward direction. Beside her, Sita heard Nakhudi cry out and start to move towards the spot where the brahmarishi had last been visible. Rama and Lakshman and the Vajra captain had seen what had happened and were running down the bank. Sita began running as well.

***

Within the cloud, Vishwamitra chanted a calming mantra. The seething and boiling reduced gradually, the thundering died down, until he was surrounded by a relatively benign fog. It remained thicker than any ordinary natural fog, its texture that of volcanic effusion rather than condensation mist, but unlike the offal of a volcanic emission, this cloud did not suffocate or choke. If anything, it was warm and comforting, a blanket against the abruptly chill early spring night. Tiny lightning bolts flashed at the periphery of the brahmarishi’s vision. Using his hands and a few carefully chosen verses he had composed spontaneously for this specific purpose, he began to reshape the cloud. Controlled by his incantations, it rolled slowly across the river and into the woods in a roughly straight line, like the dust-plume of a speeding chariot disappearing down a raj-marg. The sage’s hands blurred as they gestured and sketched mudras in the air, carving a passageway through the heart of the midnightblue fog. After a pause, he pointed the head of his staff and recited another incantation: the centre of the long line of fog opened up, creating a hollow corridor large enough for a man as tall as the seer-mage - or the Jat bodyguard - to move through easily. The seermage studied the corridor of Brahman fog, then sketched another mudra with his right hand. The corridor expanded laterally by a half-yard. Satisfied, the seer pushed a palm outwards, as if commanding the passageway to go. At once, the Brahman corridor expanded in that direction, unrolling into the distance for as far as the eye could see. Behind him, he heard the voices of the rajkumars approaching. Rama was the first to reach him. ‘Guru-dev?’ Vishwamitra turned to Rama. ‘It is imperative we reach Visala before dawn, and Mithila before noon, Rama. Yet, owing to my penitential vows, I may not ride a mount or seat a carriage. Visala is forty-five yojanas from here, and Mithila another thirty yojanas thence. The combined distance is close to seven hundred miles. Only Brahman shakti can help our company reach there in such a short time.’ Rama glanced at the unfurling corridor of dark blue fog still working its way into the distance. ‘My brother and I can run that distance, maha-dev. But the rajkumari Sita—’ ‘And her associate and the Vajra captain,’ Vishwamitra continued for him, ‘would be unable to match your speed. Hence I have created this corridor. Within this Brahmaninfused space, all of you will possess the ability to run as fast as you desire. I will lead the way, Rama. Then will come the rajkumari and her bodyguard. Followed by your brother and yourself. The Vajra captain shall bring up the rear. Inform them accordingly.’ ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ Rama turned to carry out the seer’s order. The others were waiting a few yards away, watching anxiously. Rama hesitated, then turned back. ‘Speak, Rama.’ The sage’s voice was quiet.

Rama said, ‘Guru-dev, did you know from the very first moment that Janaki Kumar was a woman? I mean, that the Kshatriya was actually Rajkumari Sita travelling incognito?’ The sage looked at him. Vishwamitra’s eyes were still flecked with the gold and blue motes of Brahman shakti. ‘Are you asking me why I did not expose her the moment you returned to the procession, rajkumar?’ ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ The sage permitted himself a small smile. ‘Because all things serve the purpose of Brahman, Rama. And because, if I had revealed her true identity at that time, then you would have lost the opportunity to make a new friend. And I repeat the word “friend”. Does that answer your question?’ Rama thought for a moment. Then his expression changed. ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ He turned back to the others.

THIRTEEN The night had turned deathly cold by the time they set out. They entered the corridor of fog and made their way across the river. They were able to walk on the water or, rather, on the flimsy translucent smoke. Through the fog they could see the world outside as through a misty window. Colours were dimmed, illumination faded - the lights of the cookfires seemed like glow-worms nesting, and shapes were obscured. It was a strange state of being, neither of the world of waking nor of the world of dreams. Real, yet unreal. Rama was reminded of being underwater. It was a curiously intimate sensation. The fog itself felt oddly firm beneath their feet but it was the firmness of well-packed damp sand or clay. No pebbles dug into their soles, no dips caught their toes, no rough patches slowed their feet, no smooth places made them slippery. It was like running on an endless undulating platform made of a substance that was like sand, but a perfect, non-gritty sand. That was the only way Rama could manage to describe it to himself. Already he could feel the shakti of the maha-mantras coursing through his veins, empowering him, sending his feet treadmilling ever faster through the dark foliage at a speed no normal mortal could achieve. They crossed the River Shona, plunging directly into the dense woods on the north bank, travelling sharply northeast. The lack of a moon made the thick jungle easier to navigate rather than harder. The sage led them, and his staff emitted a blueish glow that was surprisingly effective in illuminating the path ahead, while obscuring everything to either side. Where a moon would have cast a silver net over their entire surroundings, the sage’s Brahman light lit up only the area ahead that they needed to see as they ran. He’s blinkering us, the way we blinker horses, Rama thought as he picked up speed to match the sage’s accelerating pace. He also knew that the seer was somehow using his Brahman shakti to expand the corridor ahead as they advanced, just as he was collapsing the corridor behind them as they covered the ground. As he ran, Rama could smell the Vajra captain sweating liberally behind him. Bejoo was bringing up the rear, and as their speed increased to a level impossible to achieve by normal means, Rama could sense his fear and nervousness. The Vajra captain, like most older Kshatriyas, had a palpable fear of Brahman sorcery, whether benign or otherwise. Not just older Kshatriyas. Even now, Rama knew, Lakshman still harboured some vestige of resistance. That fact alone made him that much slower and less strong than Rama, who knew he had passed the point of acceptance and was now ready to explore new levels of the shakti. He felt as if he had discovered the secret that underlay all of creation: and in many ways, he had. Brahman was the power that the universe was made up of. He hoped Lakshman would

learn to embrace and accept it in time. As they ran, his Brahman-accentuated senses smelled the odours of the woods: the rich variety of Videha flora and fauna. The jungle was rife with predators of all shapes and species; several balked nervously at their passing, cringing or snarling menacingly as the seer’s band sprinted impossibly fast through the pitch-dark jungle. The prey animals only stared dumbly, uncomprehending. Somewhere to his right, Rama sensed a bagheera tensing, preparing to spring. By the time it landed, they were already fifty yards ahead. The bagheera pawed the forest floor frantically, unable to understand how it had missed. Glancing up, Rama could see stars visible faintly through gaps in the foliage. There was the constellation of Makar the Crab, an ominous sign. From the speed at which the foliage cut the starlight, he estimated that the sage was leading them at a pace of roughly four yojanas an hour. Thirty-six miles. Still too slow. Ahead of him, he sensed Rajkumari Sita and her bodyguard Nakhudi struggling to keep up the pace. Even though they knew that the sage was using his own shakti to speed them up, Nakhudi had refused to accept that such a thing was possible. Blinkered by the sage’s corridored illumination, the hulking bodyguard had probably convinced herself that they were sprinting fast, not super-humanly swiftly. It was difficult to tell speed without clearly visible signposts. Rama wondered how Nakhudi was able to explain the lack of obstacles in their path. But he wasn’t really concerned about what Nakhudi was thinking and feeling. He wished, though, he could read what was passing through Rajkumari Sita’s mind at this moment. Rajkumari Sita. It would take some getting used to, calling her Sita now. But he could hardly call her Janaki Kumar any more. He remembered the fall by the river, when he had tried to catch her and stop her slipping into the mud-pool, and she had screamed and batted him away. He had felt the softness of her upper body briefly, but she had pushed him away so hard, he hadn’t had a chance to truly suspect anything amiss. Only now that he knew it was a woman he had caught, not a man, did he understand that unexpected softness and the vehemence with which she had resisted his touch. Everything, her sweating overly, her nervousness at certain questions, her blustering arrogance at others, made sense now. It even added to her personality as he had come to perceive it: the witty, sharp-tongued roving sword-for-hire Janaki Kumar was not entirely fictional. It was just that he was a she with an extraordinary lack of the coy artifice that most noble-born Arya women usually affected. Rama had met several princesses before—his social status dictated that he would eventually have to marry one—but he had never met a woman quite like Sita. More importantly, he had never met a man quite like her either. That last insight, he realised, went to the heart of the matter. There was something so unusual and attractive about her, it almost seemed irrelevant whether she was a woman or a man. Either way, Rama knew he liked her, him, Janaki Kumar, Janaki Kumari. Sita. He smiled to himself in the darkness as they ran. The sage was picking up the pace, he sensed. Five yojanas an hour, six . . . seven . . . Now he could no longer tell their relative speed from the starlight and foliage overhead. It took all his concentration to keep

pumping his legs and swivelling his arms for balance. Yet he knew that no matter what he did, the sage had control of them now; they were all being carried by the flow of Brahman. Their windmilling limbs were merely allowed to keep moving to provide a rational physical explanation for their progress. If the brahmarishi desired, he could probably whisk them across half the nation in the blink of an eye. Then why didn’t he? Rama wondered idly as the night blended into one endless blur of darkness and wind. Why did seer-mages of Vishwamitra and Guru Vashishta’s stature need to bother with physical niceties at all? Why not simply accomplish everything through a wave of a hand and by reciting a mantra or three? It was something to ask the sage when he got a chance. Right now, he decided to stop thinking and simply run.

***

Sumitra scanned the room in frustration. Manthara’s private chambers were so utterly immaculate. The Third Queen had never seen any woman’s chamber this clean - except maybe a palace concubine’s room, and then only when she expected a visit from her lord. The thought of the withered spinster hunchback entertaining men was ludicrous but it brought no smile to Sumitra’s delicate features. She was running out of time. Already she had spent several minutes searching the daiimaa’s rooms, without any luck. She had no idea where the woman had gone or when she would be back, but it couldn’t be very long. The hour was late already. Sumitra was beginning to think this had been a foolish idea. Her suspicion of the daiimaa had begun when she had decided to undertake her own investigation of the morning’s incident in the maharaja’s sick-chamber. After the heart-breaking encounter with Kausalya, Sumitra had realised that if she was to clear her name of this slur, she would have to work alone. Shatrugan was gone, sent to his grandfather with two divisions to prepare for the imminent invasion; there was still no news of Lakshman’s return; and there was nobody else in the palace she could trust to carry out this delicate task. Besides, who better to do it than herself? She would only grow more miserable sitting in her chambers alone, and while a trusted serving girl would be unable to explore the queens’ palaces, Sumitra herself could roam freely without being stopped or questioned. Angry as she was with Kausalya for having believed that she could do such a thing as poison Dasaratha— even by accident—she also had to admit that the First Queen had been gracious enough not to spread her assumption about the palace. Sumitra still retained all her privileges and honour.

Still, it rankled that Kausalya of all people would even entertain such a notion against her. Sumitra would die before she let such a thing happen. But she didn’t hold it against Kausalya personally; these were trying times and everybody was under a lot of pressure. She was certain that if she could only find some shred of evidence to support her story, Kausalya would change her assumptions in a trice. That was what had motivated Sumitra the most: the knowledge that Kausalya still loved her, despite the misunderstanding. And that she herself wanted desperately to make Kausalya see that she had misjudged her. Prosaic, sensible, logical, that was Kausalya. It was what made her so dependable and so perfect. The complete opposite of Second Queen Kaikeyi, who was always a blathering mass of extreme emotions. Kausalya never touched intoxicants; Kaikeyi drank like a fish, although she denied it hotly. Kausalya never ate living flesh, neither meat nor fowl nor fish, and she even avoided any preparation cooked in animal fat; Kaikeyi relished her meat, demolishing skewers and platters at the same rate as any Kshatriya male. Kausalya could be passionate, Sumitra knew, but her passion was banked, controlled and always kept strictly within the circumference of propriety; Kaikeyi was wild, wanton, out of control. No wonder then that men found Kaikeyi irresistible and women envied her, while women admired Kausalya and men respected her! Sumitra sighed. Now she was being unduly harsh. Yes, her comparison of the two senior queens was accurate but it left out one essential factor: heart. For all her prim propriety and rigid adherence to protocol and sanskriti, Kausalya’s heart was always in the right place. Kaikeyi, on the other hand, reminded Sumitra of the darkest avatars of the devi that she and Kausalya worshipped. Not the Earth-Mother’s Durga avatar, or even her Lakshmi or Saraswati avatars. Those were benign, maternal, affectionate. Kaikeyi resembled the more bloody brooding forms of the ur-goddess. Parvati. Uma. Kali. Or even . . . The idea came to Sumitra with the suddenness of a flame sparking. Avatars. Goddesses. Deities. Pooja room. What had she smelled the minute Manthara emerged from her chambers and hustled down the corridor like a serpent out of its subterranean lair? Smoke. Fires. Burnt . . . something. That unmistakable scorched odour of a yagna. Or a cookfire. Why a cookfire? Sumitra wondered for an instant if she really was suffering from some kind of delirium. How could she have smelled a cookfire in the daiimaa’s chambers? Then it struck her. Balidaan. A sacrificial rite.

That was exactly what that odour had been. The distinct, unmistakable smell of a balidaan yagna, like the ones conducted at certain festivals. Less popular now, and generally falling out of fashion as the Arya nations attempted to encourage more rational and scientific behaviour, advocating the necessity of moving on from the superstitions of their ancestors. But indisputably the smell of roasting flesh. Sumitra searched now with renewed hope, seeking with her nose, not her eyes. She found it in moments. A faint ashy odour coming from the daiimaa’s pooja room. At first, she doubted her nasal sense, thinking that it was probably just some combination of agar, myrrh, camphor, phosphor, the familiar perennially lingering smell of all unaired pooja rooms. But then, as she went further into the room, towards the deity altar, she caught it again. This time it was so pungent and putrid there could be no mistake. This was no blend of wax and camphor or any such thing. It was the smell of burned flesh. After a few more moments of searching, her nose told her the odour was coming not from the pooja room itself, but from somewhere behind it. She found the narrow space between the back of the altar and the rear wall a few minutes later. Knocking on the rear wall, she was soon convinced it was hollow. She had expected to find something, but not such concrete evidence. There could be no good reason to have a secret chamber in such a place. She debated calling for help, thinking through her options carefully. Her suspicion had been right: someone had been using black sorcery in the palace, just as Guru Vashishta himself had suspected. But unlike the guru, Sumitra had not hesitated to point a mental finger at even the highest-ranking members of the royal family. After all, she reasoned, if she could be accused of having carelessly almost poisoned the maharaja, surely someone could have deliberately attempted to do so. Someone like Kaikeyi. Even when she had learned that Kaikeyi had genuinely been cloistered in her chambers these past nine days, she hadn’t been discouraged. That was the whole point of sorcery, that it used maya to deceive and alter perceptions. Kausalya had found a theory that fitted the facts, however unlikely, and had moved on. But the facts she had considered failed to take into account Sumitra’s eye-witness account of what had transpired in the sick-chamber. Now, Sumitra had a theory that fitted the facts that she knew. Suppose for a moment, she had mused, that Kaikeyi hadn’t been in the maharaja’s sickchamber this morning, then perhaps someone else had been there, someone whose appearance had been altered to make her seem to be Kaikeyi. On that assumption, she had questioned all the guards independently, this time asking not if they had seen the Second Queen enter the sick-chamber, but if they had seen anyone else, however innocuous. The answer had come quickly enough. All the guards had seen a serving girl go in at almost exactly the same time that the incident with Kaikeyi-the-snake had occurred. They hadn’t mentioned this earlier to Kausalya because the First Queen had been asking

specifically about Second Queen Kaikeyi and nobody else. The guards even recalled noticing that the serving girl had seemed a little flushed and out of breath when she emerged from the maharaja’s sick-chamber. But it wasn’t the first time they had seen serving girls look that way after a visit to the maharaja and had assumed she was simply reacting to an unusually strong compliment or perhaps an inadvertent brush of the king’s arm in passing. From that revelation, it hadn’t taken much further investigation to trace the serving girl back to her point of origin: Manthara-daiimaa’s chambers. And Manthara-daiimaa served Kaikeyi. Which made her part of the dark devi camp. Which made her a prime suspect. Sumitra was not one of those who foolishly harboured irrational prejudices against people who were physically or otherwise challenged. She knew that outward appearance didn’t always reflect the inner being. But Manthara was a famous exception to the assumption that beauty was within and not skin-deep. This wasn’t just Sumitra’s point of view. There had always been something about Manthara that set her apart, not only from the bustling and lovable daiimaas like Sakuntala-daiimaa or Susama-daiimaa, but from women in general. There was an air about Manthara that made even women want to stay far away from her. An air of deep self-pity that bordered on masochistic tendencies combined with an exaggerated sense of ego and false pride. It made for an unattractive combination. The fact that the wet-nurse was hunchbacked and club-footed would not have deterred her from finding friends and even loyal companions in the royal palace; but her dreaded foul temper, acid tongue and penchant for inflicting brutal corporal punishment on those below her station had given her a notoriety uglier than any physical deformity. She was that saddest of all the devi’s girl-children, a woman as ugly on the outside as within. Now, as Sumitra sought a way to enter the secret chamber behind the daiimaa’s pooja room, she wondered what Manthara’s game was. Was she using sorcery to try and keep Kaikeyi in the maharaja’s favour? Or was it more than that? After all, this morning’s nearpoisoning had been close to an assassination attempt. Anyone who could have accomplished such a powerful sorcery had surely been practising the dark arts for a long time. And to what purpose? Most troubling of all, was Kaikeyi aware of Manthara’s evil activities? How could she not be aware? Sumitra was so absorbed in her thoughts and search that she failed to notice the figure that had entered the pooja room and now stood behind her, watching with eyes that blazed with fury. Though she had been alert for any signs of the daiimaa’s return, she hadn’t reckoned with the woman’s ability to cloak her own presence through the same sorcery that occupied Sumitra’s thoughts. The first hint she had of Manthara’s presence was when the daiimaa spoke a short, harsh incantation. Before Sumitra could even turn around, the entrance she was seeking so eagerly flew open abruptly. Caught unawares, she fell directly into the secret chamber. At once the stench assaulted and disoriented her. She scrambled to her feet, turning back the way she had fallen in.

But the wall had closed behind her magically. It was seamless and solid once more. More solid on the inside that it had been on the outside, for Manthara’s spells had been designed to keep sounds from going out of the yagna chamber, not the other way around. Sumitra was trapped within the very secret chamber she had been trying to find.

FOURTEEN Among the more incredible sights of that long night run was the view of the Ganga. It was toward the end of the first half of their journey and Rama sensed that they were nearing Visala. Until now, they had been travelling through heavily wooded plains and rolling hills. They emerged into open plains for a few yojanas, mostly brushland except for a handful of farms. A field full of cows lowed in sleepy surprise as they shot past. Rama wondered what they saw, or thought they saw. By now, the brahmarishi’s party was racing through the Brahman corridor at a speed easily seven yojanas an hour. At that rate, all the cows would have seen was a dark-blue cloud of some foggy substance rolling across the field, with some human-like forms within it. The reverse was also true. A pair of dark shuddering figures looming in their path turned out to be two elephants in musth, indulging in the oldest dance of all. The Brahman corridor curved upward, over the furiously mating bigfoot, and then down again. The elephants never even noticed their passing, or if they did, it was probably absorbed in the tantric energies of their dance of bliss. They sped over the rutting beasts, then down again, and were gone in a flash. They came over one final rise, the familiar hump of a millennia-old alluvial deposit that Rama knew at once was the ridge of a river valley. He was right. A moment later, the corridor curved sharply upward, then steeply down the far side of the ridge. They shot down almost vertically, then the corridor straightened out into a more gradual incline, and that was when Rama and his companions were given a clear view of the valley of the Ganga. Even at night, shrouded in the darkness of an almost completely moonless night—the moon had risen and set an hour earlier, too weak and weary to offer much help—the beauty of the vale was breathtaking. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge that this was no ordinary river vale but the blessed and sacred Ganga herself that added a final sheen of lustre. Whatever the reason, that instant was the first time that Rama wished he could actually stop right there, on that downward-sloping incline, and wait for sunrise. But like so many other incredible sights and experiences since he had left Ayodhya, this sacred vision was not meant for him to enjoy at leisure. And so they had sped on, descending further into the valley, until they were on the famous flat plains of the sacred river’s banks, the Brahman corridor undulating below and before them then straightening out to shoot ahead until it reached the very edge of the silver ribbon that lay a yojana or so ahead. The corridor ended at the bank of the Ganga. Previously, when it had encountered obstacles like the rutting elephants or a stream, or even a deep ditch or pit, it had simply carried them across or over. But this time, Rama saw, it was actually stopping. He could see the end of the corridor dissipating as he watched, the fog unravelling and melting away into the darkness.

Rama sensed himself slowing. The brahmarishi was altering their speed to give them sufficient time to halt before they reached the end of the corridor. He felt a vague sense of disappointment; in its own way, the running had been enjoyable. In that state of physical challenge, he could simply give himself over to the extreme exertion, blanking his thoughts and emotions for the duration of the exercise. With a return to normality came the return of mundane thoughts, feelings, anxieties. How was Ayodhya preparing for the invasion? Were they sending a force to support Mithila? Did they even know there was an invasion imminent? How was his father’s health? How had his mother received the news of his success—and of his delay in returning home? As he came to a halt, body dripping with sweat, his whole life seemed to come rushing at him like a bandit lying in wait to ambush him. No wonder then that each time he gave himself over to the flow of Brahman, he felt more reluctant to return to his own self, to the real world of everyday cares. In that magical plane, everything seemed possible, no problem unsurmountable, every dream achievable. Here, it was the complete opposite. Well, not complete, but close. The night rushed back in like a wave descending, washing over him. Smells, night sounds, the coldness of the air, the familiar but briefly unfamiliar sensation of standing on solid ground once more. From what he could tell, they had landed on a knoll near the south bank of the Ganga. He could hear what sounded like rapids up ahead over the rise. Like the rest of this part of the Gangetic plain, the knoll was heavily shrouded in a profuse variety of semi-tropical as well as northern flora. Papaya and banyan stood beside date palm and coconut. Hibiscus reared their intensely coloured heads beside marigold and lionface. Rama could smell the rich soil, could almost feel the fertile power of this land. Only the Sindhu river to the distant north-west across the Hindu Kush range was as fertile as the land irrigated by the Ganga’s flow. Some day, he imagined, great Arya cities would rise here too and flourish. Cities as magnificent as Ayodhya and Mithila, Gandahar and Kaikeya. As long as the Ganga flowed, mortal life would surely go on. Then he recalled the shadow that fell across their lives in this historic crisis and his proud thoughts turned grim. There was still the asura invasion to survive. Ahead of him, Nakhudi and Sita turned around, examining their surroundings. Sita’s eyes sought him out. He nodded briefly at her. She turned away abruptly, ignoring the gesture. Lakshman came up beside him. He spoke softly in Rama’s right ear, ‘Looks like someone’s still sore as a mule at being outed, brother. Watch out for her back-kick!’ Rama dug his elbow into Lakshman’s ribs. Lakshman anticipated and dodged the elbow. He collided with Bejoo, who was coming up to join them. ‘Easy there, Rajkumar. Takes a moment or two finding your land feet again after that magic flight, doesn’t it? Now I know how geese must feel when they touch ground again after flying across the earth.’

Rama gestured to them both to be quiet. ‘Guru-dev calls.’ The sage was beckoning to them. They went to him. The ground was covered with deep roots and trailing vines and creepers. They made their way up the side of the knoll to where the seer stood with his staff extended to arm’s length, facing them. The head of the staff glowed softly blue, casting enough light to see by. Walk with me,’ the brahmarishi said. He led them to the top of the knoll, parting the bushes that blocked their way. The sound of the river grew louder as they went further. They emerged from the shrubbery on to a small shoulder of land that jutted out sharply. They were looking down at the Ganga, dark and resplendent as a rope of black velvet in the darkness of the moonless night. The sage stood at the edge of the knoll and pointed down with his staff. The head glowed intensely brighter, illuminating the calm clear waters flowing below. ‘Behold the Ganga,’ he said, ‘the destination of every devout Arya. Blessed are those who seek it. Graced are those who find it. Tonight, it is our goal as well.’ He pointed with his staff to a pathway leading down from the knoll to the riverbank. ‘Come,’ he said, leading the way. As they went down the path, the seer continued: ‘We shall cross from the bank below. But first, I have words to say to all of you. These words will save your lives tonight and perhaps even ensure the survival of Mithila tomorrow.’ Vishwamitra led them down the path to the bank below. The bank was clear for several yards, like many spots Rama had seen along the Sarayu that were marked for ferry crossings. Sure enough, a boat was moored to a rod embedded on the bank. It bobbed gently in the river, a sturdy, well-constructed little vessel that seemed just right to carry the six of them. They sat by the bank of the Ganga. The river flowed gently beside them, its passage soft and musical. This was not the fierce roaring of the Sarayu, glacial and ferocious as a Kshatriya army descending from the mountains. The Ganga was a Brahmin body, flowing serenely across the subcontinent from west to east. Vishwamitra hardly needed to raise his voice to be heard by his band. ‘In a few moments we shall cross these blessed waters. Our destination lies on the north bank, a few yards downstream.’ Bejoo frowned. ‘Forgive me, maha-dev. I am not overly familiar with this area and it is difficult to tell where exactly we are at night without landmarks visible. But I would think that Visala is at least half a yojana’s walk from here downriver.’ The Vajra captain indicated the sky above. ‘At least that is what I would deduce from the position of the Makar constellation in the seventh house.’

‘Well mapped, Captain. But we have a task to complete before we enter the gates of Visala. In fact, this task is the reason we came here. Back by the banks of the Shona, I deliberately emphasised Visala to avoid letting our enemies know our real destination.’ ‘Our enemies, maha-dev?’ Lakshman looked surprised. ‘But there was nobody to hear us by the Shona. Only our own Kshatriyas and Brahmins.’ Vishwamitra’s voice was unruffled and serene. ‘So it often seems, rajkumar. Yet in these hours of crisis, you can be certain that our foes have eyes and ears everywhere, observing us as closely as a cobra watches the jaws of the mongoose.’ Everybody looked around uncertainly. Nakhudi’s hand went to her sword pommel, her deep-set eyes darting from side to side as if expecting an ambush at any moment. Bejoo, still the rearmost, turned a complete circle before returning to his original stance, his hand also gripping his sword’s hilt. ‘Keep your swords sheathed, brave Kshatriyas,’ the seer went on calmly. ‘You will have need of them before the night is past, but not yet. Now I must take a few moments to explain our task ahead. For though our mission tonight will seem simple enough, it is fraught with any number of hidden dangers that even I cannot describe clearly.’ The sage’s voice grew sombre. ‘The task we undertake is of a delicate and dangerous nature. As the one who leads you, I must warn you what lies at stake. It is likely that some of us may not live to see the sun rise this morning. And yet, if we fail to achieve this task, the proud city of Mithila will not survive to see the same sun set this same evening. This I know for a certainty.’ The brahmarishi gestured with his staff, pointing towards the east. ‘As Captain Bejoo rightly informed us, Visala is but a few short miles further east of here. On the outskirts of the city is the hermitage of the sage Gautama. I need hardly explain his history to you well-educated Aryas.’ ‘The sage Gautama of yore?’ Sita asked, sounding astonished and reverential. ‘He of the Seven Seers?’ ‘The very same,’ Vishwamitra replied. ‘Along with Vashishta, Bharadwaja, Jamadagni, Kasyapa, Atri and myself, Gautama makes up the fellowship of seven that mighty Brahma himself ordained for the protection and overseeing of mortalkind’s spiritual progress.’ ‘But maha-dev,’ Sita said, ‘Maharishi Gautama no longer resides there. It is true that his ashram is situated on the outskirts of Visala. And many fortunate Arya sons and daughters are schooled at the gurukul there by the able rishis of Gautama’s order. But the great sage himself has been absent from that place for more years than anyone can count.’ ‘I can count,’ the sage said. ‘And by my estimate, close to two thousand and three hundred years have elapsed since Gautama took the vows of samadhi.’

Rama spoke. ‘Guru-dev, by your own admission, the maharishi took samadhi. Is that not the same as leaving the mortal plane?’ ‘Nearly so, Rama. Yet not quite. Samadhi is the ultimate penance. A total surrendering of one’s physical body in order to immerse oneself completely in the flow of Brahman. When a mortal undertakes it, it is equivalent to fasting unto death. But the Seven Seers may sustain themselves on Brahman itself, eschewing mortal necessities such as food and air indefinitely. Gautama remains alive within the ashram that he built himself several thousand years ago. Yet his vital signs have been slowed to such an extent that it is as if he lives no more. He has become akin to an effigy of his own self.’ Sita said, ‘Maha-dev, there is an effigy of Maharishi Gautama within the ashram, beside the tulsi plant in the temple. It is made of earth and painted with chunna. Due to its extreme age, it is overgrown with vines and creepers. Birds nest in its crevices and cracks. Yet if you look at it closely, you can see that it is amazingly lifelike in resemblance to the portraits of the sage in my father’s palace at Mithila.’ Vishwamitra looked at Sita. ‘Have you seen the statue yourself, rajkumari?’ ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I have touched its feet and prostrated myself before it, as all the shishyas do each morning before starting their lessons for the day. It is a part of the daily ritual at Gautama-ashrama.’ Vishwamitra allowed himself a small smile. ‘Then you have met the maharishi already. That statue is Gautama himself, frozen by the sheer force of will into a state of suspended animation for the past two millennia and almost three hundred years!’ Sita stared at the brahmarishi. Her mouth opened and shut without saying anything. Vishwamitra nodded understandingly. ‘Say no more, rajkumari. The night is short and I have an important sandesh to give you yet. As I have just explained, the sage Gautama took samadhi. Every Arya child knows this. But do you also know why?’ He answered his own question. ‘Of course you do. The great sage was blessed with a wife named Ahilya. An avatar of Ratri, the goddess of night, who herself was one of the countless avatars of Sri, the Mother-Goddess, creator of the universe. Ahilya was the most beautiful woman ever to walk the earth. Her visage was said to be so splendid to behold that if she walked by the ocean at sunset, the sun god Surya would delay his descent, making the day last as long as she continued to walk, just so that he could gaze on her beauty. On one occasion, it was said, Gautama and Ahilya decided to sleep out of doors at night. The sun never set all that long night. After that, Ahilya decided she would sleep indoors to prevent causing nuisance to the other inhabitants of Prithvi. ‘Talk of Ahilya’s beauty spread through the three worlds until one day it reached the ears of Lord Indra, raja of Swargalok, the realm of the devas. Apart from his prowess as a warrior, Indra was notorious for his love of feminine beauty and renowned for his mastery of the art of love. He descended to earth to gaze upon Ahilya’s beauty. He doubted that she could possibly be as beautiful as her admirers claimed, but Indra was a man who would stop a battle in order to dally with a mistress! So he visited the sage

Gautama’s ashram near here, on the banks of the blessed Ganga.’ Bejoo spoke apologetically. ‘Forgive me, maha-dev, but a moment ago you spoke of the maharishi’s ashram on the outskirts of Visala. How then could it also be situated here, five miles upriver?’ The brahmarishi’s voice was forbidding. ‘That is part of the story, Captain. If you would only listen instead of interrupting like a kai-kai bird, you would learn the answer to that and several other questions as well.’ Rama glanced at Bejoo. The Vajra captain looked chastised but not put out. Evidently he had begun to feel some respect for the brahmarishi after all. Then again, Rama mused, perhaps it had something to do with the brahmarishi softening his attitude to the Vajra captain as well. The fact that Vishwamitra addressed Bejoo as ‘Captain’ instead of ‘Kshatriya’ even when scolding him just now was telling. Rama smiled to himself and turned his attention back to the brahmarishi’s tale. ‘As I was saying, Indra came to the maharishi’s ashram to see Ahilya. But he did not wish to be recognised by either Ahilya or her venerated husband. So, as he often did on such escapades, Indra took the guise of sage Gautama himself. He also chose the moment of sunrise, when the sage was certain to be down by the river performing his morning ritual. ‘Ahilya had just completed her morning ablutions and was enjoying a few moments’ respite before preparing breakfast for her husband. Her hair was wet, freshly washed in the river, and her ang-vastra was still drenched and clung to her ivory-pale body. She sat in the first rays of sunlight in a grove, drying her hair and body. In a moment she would rise and go within the ashram to dress and finish preparing the maharishi’s morning repast. But for now, she was content to sit there on a cot, stretching her limbs carelessly. ‘As she sat there, she was unaware that she was being watched by a pair of eyes that belonged to one of the most lascivious men in the three worlds. For Indra had stopped in his tracks the instant he laid eyes on Ahilya. And he was watching her with rapt attention. ‘Soon, Ahilya rose and went within the ashram. Indra’s eyes wept, for he had not blinked or looked away since seeing her. The deva was tumescent with uncontrollable desire. He could not resist the allure of Ahilya’s beauty. He decided there and then that he must have her. As it had done on many occasions before, Indra’s priapic lust overcame his sense of duty, and he stalked into the ashram to bed the wife of another man. ‘He found Ahilya in her private room, in the very act of disrobing completely. The sight was too much for the deva to bear. He took hold of the sage’s wife and began to shower her with passionate kisses, all the while reciting praises of her beauty. Ahilya was taken aback at first. But to her innocent eyes, the man making love to her was her own husband. It was strange, she felt, that he had finished his morning ritual so quickly and that he was displaying such extraordinary passion at this early hour. For Gautama, though a bull among men, was a man of strict spiritual discipline and had perfect mastery of his appetites. Yet she was swept away by the sheer vehemence of Indra’s lovemaking and succumbed.

‘But there came a moment in the heat of their passion when Indra’s control over his garb slipped momentarily. Just for a fraction of an instant, he was visible to Ahilya as himself, Lord Indra, raja of the devas. The moment passed in a flash, and then he appeared to be sage Gautama once more. An instant later, he reached the climax of his passion and spent himself. ‘In that moment, Ahilya faced a terrible dilemma. Though she had seen through Indra’s disguise, the revelation had come too late for her to prevent her seduction. Had she seen the truth earlier, she might have stopped him or called to her husband for help. But at such a climactic moment, she could do nothing except throw him off. And knowing then that he was Indra himself, she was too shocked to act. The instant had passed and she had been used. The deed was done and nothing could change that fact.’

FIFTEEN Manthara wanted to kill the woman and be done with it. Wanted to go into the secret chamber, seal it with yet another cloaking mantra to ensure that even the most agonised of screams didn’t emerge as so much as a whisper of a whisper, and then kill Sumitramaa. She still thought of the Third Queen as Sumitra-maa because her first role in this house had been that of wet-nurse, and all the wet-nurses referred to the queens as maa. But right now, it wasn’t Sumitra’s motherly stature that was filling her with rage, it was the impudence of the Third Queen. She had entered Manthara’s private rooms! She had violated her inner sanctum! And why? There could be no good reason for such an intrusion. Obviously the Third Queen suspected something after this morning’s encounter in the maharaja’s sick-chamber. Manthara had always thought of the frail, delicate, bird-like little queen as a koel. So pretty to look at, such delicate colouring and plumage. So sweet to hear. And so easy to crush. Just one bunched fist and the Third Queen would be a heap of crumpled bones and mangled flesh. Of all the people in the palace, Manthara had feared Kausalya, Guru Vashishta, Sumantra even. But never Sumitra-maa. And yet life had a way of surprising you sometimes. She had left her chambers in such a hurry, forgetting even to lock her doors. After all, nobody ever came there except Kaikeyi. And the Second Queen was in no condition to go wandering around right now; she was still lying in her bed in the same drug-addled state in which Manthara had kept her these past nine days. Soon, when the time was right for her to fulfil her lord’s final command, she would revive Kaikeyi and send her on one last mission. The last thrust of the dagger into the bleeding heart of Ayodhya’s royal house. But first she had to deal with this new nuisance. How had Sumitra-maa found the secret chamber? Had someone said something? Manthara cursed herself for not getting rid of that serving girl after the morning’s work was done. The girl knew too much. Not about the presence of the secret chamber, but she knew that Manthara had been paying the tantrik in the Old Quarter to kidnap Brahmin infants for her to offer as sacrifices. That was enough to destroy Manthara. Yet she had let the girl live. Why? Because she had been useful. And because the day of the lord’s coming was nigh. Any day now, Manthara’s true liege would ride through Ayodhya’s burning streets before an army of asuras and none of this would matter any more. But until that day came, Manthara had to abide by the rules of this world, this society.

Which meant that she would have to deal with the Third Queen somehow. And quickly. She doubted the queen would be missed until morning, and even then a likely explanation could be cooked up to justify her absence. A spontaneous urge to travel to Gandahar perhaps, to follow her son Shatrugan to the seat of her family. She might have left unexpectedly in the middle of the night, taking only a serving girl or two and very few possessions - after all, she was going to her father’s house. Yes, that might do. Manthara thought she could use a maya spell to convince Susamadaiimaa of Sumitra’s unexpected night journey. And once Shatrugan and Lakshman’s wet-nurse was convinced, she in turn would pass on the news with unshakeable conviction to the rest of the palace. Nobody would suspect anything amiss or think to check with Gandahar; and even if someone did, or if a courier came from Gandahar and denied that Sumitra had ever arrived there, it would be too late. The invasion would have occurred by then, and nothing would matter any more. But it still left one vexing question. How was Manthara to deal with the Third Queen? She was still angry enough at the violation of her privacy to want to burst into the secret room and tear the woman to shreds. She licked her lips at the prospect. It was no challenge to sacrifice little boys; they were too terrified and much too small to struggle. But she had a feeling Sumitra would put up a good fight. Despite her apparently delicate physical appearance, the Third Queen seemed to harbour a deep inner strength that would make her a worthy opponent. Manthara’s lips curled in a smile. Yes, it would be interesting to kill the Third Queen and offer her up as a sacrifice to Ravana. She had no doubt she would be able to murder Sumitra-maa. After all, even if they were evenly matched physically—which she doubted—Manthara still possessed the powers given her by the Lord of Lanka. She would win easily, but it would be fun to let Sumitra think otherwise for a while. It would heighten the pleasure of the sport. And then, when she was done toying with the Third Queen, she would unleash her shakti and show the foolish woman her real face. Did she think she was dealing with merely a retired wet-nurse? A hunchbacked cripple? Stupid woman! She would see what Manthara was truly capable of. Manthara would show her how she dealt with those who tried to thwart her ambitions . . . and she would take her time showing her. The only question then left to answer was what to do about that stupid serving girl. Manthara had no doubt that the girl had outlived her usefulness and would now bring only needless risk. She must be dealt with at once. Very well. First she would go out and search the taverns and dance halls, find the wench, and kill her in some dark alley if possible, or bring her here and throw her into the hidden chamber as well, to be killed along with the Third Queen. Either way, Manthara would get rid of these two nuisances tonight, and tomorrow, when the word from Ravana came, she would embark on the final stage of their great master plan. And soon it would all be over. She raised her cowl, preparing to leave her chambers and go out once more, to search for the serving girl. Just then a voice came from the outer room. Manthara went out, frowning at this new intrusion. Her withered, arthritis-stricken hand twisted into a claw, ready to cast a maya spell at the visitor. Her heart thudded once, hard, at the thought that

it might be Kausalyamaa, come in search of Sumitra. Then she remembered: Kausalyamaa hadn’t left the maharaja’s side since the guru had exorcised him. And before that, she hadn’t had any contact with Sumitra-maa all day. Sumitra had been acting entirely on her own, for the express purpose of proving her innocence to Kausalya. That was the beauty of it. Still, Manthara whispered the first syllables of a powerful mantra before she emerged into the outer room. If the visitor was an unwanted one, she would be that much closer to blasting the unfortunate intruder out of his or her shoes. The girl in the outer room swung around, startled at Manthara’s quiet appearance. ‘Mistress! I was about to leave. I thought you weren’t here.’ Manthara’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What brings you here at this hour, foolish thing?’ She couldn’t accept the fact that she had just been saved a long night’s searching through the more disreputable part of the city. Surely the serving girl’s appearance wasn’t just a lucky coincidence? The girl came forward excitedly, swaying slightly. She was quite drunk, Manthara saw— and smelled. ‘It’s about the coins you gave me, mistress. One of them’s a counterfeit! It has the maharaja’s seal and all on it, but it’s not pure gold as it should be, it’s only part gold, and part brass, and mostly silver.’ The girl held out a gold rupee embossed with the profile of a much younger and handsomer Dasaratha. Manthara recognised the coin well; it was one of a large batch she had had forged herself, providing the stolen king’s seal as well as the gold and silver portions. It was part of the earlier, more mundane phases of the Lord of Lanka’s master plan for undermining the strength and supremacy of Ayodhya and the House Suryavansha. Manthara commonly paid her accomplices in counterfeit coin: the scoundrels were doing dishonest work anyway, they were in no position to protest to the city magistrates! Manthara knew then that the serving girl was here alone, that her coming was destined. She took it as an omen that her success was assured tonight. She smiled invitingly at the girl, beckoning to her. ‘Follow me then. I’ll take that back and pay you in the coin you deserve. In here.’ She led the serving girl into the pooja room and to the rear of the altar. The girl was too drunk to suspect anything, and by the time she realised where she was, it was too late. ‘Mistress?’ she said, peering drunkenly into the dimness behind the altar. ‘What—’ Manthara shoved her as hard as she could. The serving girl gasped once and fell through the portal, into the secret room. The portal closed with the speed of an eye blinking. Manthara barely had time to see the Third Queen’s face before it winked shut.

She cackled to herself, wringing her hands in anxious relief. Now she had two birds on the same stick. And roast fowl was her favourite meal!

***

‘The sage Gautama returned at that very moment and found his wife in bed with the imposter. Lord Indra’s garb fell away like a dried leaf in autumn, exposing his true self. He sprang up from the sage’s bed and prostrated himself before Gautama. He lamented his loss of self-control and asked the sage to forgive him. ‘But Gautama could not forgive. This was no simple ravishment by some vile asura. Nor even a gandharva consorting with a wanton apsara. This was his wife. He had been cuckolded. And the cuckolder was none other than a deva, a being who possessed the power of life and death over mortals. If Indra could perpetrate such an atrocity and be allowed to go unpunished, what weight would the laws of dharma have? Nay, as one of those chosen to school mortals in the laws of dharma, Gautama the seer could not permit Indra to escape unpunished, any more than Gautama the man could forgive the deva for this vile transgression. ‘So Gautama inflicted on Indra the most terrible punishment he was empowered to give. With a single spoken incantation, he gelded the deva, rendering him impotent and incapable of repeating the act of fornication for the rest of his eternal existence. Thus he stripped the deva of his ability not only to procreate but to perpetuate his own line until the end of time. ‘In addition, so that the entire world might always be reminded of Indra’s shameful crime, Gautama issued a second incantation. This one punished Indra for the crime of seeing and coveting another man’s wife. He willed that since Indra had eyes for so many women, he ought to be covered with a thousand eyes. And thus Indra was doubly penalised and marked for ever.’ Vishwamitra paused. ‘How Indra attempted to overcome the maharishi’s curse and whether he succeeded or not is another tale and one that I will not tell tonight. But hear now what befell Ahilya. ‘Perceiving that his wife had been deceived and seduced by the deva, Gautama’s anger cooled marginally and he was inclined to forgive her for this inadvertent transgression. But because he was still inflamed by the sight of his wife lying naked beside the deva, he asked her one question. ‘Had she known that she was being bedded by Indra, had she truly been deceived by his guise? ‘Now, Ahilya was a virtuous and honourable woman. So despite fearing her husband’s ire, she replied honestly. Her truthful answer was, Yes, she had known that it was Indra

who lay with her and not Gautama, but— ‘Alas, poor Ahilya was unable to complete her explanation. To her husband’s enraged mind, the word “yes” itself was a condemnation. Her admission rang in his ears like the bells of the great temple at Mithila. She had knowingly fornicated with another man? In her own marital bed? Unspeakable! The maharishi’s rage was of such proportions that Lord Indra, minus his testicles and covered from head to toe with a thousand staring eyes, fled the ashram without daring to ask the sage’s forgiveness once again. ‘Ahilya’s curse, spoken by Gautama with lightning swiftness, took effect before she could utter another word of explanation. Had she been given the opportunity to tell her side of the story, certainly the maharishi would have seen that she was blameless and innocent of any guilt. But her own honesty had condemned her. ‘Gautama decreed his wife’s fate with a single gesture and incantation. Since she had transgressed by yielding to physical desire and pleasure, she would be deprived of any physical sensation or pleasure for the rest of her days. And since, as the wife of one of the Seven Seers, she would live a considerable lifespan, the curse would be in effect indefinite. In order to enforce it, the sage sent her along with the entire hermitage, to the bottom of a pool nearby. This was no ordinary pool though. It was the Pit of Vasuki. ‘The Pit of Vasuki was the hole that was dug in the ground when the devas called up the serpent lord that dwells in the bowels of the earth. They required Vasuki to wind around the mountain Himavat, and churn the great ocean of Sagara in order to produce the amrit, the nectar of immortality. That is the tale of the Amrit-Manthan, and that too is a tale that you shall hear another time. ‘All you need know now is that when the Amrit-Manthan was done and the amrit was collected, along with many other miraculous by-products of the churning, a deep hole remained in the ground. That is the Pit of Vasuki. Many fantastic events occurred after the churning, one of which was the bringing of the Ganga from the realm of Swarga-lok down to earth. When the Ganga fell to earth, flowing from the bound tresses of Lord Shiva himself, the three-eyed deva took great care to let it fall gently so as not to harm any living creature. For, despite his notoriety as the Great and Terrible Destroyer, Shiva in truth has great love and respect for all creatures mortal and otherwise. This is why he is also named Pashupati, or lord of animals. ‘But at the instant that he was pouring the Ganga on to the earth, his elephant-headed son Ganesha and his younger brother Kartikeya were playfully wrestling nearby. In the course of their play, Ganesha’s trunk flicked up and brushed against his father’s hand. So Shiva’s control slipped by the tiniest fraction. He corrected himself at once and told his wife Parvati Devi to take the boys outside to play their boyish games, but in that moment a single drop of the Ganga splashed out of its chosen course. That drop fell into the Pit of Vasuki, and being a drop of divine Ganga water, it filled the vast pit from top to bottom. ‘At the bottom of the Pit of Vasuki, Ahilya lies still, trapped for all eternity. For her husband took samadhi soon after this tragic incident. Since Gautama, as one of the Seven Seers, possesses the power to prolong his life indefinitely through the pursuit of bhor

tapasya, and since by taking samadhi he is frozen in the ultimate penitential form, he can continue thus for ever. And as long as he lives, Ahilya will live as well. If you can call such an existence living. Imprisoned at the bottom of the Pit of Vasuki, chained by the sage’s curse, she endures still, feeling no pleasurable emotions, only pain, sorrow, regret and guilt. Physically her condition is even worse. Her body is as stone, it can feel no sensation at all. She is condemned to a life of the mind and the spirit.’ Silence greeted the seer as he lowered his staff, indicating the end of the story. All the five travellers, eager and brimming with questions and comments at the start of the narration, were silent now. Vishwamitra looked at each one in turn, lingering on Sita a moment longer than the others, then his piercing eyes sought out Rama. ‘Your silence is eloquent, good Kshatriyas. I see you have taken this tale to heart. Yet you must prepare yourself. For one last chapter remains in the tale of Gautama and Ahilya. And that chapter will be written by us this very night.’ He pointed at the far bank of the river. ‘There, in the heart of that vinaashe-wood thicket, lies the Pit of Vasuki. That is our first destination on this arduous mission. We shall cross the river now and enter the thicket. When we find the pit, Rajkumar Rama shall enter it and descend to the bottom of its waters. There he will revive Ahilya and return with her to the surface. Then we shall all proceed to Gautama-ashrama, to reunite the sage with his wife and plead her case to him. After that, we may proceed to Mithila. But we must act with haste and boldness, for already the night grows old and the sun god has almost completed his circuit of the far side of Prithvi. In a few hours, it will be dawn. That is how long we have to complete this task. Now, let us board the boat and cross the sacred river.’ Rama stopped the brahmarishi. ‘Guru-dev, may I ask a single question?’ ‘Swiftly then, Rama. Time is scarce. We have much to accomplish this night and the coming day. The fate of at least one Arya nation, a great holy city, and perhaps the future of all mortalkind rests on our success or failure. Ask your question, but once it is answered, we shall speak no more until we are at the Pit of Vasuki.’ ‘Yes, Guru-dev,’ Rama said. ‘My question is, how can I, a mere mortal, overturn the curse issued by a seer of Maharishi Gautama’s eminence? I am willing and eager to fulfil your every command diligently and with all the knowledge and wisdom in my possession, but this question troubles me. How can I overturn a curse when I know nothing of such things? I am a Kshatriya after all. Perhaps you, with your infinite knowledge of Brahman, might—’ ‘Say no more, Rama,’ Vishwamitra broke in. ‘Your question is pertinent, so I shall attempt to answer it as briefly as possible. After the curse was pronounced and put into effect, the devas themselves sent a delegation to the sage Gautama. This was shortly before he took samadhi. They pleaded with him on behalf of Lord Indra as well as on Ahilya’s behalf. Indra’s fate does not concern us, but when the devas, by dint of their divine knowledge of mortal affairs, revealed to Gautama the full explanation that his wife

herself had been unable to give him, he was filled with remorse at the harshness of the penalty he had imposed upon her. He regretted his curse but could not take it back completely. For that would undermine the value of his words. What would people think if a sage penalised a deva so harshly but allowed his own wife to go unpunished? So he spoke a codicil to the curse, an amendment that allowed for a means of Ahilya’s liberation.’ ‘Of course!’ Sita said excitedly. She added apologetically: ‘With your permission, Gurudev. If I may continue? Every visitor to Gautama-ashrama is told about this part. The maharishi Gautama proclaimed then that if and when a young boy pure of body, mind and spirit should be willing to risk his life to free Ahilya without any ulterior motive, she would be freed of the curse!’ Everybody turned to look at Rama. He felt his face burn with embarrassment. ‘Pure of mind and spirit I follow,’ Nakhudi’s gruff nasal voice said. ‘But what exactly does it mean, pure of body?’ It was Lakshman who spoke, saving Rama the embarrassment of replying himself. ‘It means a man who has not loved a woman yet. In other words, a virgin.’ ‘Indeed,’ Vishwamitra said drily. ‘A virgin. Now your question is answered, Rama, and our task still remains to be done. Do you have any more questions?’ Rama shook his head silently. The sage gestured impatiently. ‘Come then, waste no more time. Board the boat and let us cross the river.’

SIXTEEN The crossing took very little time. The ferry was a pull-across. Bejoo and Nakhudi took hold of the rope and began dragging them over. The Ganga was barely fifty yards wide at this place, one of the narrowest points in the river’s mighty course. They disembarked on the north bank moments later. Sita had run her hands in the river as they were pulled across vigorously by her bodyguard and the Vajra captain. Nakhudi noticed her damp garments as they left the ferry and frowned disapprovingly. Sita responded by flicking water in her face. Nakhudi raised her hand to wipe it off, then remembered it was Ganga water and let it dry. It was considered inauspicious to wipe off water from the sacred river, and Jat Kshatriyas were perhaps the most superstitious of all the Kshatriya clans. The night was still moonless and pitch-black but their eyes had adapted by this time. Or so Sita thought at first. When she looked around and began recognising species of flowers and even night insects scurrying underfoot, she knew that her vision couldn’t possibly be this good. She turned her head back and found she could see clear across the river to the south bank, right to the place on the knoll where the Brahman corridor had deposited them. Even Nakhudi’s owl-like night vision wasn’t that sharp. When she turned back, Rama was beside her, watching her curiously. ‘Night vision?’ he asked. She nodded. He gestured with a nod at the brahmarishi. Ah, that explained it. The seer had used his powers to enhance their vision. What else had he done to them? She wondered if maybe he had infused the three of them with some mysterious shakti as well, the way he had infused Rama and Lakshman. She found Rama still watching her. As if reading her thoughts, he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Just the night vision. And a cloaking spell to prevent us from being seen too easily.’ ‘Seen by what?’ she asked. The sage spoke quietly then, calling them forward. Rama and Sita had lagged behind by a few yards. They ran to the edge of the vinaashe thicket where the others waited on their haunches, crouched over behind a clump of bushes. Nakhudi shot her an admonishing glance at the exact same time that Lakshman gave Rama a raised-eyebrows look. Sita resisted the urge to laugh out loud. ‘We shall go into the woods separately,’ the sage said quietly. ‘That way, it will be difficult

to tell which of us intends to enter the Pit of Vasuki. If we are attacked, which is more than likely, we shall try our best to lead the attackers back this way, towards the bank of the Ganga, away from the pit. Our opponents will assume that we are retreating out of the thicket and will not pursue us. Their only goal is to keep us away from the pit. Rama will use the ensuing confusion to proceed.’ The sage turned his attention to Rama. ‘Now, rajkumar, listen carefully. Before you enter the pit, you must throw these stones into the water.’ He handed Rama a small cloth bag bound at the top by a string. The bag clinked softly as Rama stuffed it into his angvastra. ‘They are infused with Brahman and will illuminate your way at the bottom of the pit. Remember, the pit is very deep, perhaps a hundred yards or more. Yet you will be able to hold your breath at its lowermost depth and sustain yourself for as long as you desire without taking fresh breath. You have only to will it! The maha-mantras will do the rest. But when you enter the pit, you must leave all your weapons behind.’ Rama looked startled. ‘My weapons?’ ‘Yes, this is imperative. From that point on, the flow of Brahman itself will protect you and guide you to the fulfilment of your task. Remember, if it is not ordained that you are the right person to save Ahilya, then you will fail no matter what you do. Therefore your only hope lies in trusting the shakti of Brahman itself. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ Sita wondered how Rama could just take a command from the seer and accept it so easily. She would have debated the point about the weapons until she was satisfied or until she had convinced the seer to let her keep them. How could a Kshatriya hope to defend himself in such a place without weapons? The devas alone knew what lay in that pit, waiting to snare unwary— ‘Do you wish to say something, rajkumari?’ The seer’s voice was deadly quiet. Sita looked at Vishwamitra. He knows what I’m thinking. She felt as embarrassed as a shishya caught peeping at her companion’s slate at gurukul. ‘No, Guru-dev,’ she said meekly. ‘Very well,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Then let us proceed.’ Bejoo spoke hesitantly. ‘Maha-dev, what are these opponents who are likely to attack us within the vinaashe-wood?’ ‘That’s exactly the question I was about to ask,’ Nakhudi whispered agitatedly. ‘How can we fight without knowing what we fight?’ Vishwamitra replied without looking back.

‘Vetaals.’ Nakhudi exclaimed and clutched Sita’s shoulder tightly enough to hurt. Beside her, Bejoo swore softly. The Vajra captain had stopped dead in his tracks as if pole-axed by the seer’s last word. Apparently unaware of the agitation he had caused, the brahmarishi was already at the edge of the thicket. He gestured to the others to go different ways and entered a gap between two twisted trunks. He was swallowed by the darkness and was gone. The rest of them had no choice but to follow his lead. Rama and Lakshman went next, moving to the left and right of the gap through which the brahmarishi had entered the thicket. In an instant, they too had vanished into the vinaashe grove. Sita stepped forward, accompanied by Nakhudi, who was swearing freely under her breath now that the seer was out of earshot. The Vajra captain followed them, muttering incoherently. Sita only heard his last words. ‘Vetaals,’ Bejoo said grimly. ‘And the seer said some of us may not emerge alive from this thicket? I say none of us will.’ Sita and Nakhudi entered the thicket.

***

Sumitra stared at the serving girl. She recognised the woman from around the palace. She was a part of the Second Queen’s staff. She searched for the girl’s name. She was usually good at remembering the names of servants and even their families. It was one of the reasons she was nicknamed Queen of Angels, for her charitable work and her empathy for even the lowest of castes. ‘Sulekha?’ she said. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’ The woman stopped beating her fists against the stone wall through which she had appeared a few moments ago. She turned a tear-streaked face to Sumitra. She seemed to have difficulty focusing and keeping her balance. She tottered to the right, on the verge of falling. Sumitra shot out a hand and caught her in the nick of time. She helped the girl seat herself on the floor. ‘What’s wrong? Are you not well, girl?’ The serving girl’s head dropped, her hair falling over her face. She looked up at Sumitra through gaps in her hair.

‘The Third Queen,’ she said in a tone of shocked amazement. ‘Queen of Angels.’ Sumitra touched the girl’s forehead. She didn’t seem to have a fever. ‘What happened? Does she beat you?’ ‘Beat me?’ The girl looked puzzled for a moment. Then she seemed to recall whom they were speaking about. ‘Oh, she! Manthara? She beats me sometimes. Yes. She beats everybody.’ She leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. ‘There’s worse things than beating though, my queen. Worse!’ Sumitra realised with a start that the girl wasn’t ill as she had first thought. She was drunk! Her breath was as heavy with soma-wine as any Sumitra had ever smelled. ‘Sulekha,’ she said gently. ‘You’ve been drinking.’ The girl’s hand flew to her mouth. She nodded slowly, several times, as if unable to stop. She looked as guilty as a maid caught stealing her mistress’s jewellery. Sumitra put a hand on her shoulder, calming her. ‘Never mind that now. Tell me, what is this place? What does Manthara-daiimaa do here?’ The girl peered at Sumitra blankly for a moment. Her head lolled to one side as if in danger of dragging her body in that direction, then she registered the question posed to her and straightened up with some difficulty. She looked at the ceiling, then the walls, then scanned the room. It was so plain and bare, there was nothing really to see. None of the decorative fluting or carving or plasterwork that the rest of the palace was ornamented with. Just a large rectangular room Except for one thing. In the centre of the room. The serving girl’s eyes found the chaukat. Sumitra had already deduced that the stench coming from the fire-square was the same odour that had helped her locate the secret chamber in the first place. She had assumed the stench to be small goats, maybe even calves. She had heard there were people who still made such sacrifices to the dark pagan gods, devi alone knew why. Sulekha froze as she saw the chaukat. It took her soma-addled brain a moment to accept the reality of what the chaukat implied and therefore where she was right now. She rose shakily to her feet, staring at the secret room with horrified eyes, wide and showing more white than pupils. She turned around, like a girl lost in the throes of some childhood game. ‘The witch’s lair,’ she said in a tone drained of all inflection. ‘We’re in the witch’s lair, the witch’s lair, the witch’s lair . . .’ Sumitra rose and caught the girl by the shoulders. ‘Sit down, Sulekha, you’ll make yourself dizzy that way.’

The girl looked at the chaukat then back at the queen, then back at the wall through which she’d come. Her eyes flew one way then another like a person watching an archery contest in progress. Sumitra saw that only now was she truly seeing and accepting the reality of her situation. ‘Maharani!’ Sulekha’s voice rose shrilly. She grew suddenly violent, her arms flailing in panic. ‘Maharani Sumitra! You mustn’t be here! You must leave this place at once! You don’t know what she does in here. We must leave at once, before she comes back. Go!’ She pushed Sumitra hard, caught in the grip of her panic attack. ‘Go, my rani! Go now or she’ll kill us both and sacrifice us to her black god!’ She sobbed suddenly. ‘The way she sacrifices the little boys to show her obeisance to He Who Makes The Universe Scream.’ Sumitra felt a dagger of ice pierce her heart. She looked at the chaukat. The small charred bones in the fire-square suddenly had a new meaning altogether. A horrible, unspeakable meaning. A shudder of revulsion shook her. She let go of the serving girl, her head reeling. Suddenly she felt this had been a bad idea. Coming here on her own, searching for a sign of Manthara’s complicity, seeking out the secret room. It had all been a very bad idea. And now she was caught. In the witch’s lair.

SEVENTEEN Lakshman moved through the vinaashe grove as silently and carefully as he could manage. The shakti of the maha-mantras throbbed in his veins, enhancing his senses and keeping him preternaturally aware, yet he felt a tinge of doubt prick his heart. There were too many things about this particular mission that disturbed him. Not least was the sage’s sending Rama alone to perform the most vital task. Ever since he had been old enough to walk and talk, Lakshman had been devoted to his older brother. The bond was stronger than the biological one between Lakshman and his twin, Shatrugan. Never had he felt the faintest envy for Rama over anything, from the sharing of a favourite sweet to driving his brother’s chariot while Rama shot the arrow that won the chariot-archery contest. But tonight he felt something stir within his heart. A question. It was a very simple one, hardly worth speaking aloud. Yet it existed. Why only Rama? That was what troubled Lakshman. Not envy that his brother had been selected over him, but anxiety over their separation. He didn’t know what horrors might lie in the Pit of Vasuki. But he was certain Rama would be obstructed by something formidable, perhaps even worse than the hybrids in the Bhayanak-van, worse even than Tataka herself. Mortal danger was implied in the very nature of the mission. And the sage’s grim warning had left no doubt that while they were protected by the power of Brahman, they were not invulnerable. And Rama was being compelled to face the danger alone. Without Lakshman. Lakshman could understand leaving the others behind, they had joined the company incidentally. But Rama and he were oathsworn to obey the sage’s commands and fight the creatures that threatened their people. The sage ought not to have separated him from Rama for this task. His sword belonged beside his brother, defending Rama’s back, watching over him. Lakshman never doubted that Rama’s superior skill and the shakti of the maha-mantras made him almost deva-like in battle– he had seen evidence of that superiority first-hand in the Bhayanak-van. But he was uneasy at not being by his brother’s side in this moment of extreme danger. His place was with Rama, not running back to the river at the first sign of trouble as the sage had ordered them to do. Lakshman made up his mind. He couldn’t openly disobey Vishwamitra’s command by following Rama into the pit, much as that command frustrated him, but he could do the next best thing. He moved in the direction he had seen Rama go, deeper into the heart of the thicket. His eyes glowed softly blueish in the moonless night, seeking out his brother. So absorbed was he in this task, so preoccupied with his thoughts, that despite his preternatural awareness, he failed to notice the shadows gathering around and above him. Even the maha-mantras could not help a person who ignored their shakti. Lakshman was

concentrating all his Brahman-given power on finding Rama rather than on protecting himself. As Lakshman moved forward slowly, the shadows moved too, stalking him.

***

Bejoo cursed steadily as he moved through the thicket. He cursed almost everything he could think of at that moment. But he did so silently. There was only one thing he disliked more than taking orders from a Brahmin, and that was vetaals. He loathed the creatures more than even rakshasas. Rakshasas were powerful, bestial demons that came charging at you, roaring like fiends, and used brute force to try to destroy you. In that sense, they weren’t unlike mortals–well, they were quite different, but he was thinking only of their style of attack. As far as that went, vetaals were completely different from mortals. They didn’t attack directly, they stalked you. And they didn’t attack you when you were armed and ready, they came upon you when you were sleeping, resting, eating, praying, performing your ablutions, at any time except when you were armed and ready to fight. It violated every Arya code of warfare. But it was more than that. After all, all the asura races disregarded the Arya rules of war; why should they bother with civilised human rules when they were inhuman? But at least the other asuras sought mainly to kill mortals either outright, as rakshasas did, or slowly and painfully, as pisacas did. But vetaals never killed. Not truly. Instead, they fed on you, and kept you alive enough so they could feed on you some more. And then, perhaps when they’d had enough, or when it pleased them, they turned you into one of them. Like twice-lifers, the walking dead, who could infect you with a single bite. Except that even twice-lifers did so in a brainless, instinctive way, driven by some compulsion beyond human understanding. Vetaals, on the other hand, were very aware, very alive, very much driven by the same motivations and impulses as humans. They weren’t dead, as some ignorant people foolishly believed, or undead, as other even more foolish people assumed. They were simply humans who had been infected by other vetaals and had turned over to the vetaal way of life, either gradually, over days, weeks or even years and decades, or all at once. And once turned, they could never regain their humanity. For by then they had committed the most unspeakable human sin of all–they had fed on fellow humans. And having fed, had developed a taste for it that could never be ignored or forgotten. Like a merchant driven by the canny lure of gold, they were driven by the lust for human blood–and in some cases, human flesh, and certain choice organs. Their pleasure was derived from enslaving others and feeding off them, in much the same way that humans themselves corralled and fed on cattle or fowl. With one major difference–the vetaals

never killed their human cattle. Because with their very first bite, they infected you with the gift of immortality. Bejoo cursed silently again and moved through the densely clustered thicket. He came around a large tree and found the way ahead slightly easier than before. The trees grew less close here than on the outskirts of the thicket, the brambly leaves less irksome. He guessed he was reaching some kind of clearing, perhaps the central one of which the brahmarishi had spoken. If so, that would mean he should be turning back soon. But where were the vetaals? Why hadn’t they attacked him yet? He had been alert for any sign that he was being stalked and was reasonably certain that none were on his trail. But they must have been aware of his presence by now. Vetaals could smell humans from yojanas away. Where were they then? A moment later, he emerged into a clearing and had his answer. It was not the clearing he had expected to find–there was no pit or pool anywhere in sight. Just a round corral made of a low vinaashe-wood fence barely a yard high. The cattle cloistered within could easily have stepped over the fence and escaped. But it was obvious that they had no desire to do so. They merely sat or stood around the roughly circular enclosure, staring as mutely as sheep or pigs. They were human cattle. Bejoo had found the vetaals’ food store. What was more, he realised, as the two-dozen-odd men and women within the corral grew aware of his presence and began to shuffle towards the fence, they had all been turned, every last one of them. It was obvious from their red-irised eyes, glowing wetly in the pitch-darkness. And the greedy way they looked at him as they became aware that he was that rarest of rare things, a human as yet untouched by their vetaal masters. They smiled at him, by way of attempting a grotesque greeting. To his horror, some even attempted namaskars. He understood at once why the vetaals hadn’t tracked him into the thicket. He had headed straight to the one spot where they would have taken him anyway. The vetaal cattle began creeping towards him, smelling his fresh, untainted blood and uninfected body. Several of them began to grin, their teeth flashing in the darkness. They began climbing over the low fence, reaching out longingly. Touching him, tugging at his clothes, even trying to clasp the point of his sword. Their movements grew agitated, their smiles broader. They wanted him.

***

Sita knew at once that she was being stalked. She felt the familiar prickling on the nape of her neck and the itchy sensation at her wrists that meant she was under threat. She glanced at Nakhudi. The Jat Kshatriya had obeyed the brahmarishi’s instructions by finding her own course through the thicket, but she had followed her own immutable life-oath by staying within sight of her ward. Nakhudi’s large head bobbed once, briefly. Signalling that she was aware of their stalkers too. Sita felt better at the Jat’s presence. She would have willingly ventured into the thicket alone if the sage had commanded, but having Nakhudi in sight made her feel complete. She had been intrigued to see how similarly Rama and his brother were bonded. She had always wished that her sisters would take an interest in swordplay and warfare the way she did, but they had stayed with their girlish pursuits while her interests had taken her in these less effeminate directions. As her daiimaa had once put it, she was obsessed with martial pursuits, while her sisters were obsessed with marital pursuits! Thank devi she had Nakhudi at least. She re-affirmed Sita’s conviction that a girl didn’t have to wear oiled tresses and red saris in order to assert her femininity, and that wielding a sword and riding a horse bareback wasn’t the exclusive pursuit of men. Sita made a fist, bent it forward, then raised one finger and twirled it around. Nakhudi raised her open palm sideways to show she had understood. They were to pretend to move forward, then circle back very quickly and try to force their stalkers into a confrontation. Sita followed her own strategy, moving forward at the same careful pace until she found a thick clump of brambly poisonwood bushes ahead. She slipped behind the bushes then crouched down low for a moment before darting sharply round them to the left. She sprinted between tree trunks and wildflower clumps, circling around several yards, sword raised and ready for action. She stopped abruptly. They were waiting for her. Arrayed in a crescent, their deep ruby eyes gleaming in the darkness. As she froze, they closed the gap behind her, surrounding her completely. They had seen and understood her signal and waited for her to circle around and return to them. She had forgotten: they weren’t like other asuras. They understood human speech and communication. They thought like humans. They moved in, teeth flashing whitely, talons held ready by their sides. She smelled the familiar acrid odour of fresh human blood from their open mouths. They had fed just moments ago. She had a fraction of an instant to wonder who might have been the hapless victim. Where was Nakhudi? Caught in a similar trap of her own probably. The circle closed completely and she was alone with her own private group of suitors. What they sought from her was much more intimate than marital bliss. They sought her immortal aatma.

***

Lakshman burst out of the thicket and into the clearing moments behind his brother. The dull glassy gleam ahead told him that Rama had found the Pit of Vasuki. The clearing was not large, perhaps twenty yards in circumference, but the mind boggled at the thought of a snake that thick being pulled out of the ground. The pit–rather, the pool–occupied almost all the clearing, with only a thin lip of about two yards between the woods and the water. Rama was standing a yard from the pool, almost close enough to leap in and continue to the next phase of his mission. But he had run into trouble. The clearing swarmed with light-skinned, dark-eyed beings that had lost the right to call themselves human a long time ago. Their eyes and teeth were the only things that were clearly visible, flashing blood-red and ivory-white respectively. They were between Rama and the pool. Lakshman had the impression that they knew that Rama desired to enter the water and were determined to prevent him. Although Rama was swinging his sword ruthlessly, slaughtering them left and right, more of them kept coming to take the places of their downed comrades, swarming from the woods, rushing out in endless numbers. Lakshman roared his battle cry and leapt beside Rama, wielding his own sword. ‘Rama, go! I’ll deal with these vermin!’ he shouted. Rama needed no more urging. Together they cut a swathe down to the edge of the water. Lakshman swung around, shielding Rama from the vetaals. As they rushed him, screaming silently, eyes glistening with tears of blood, Lakshman fought them bitterly. Without turning, he heard the sound of Rama’s sword falling to the ground beside him, then his rig and bow and arrows. An instant later, he heard a gentle splash. Rama had dived into the pool. The vetaals produced a strange throaty sound, a rasping, grating noise like a creature’s death rattle, and even greater numbers swarmed out of the thicket to bear down on Lakshman with murderous zeal. ‘Ayodhya Anashya!’ Lakshman roared, and fought on with renewed fury. He didn’t stop to wonder if he could possibly hold out until Rama returned. He had to hold out. That was all there was to it.

EIGHTEEN Rama fell slowly. The water pushed his arms away from him, and he didn’t resist. His elbows rose to the level of his chest and stayed there, bent inwards. At first, he was aware only of the water encasing his body, embracing it, caressing it. It was cool and soft and felt like a thousand tickling feathers. As he descended lower, it seemed to grow warmer but there were moments when a swathe of colder water would pass by suddenly and once he was swept sideways by the force of one such swathe. There were bubbles in the cold swathe, as if something that breathed air had pushed its way through at great speed and with great force. But each time he tried to turn his head slowly to see what it might be, there was only the murky dimness of the pool. He continued to fall slowly, seeming to grow heavier with each yard he descended, as if the water above was now greater in mass and weight than the water below. He had learned about water pressure in his gurukul days, but the store of Arya knowledge on the subject of sub-marine science was limited by the national fear of deep water. He saw little of his surroundings as he descended. For the first several moments there wasn’t sufficient light to see anything; even his hands before his chest seemed insubstantial, ghostly. He had to touch his chest repeatedly to remind himself that he was still solid. When the descent was smooth, it felt as if he was floating in the same place, immobile. This must be what an insect trapped in ancient amber must feel like. Suspended. Frozen eternally. But after a while, sight began to return to him. He began to see colours first. Swirls of dark hues at the edge of the spectrum, the deep ochres of spiritual enlightenment. Then the softer, warmer tints of the tertiary colours. And eventually, as he felt his descent slowing, natural colours. They danced and flowed, one way then another, never still, always changing form, shape, size, direction. He tried to puzzle out what they might be. Weeds? Fish? Coral? When he reached out to touch one of the streams of colour, it seemed to avoid his hand deftly, dancing out of his reach then returning to swirl close by, as if taunting him to try to catch it again. He shook his head, smiling, and kept his arms before his chest. This was no time to play. He knew he was reaching the bottom when the gloaming illumination of the Brahmaninfused stones lit up the area around him in a wide circle of blue light. Each stone seemed to physically bleed light, the blue effusion rising upward like a string of bubbles. These rising bubbles had given him the dim light with which he had been able to see at the lower end of the descent. Here at the bottom of the pool, they glowed as brightly as small glassy lamps, their cerulean emission suffusing the water and staining it a glaucous bluegreen.

His feet found bottom with a gentle impact that he barely felt. He felt weightless, as if he could begin to float up at any moment, or be buffeted aside by the slightest current. But there were no currents in a pool. The water was still here, and startlingly clear. He had expected mossy murkiness at the bottom, obscure darkness even. Instead, he could see for several dozen yards in every direction. He could see an assortment of natural objects on the floor of the pool. Boulders and rocks mainly, of all shapes and sizes. Gleaming yellow-gold fish darted through hollows in the rocks. The floor itself was surprisingly regular and firm rather than soft and muddy as he might have expected. After peering down closely he discerned that the reason for this was simple: it was a man-made surface, slightly weathered by millennia beneath water but otherwise as unbroken and regular as stone. That struck him as odd. After all, if this were the sage Gautama’s hermitage, how would it have a stone floor? He probed with the toe of his sandal and found that it wasn’t stone at all, just a bitumen coating over a thatch-mud surface, like the floors of most ordinary Arya homes. The stillness of the pool had prevented it from decaying much. He marvelled at the thought that perhaps two thousand years ago, human hands had laid and carefully smoothed this floor, applying layer upon layer until it formed a surface almost as strong as woodplank to walk on. Then had used the shakti of Surya, direct sunlight, to bake the surface hard. And eventually, the same hands had raised walls made of the same material and a roof of thatched straw over it all. Which raised the question: what had happened to the roof and walls of the ashram? After all, if this was the floor of the original hermitage, then the rest of the structure ought to be– He looked up then and had the first real shock since his descent. The swirling colours he had descended through, the ones that had seemed to dance playfully just out of his reach, were still there. They filled the pool in every direction, forming a dense wall that had evidently opened briefly to allow his passage then closed ranks once more. The colours were indeed breathtaking and beautiful, mesmerising in their pattern of sway and swirl, turn and twist. It was the most amazing display in nature he had ever seen. As gaily decorative as a Holi festival or a troupe of Marwari folk dancers. But they were neither rang-colours nor gaily hued mirrorworked fabric. They were snakes. Rama reached for his sword, remembering too late that he had no sword. No bow and arrows. No weapon at all. He could only stand and look up at the incredible profusion that teemed just yards above his head. Water serpents. Thousands upon thousands of them, all of different hues and tints. The swirling dance was a result of their ceaseless writhing. They formed a thick carpet, the bottom of which was perhaps ten yards above the floor of the pool. He had been unable to see them properly while descending because the light was too dim. But standing here on the floor of the pool, the Brahman stones gave off enough light to illuminate them clearly.

The thickness of the whole group was impossible to discern from where he stood, but based on the time it had taken him to descend through the colours, he deduced that they formed a mass perhaps fifteen yards from top to bottom. Each serpent was at least three yards long, while several were ten times that length. Their thicknesses varied with their lengths, some as thick as his fist, others the size of his head, and a few enormous ones as wide as his chest. Their mouths opened and closed, releasing bubbles constantly, which meant that they breathed air and must rise to the surface periodically to take in fresh air before descending again. He wondered how long they could breathe at one go, and if they were venomous. He had always heard that the bites of water serpents were deadlier than those of their landlocked brethren. The thought of his bare skin passing within lunging distance of those fanged mouths made him want to scream. He stayed still and watched the serpents dance; unable to believe he had descended safely through their midst. Yet he had, somehow. That must mean they were benign. Or that he wasn’t their natural prey. Either way, he was here, unharmed, and they seemed unconcerned or unaware of his presence. Their dance continued, the colours swirling into obscure patterns and combinations of hues, a mesmerising interweaving and mingling that demanded to be watched. He had the impression that if he didn’t exert his will and look away, he could stand here and watch them for ever. He forced his eyes down. He had a task to perform. He knelt down and picked up two of the Brahman-infused stones, gripping one in each fist. They felt warm and soft to the touch, like something living rather than dead stone. The instant his hands touched them, they glowed brighter, turning almost blueish-white in the intensity of their effusion. He blinked and held them up, away from his eyes. They cast a wide swathe of light several yards in every direction, lighting his way more effectively than a pair of torches would have illuminated the forest above at night. He began walking slowly, unaccustomed to the strange experience of meeting resistance at every step. It was oddly pleasing yet frustrating. If he moved one side, one limb, too forcefully, his entire body twisted and he found himself corkscrewing around, feet leaving the floor of the pool. He forced himself to walk slowly, with gradual sweeping movements rather than short quick ones as he would have used above ground. After a few yards, he began to move more efficiently, and soon he was able to make fairly good progress. He glanced up once and saw that the mass of serpents still hung above him, at the same height. He had a sudden insight: the fauna of the pool consisted of creatures living at varying depths. The serpents occupied the lowermost level short of the floor. At that depth, they probably filled the entire circumference of the pool. He had a sense that every few dozen yards the fauna changed in species and variety. He recalled the powerful waves that had buffeted him soon after the start of his descent. What had those been caused by? Something large and powerful certainly. And if his theory was right, then what dwelled at the very bottom of the pool?

The Brahman stones clutched in his fists, he walked on. After a few yards, the landscape of the floor changed. It had been damaged here, and a fine spiderweb of minute cracks were splayed across the hand-smoothed surface. He knelt down, still holding the stones. It took him only a moment to see that the cracks had been caused by the impact of some enormous object. He looked around. The area was clear of boulders and rocks. Only a few under-water plants struggled to sustain themselves in the cracks. There were no fish or crabs to be seen here either. Not a living thing moved. He rose slowly to his feet, puzzling over this mystery. The first warning he had that something was amiss was from the water serpents. A flicker of movement caught his eye. He held the stones to his side and stared up. The serpents were fleeing. They were moving in agitated circles completely unlike the slow, sensual swirls he had seen earlier. Moving upwards. Frantically spiralling away from him, from the bottom of the pool. For yards in every direction, the same thing was happening, spreading in ripples, as if the message was being passed on, beginning at the centre where he stood, and travelling outwards. He felt a tremor beneath his feet. It grew into a series of vibrations, blending into one continuous pounding rhythm. The small plants poking out of the cracks in the floor swayed and shuddered with the impact. Above ground, he would have said at once that a bigfoot was approaching. From the intensity, spacing and measure of the successive impacts, he could have estimated the size of the beast, its distance and the speed with which it was coming. A Kshatriya’s life depended on his ability to make such judgements. He could even have distinguished a rhino herd from a hippo herd simply from the difference in the way they moved–rhinos thudding flat-footed clumsily, hippos high-stepping almost gracefully. But here at the bottom of a hundred-yard-deep pool of water, all he knew was that something was coming. Fast. And it was either one massively enormous beast or many smaller ones. But not too small, judging from the impact. He looked around for something to use as a weapon, anything that might provide a defence against that numbing moment of first contact. If he could only stand long enough to tell what manner of foe he was facing, he could figure out how to fight it–or how to flee if it came to that! After all, even Brahman shakti wouldn’t turn his fingers into blades or his arms into maces. To fight, a warrior needed a weapon. There was nothing of use in sight. He was still searching when the first of the creatures appeared, thundering across the bottom of the pool as it came into the circle of Brahman light cast by the stones in his fists. It never paused or hesitated, never stopped to examine him or judge his strength warily. It just came on, barrelling at him like a herd of raging wild boar.

Close on its heels, swarming like a small army, came its fellows. He counted at least a dozen of them, maybe many more. But their numbers didn’t really matter. Just one of them was large and dangerous enough to deal with him on its own. Rama tightened his grip on the stones and stood his ground, bracing himself for the impact of the leading beast’s onward rush. As it approached, he found himself raising his head to look up at its gaping maw and gelid eyes. It was at least three yards high at the head. And its head was the lowest part of its body.

NINETEEN Sumitra slapped the serving girl. The girl stopped screaming and tearing at herself and stared blankly at the Third Queen. ‘Get a hold of yourself,’ Sumitra said firmly. ‘Screaming won’t help. We have to find a way out of here. I have to warn the royal family.’ The girl continued to stare dumbly. After a moment, she began crying. The tears flowed down her face like rain, but her mouth moved, talking incessantly, as if she wasn’t aware that she was crying. She confessed everything to Sumitra. About the eavesdropping at different doors. Spying on various members of the royal household, including Maharani Kaikeyi’s at times. Sumitra blushed when she heard about Kaikeyi’s midnight escapades with strange men in nameless taverns. The girl went on relentlessly. About how she had accompanied Manthara on her trips to the houses of tantriks, sorcerers and other unsavoury, even criminal types. About the daiimaa paying to have Brahmin boys kidnapped for her gruesome yagnas–again, Sumitra shuddered and avoided looking back at the chaukat. About how the daiimaa bullied, tortured and beat her own mistress, and took especial pleasure in inflicting even greater pain on the maidservants, guards, cooks, stable boys and other menial staff who served under her. About how, from time to time, a serving girl or cleaning boy who had displeased Manthara more than usual would abruptly vanish, and about how the rest of the staff would rationalise aloud that the poor wretch had been unable to take more of the hunchback’s abuse and had simply run away, but of course, they all knew what had truly happened: Manthara had gone too far and ended up with a corpse instead of a badly beaten employee. The litany of horror went on and on, until Sumitra found herself wondering if she was trapped not in a secret chamber but in someone else’s nightmare. How could so many atrocities have been perpetrated under the very roof beneath which she slept? How could nobody have suspected? The answer was painfully obvious: nobody had thought to read the signs. Each of them had their own section of the enormous palace complex– their own palaces to all intents and purposes–and it was easier to live your own life without prying incessantly into the affairs of your neighbouring queens. Besides, it didn’t pay to look at Kaikeyi too closely. As the half-hysterical, half-drunk girl droned on in an epic fit of remorse and guilt, Sumitra found herself understanding one thing that had misled them all. They had always assumed that Kaikeyi was the royal troublemaker. And so she was. But it was Manthara who was the truly rotten apple. A very fetid, corrupted, worm-riddled apple. And because they were so busy casting blame on Kaikeyi, they had never thought of looking at Manthara. That had been a grave mistake. One which might cost Sumitra her life now.

She tried to ignore Sulekha’s babbling, tried to think her way through this situation. She couldn’t escape, that much was clear. She couldn’t communicate with anyone outside. So what was she to do? Simply wait here until the daiimaa returned from wherever she had gone and let the hunch-back do with her as she willed? Was she to share the same fate as those tragic boys? There was only one thing she could think of in the end. That was to wait for Manthara to enter the secret room and attack her the minute she came in. The element of surprise might win her a moment or two. And in that moment, she might be able to slip out. Her heart sank as she recalled how suddenly the wall had opened and closed each time, like a tissue-thin cloth being ripped apart, then sealed shut as if the rip had never been made. It seemed impossible. And the daiimaa knew black magic. How could Sumitra fight sorcery? But she had to do something. Her hair had come loose in the fall into the room. Now she tied it up tightly, keeping her face and eyes clear. Then she stood up and forced herself to look around the chamber for something she might use as a weapon of sorts. Anything. Her eyes came to rest on an object lying beside the chaukat. And at the exact same instant, for some inexplicable reason, the faces of her twin sons flashed into her mind. Lakshman and Shatrugan. She must survive and escape from here for their sake. Exposing this conspiracy at the heart of Ayodhya could save the entire kingdom, perhaps even tilt the balance in the war. But patriotism and citizenship apart, she had to do it for the sake of her sons. She picked up the loose folds of her sari and knotted them tightly to keep her legs free. Then she walked over to the chaukat and picked up the blackened, blood-encrusted trident that Manthara had left behind. She hefted it, forcing herself to ignore the reek of human remains that came from it, thinking of it only as what it now represented to her. A weapon. She spoke a silent prayer, and picked a spot in front of the wall, sitting on her haunches and waiting for the daiimaa to return. The trident lay clutched in both hands, its trio of sharply tipped tines pointing at the wall, ready to strike. After a moment, Sulekha stopped her babbling and calmed down, staring at Sumitra then at the trident. She seemed to be wonderstruck by the implication of the object in the Third Queen’s hands. Finally, her mouth worked and she spoke three words with surprising confidence. ‘Jai Mata Di,’ the girl said. It was an invocation to the devi in her avatar as avenger of the wronged and the innocent. In that particular avatar, the devi was usually portrayed with a trident in her hands. To the girl’s addled senses, Sumitra probably resembled the devi’s avatar. It was a startling thought and one that almost made Sumitra blush and put down the trident. What in the world was she doing anyway? Using a weapon stained with the blood of sacrificed children to attack a hunchback wet-nurse who might or might not be

a spy for the Lord of Lanka? To hear it described that way, it sounded ridiculous. She, Sumitra, was going to attack a witch who was empowered by the most powerful asura in the three worlds? Her hand trembled and she began to lower the trident. Then she remembered her sons again. For Lakshman and Shatrugan’s sake. Sulekha’s invocation stirred an idea within her brain. Something better than just a trident. Something that could make that crucial difference between a successful surprise attack and just an attempt at an attack. She turned to the chaukat and forced herself to look at it properly for the first time. Yes, everything she needed was right there. With the grace of the devi, her idea would work just long enough for her to gain the upper hand over Manthara. ‘Jai Mata Di,’ she said, striding over to the chaukat and bending down before it.

***

Sita had downed six of the vetaals and was struggling to fend off the remaining four or five when they stopped dead in their tracks. She slashed one’s arm off at the elbow, her sword slicing through it as neatly as if cutting a sugarcane stalk. The amputated limb gaped blackly, oozing a thick syrupy goo. She observed with revulsion that in place of flesh the creature had a kind of mushy purplish-black substance that had the approximate texture of flesh when covered with skin but was altogether different when viewed in cross-section. She fought down her rising gorge and plunged the tip of the sword into the vetaal’s chest. It released a throaty rattling sound and fell to the ground, corkscrewing to land facedown. She turned, ready to deal with the others, and was shocked to see them skulking away. For one surprised instant, she thought she had scared them off. Then she saw more silhouetted shapes ambling through the woods around her. Several came from behind her and went past without giving her a sideways glance. She was horrified to see how many there were. Dozens, maybe even hundreds. If they had all attacked her at once, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. As it was, she had been hard pressed to defend herself, keenly aware that the greatest danger she faced was not being brought down and killed but simply being bitten. One nick of those razor-sharp teeth and she would be no longer able to resist. She followed them, curious to see where they went. They were shambling silently through the woods, carelessly walking through poisonwood bushes that ripped their skin

and tore at their eyes. Pain was pleasure to a vetaal. Wounds healed in moments. Such was the nature of their existence. She emerged into the clearing just as Bejoo appeared, a few feet away. The Vajra captain seemed startled to see her. As if he had forgotten that there were others here besides him. For an instant he looked as if he was about to rush her, then recognition dawned on his face and he lowered his sword slowly, nodding a cursory greeting. She returned the nod just as sharply. She had no idea what individual horror the captain had faced in the vinaashe thicket but she thought she understood how he must feel at this moment. While fighting those creatures in the dark, she had felt utterly alone. Part of that had been the lack of Nakhudi. But another part had been the odd silence in which the vetaals fought. It was like fighting ghosts. Except that her sword could cut these ghosts down at least. Thank devi for small mercies. The clearing was the one the brahmarishi had spoken of, she saw that at once. There was the pit. And there was Lakshman, his back to the pool, sword raised, as if he had been fighting to keep the vetaals away from the water. She saw the discarded weapons at the edge of the pool and understood. Lakshman had been keeping the vetaals at bay while Rama dived in. So they had reached that far at least. She looked around, seeking out the last two members of their band. Nakhudi and the seer. Nakhudi appeared after a moment, her face grimacing in distrust as she emerged cautiously into the clearing. Sita flashed her a smile and a toss of her chin which asked silently, where the devil were you? Nakhudi shrugged sullenly in response, looking abashed. Her sword and her vastra were splattered with the purple-black ichor that the vetaals had for blood. ‘Shishyas!’ Sita turned at the sound of the brahmarishi’s voice. The word he used to address them jointly, students, was usual for a seer. All those who followed a guru were shishyas. The brahmarishi was cross-legged, floating above the pool of water. A bubble of brilliant blue light encased him, pulsing alternately sky-blue and cloud-white with lightning flashes of gold. When he spoke again, she realised that he was addressing them through telepathy, not by the use of his vocal organs. Those organs were busy chanting mantras. She could hear the recitation continuing uninterrupted even as the seer’s words burned their way directly into her brain. ‘I have drawn the vetaals away from each of you by the use of this mantra. As long as I continue this recitation, they will be unable to resist its attraction and will stand immobilised as they are now. But once I cease the recitation, as I must do soon, they will renew their attack on you with greater ferocity. As you have all seen fit to disobey my direct orders and have come further into danger rather than returning to the safety of the river, I offer you one last chance of salvation.

‘Drive the vetaals into the pool. Every last one of them. Do it swiftly, do it now. Move!’ Sita needed no further urging. She sprang into action, sprinting to the edge of the pool. The vetaals had all clustered here, gazing up reverentially at the brahmarishi in his bubble of Brahman. She didn’t stop to count them but her eyes told her there were close to a hundred of them. Those were greater odds than they could survive. And yet all of them had preferred to die fighting than retreat dishonourably. She didn’t know if that made them foolish or noble. Right now, it didn’t matter either way. She raised her sword and issued the battle cry of her kingdom and the House Chandravansha. ‘Satyamev Jaitey!’ Truth Always Triumphs! Beside her, Nakhudi echoed the cry and together they attacked the vetaals. It was a strange, cumbersome slaughter, for most of the creatures hardly seemed aware of their presence– even when their swords hewed their limbs and cut them down like animals at a slaughterhouse. Some snarled, showing their gleaming teeth, and backed away. Working together, Sita, Nakhudi, Bejoo and Lakshman formed a line of flailing swords, steadily pushing the crowd of dazed vetaals towards the pool. The vetaal closest to the pool stumbled and fell into the water. Sita watched as the creature raised its hands and thrashed about in obvious agony. It was if it had been immersed in a vat of boiling water. Or acid, she thought grimly, as smoke began to issue from the vetaal’s flailing limbs. Gradually, the creature’s struggle diminished and it began to sink, literally melting into the water. In seconds, nothing remained except a bubbling mass of ichor that was quickly absorbed. Several more began to fall in, tripping over one another, and they all met the same fate. ‘It’s the Ganga water,’ Sita whispered in wonderment, speaking to herself as much as to the others. ‘Their corrupted flesh is being absorbed by the sacred water, freeing their trapped souls!’ What had felt like butchery a moment ago suddenly became a ritual of salvation. The four of them renewed their efforts, driving the remaining vetaals into the pool of sacred water. Above them, the brahmarishi continued reciting the mantras, the light from his bubble illuminating the strange yet miraculous scene below.

***

Manthara expected to be met with weeping appeals and hysterical cries when she entered the secret chamber at last. She had taken the time required to dismiss the rest of her staff for the night and lock her rooms. It wouldn’t do to have another foolish servant come wandering in now. When she was certain she would not be disturbed, she recited the mantra that opened the portal and stepped through the wall. The sight that met her was so unexpected, she froze for a moment, unable to accept the evidence of her eyes. The devi herself stood before her, terrible in her black-skinned beauty. Her lips smeared with fresh blood, her eyes large and white in her dark face, her mouth gaping open, tongue lolling loosely. Her four hands were raised to either side. Her feet were splayed in the tandav posture, celebrating her victory over evil through the dance of death. And in her upper right hand was the traditional trident, its razor-sharp tines glistening with fresh blood. Manthara gasped, her hands flying to her breast. Her heart stopped still for an instant. All her years of evil-doing, of inflicting torture and abuse and pain on the innocent, the young and the harmless, came roaring at her with the ferocity of a black bull charging. She forgot that she possessed immense power, enough to defend herself against a devi if need be. Perhaps not to win but enough to thwart a first blow or two and attempt to flee. She forgot everything except her sins and her awful acts, and believed wholeheartedly that the devi herself had descended to earth to punish her for her crimes against humanity. She saw what she feared most, not the reality, which was far simpler: Third Queen Sumitra with her face and arms smeared with ash from the chaukat, posing in the familiar stance, the serving girl Sulekha crouching behind her like a dancer at a court performance, holding out her hands to create the illusion of a single woman with four arms. That moment of disorientation was all the time Sumitra needed. In that instant, as Manthara stepped in through the widening portal and gasped in shocked amazement, Sumitra reared forward and plunged the trident into the daiimaa’s breast. Manthara shrieked and fell back, the weapon embedded an inch deep in her chest. Beside her, the portal gaped, the mantra that commanded it to shut still unuttered.

KAAND 3

ONE Mithila. City of saints and singers. Home to a million Videhans of all castes and creeds. Host to as many visitors on this annual festival. Wood fires blazed at the gates of the city and at every street corner, performing a dual function–keeping the city free of malariabearing mosquitoes as well as scenting the air. Mithilan women stood downwind of the fires, talking and laughing happily, letting the scented smoke blow through their freshly washed tresses. The fragrance would linger for days. Unmarried girls walked carelessly through the market stalls, admiring, selecting, bargaining; in liberal Mithilan fashion, they went blouseless, their bare breasts visible beneath their flimsy translucent chunnris and odhinis. Mithilan men, inured to the fashion, smiled and greeted men and women alike, unmindful of any sexual divide. Women merchants dominated the city’s trade, entire orders of women sadhunis clad in white attended the seminars and discourses taking place at various heavily attended venues. Male Brahmins visiting the city for the first time walked with their hands raised high in the air. Freshly bathed and purified in Ganges waters en route, they were intent on avoiding accidentally touching their own nether organs as well as the bodies of other worshippers. Children tossed down handfuls of flower petals from the terraces and roofwindows of houses in the narrow winding streets, showering the visitors and citizens and shouting greetings. The streets, clean-swept each morning by the city’s meticulous administrators, were strewn with the petals, which would be allowed to lie until dawn the next morning. Conch shells, trumpets and drums sounded from around the city, the high ululating voices of town criers calling the programme for the day’s events at the festival. Musicians, both secular and pious, filled the dance halls, music houses and even the streets with their songs. Bards held forth with ballads and endless epic compositions of their own devising at the city taverns, where soma and wine and ale flowed as lavishly as Ganges water at the ritual baths for the pilgrims. There were two types of spiritually inclined: Brahmins who walked naked and goosepimpled from the cold through the streets after their purifying baths, hurrying to attend special morning ceremonies; and soldiers and citizens tottering out of taverns. As the Videhan adage went, spirits were always high in the liberated city of Mithila! An air of festivity and holiday abounded. Several citizens still carried rang-powder left over from the Holi festival and tossed handfuls into the air, producing clouds of red ochre, saffron, mauve, and parrot green. An entire rainbow spectrum of garments clad the Mithilans, contrasting brilliantly with the whites of the pilgrims. Soldiers and sadhus conversed at the large square junctions marked clearly with signs directing visitors to their destinations.

On the city’s fairgrounds a vast carnival was in progress. Gypsies, jugglers, acrobats, snake charmers, bear wrestlers, hawk-hunters . . . a hundred different varieties of entertainment jostled for attention and rupees. They had arrived for the Holi fair and had never left; their money bags sagged with coins. Chariot races, archery contests, sprint races, wrestling bouts, every manner of sport was going on. Gambling halls raked in the money, occasionally paying out happily as well—cards, betting on sports, guessing games, even strip gambling, everything was fair game. But the most popular betting game of all was chaupat, the game of war strategy played on a board with carved pieces representing the four divisions of an Arya army, cavalry, elephant, chariot and foot-Kshatriya, with the maharaja, maharani and mantri presiding over all. The dice rolled endlessly, pieces took or were taken and coins changed hands endlessly, fortunes passing over the chaupat board and returning the same hour or day. The four castes mingled and socialised in happy harmony. Mixed marriages were common; women kept multiple husbands if it pleased them; men kept more than one wife if they so desired. What one did in one’s bedroom was a private affair; marriage was a sanctified public ritual but one governed by the choices of its participants, not the state. The city police intervened only to break up fights, prevent brawls and drunken disagreements, arrest pickpockets and burglars, or encourage order over chaos, not to control and rule. City magistrates urged complainants to settle their differences independently and come to higher authorities only as a last resort. Property disputes were the most common cause of litigation. An hour before noon the town criers interrupted their seminar programme announcements to present a different engagement. The swayamvara of the rajkumari Sita Janaki, princess of Mithila. Today was the day the princess was to view suitors and, if it so pleased her, choose one as her husband. It was not the first swayamvara conducted for the rajkumari. She was notorious for turning down suitors by the hundreds. But a rumour had spread through the city and the kingdom that today would be different. It was whispered that this was the day when the rajkumari would actually choose a mate, finally ending years of speculation and broken hearts. Like most rumours, this one had its basis in fact.

***

The assembly hall of Mithila’s palace was large enough to accommodate a hundred designated courtiers and nine times as many observers. It was filled to capacity today. The crowd thronging Devarata Avenue easily numbered over twenty thousand and was growing larger by the minute. A portly Brahmin trader seated on an ass with three

servants on foot following gaped at the throng and compared it to the far smaller crowd outside the Hrasvaroma Hall nearby. A first-time visitor to the city, the rich Brahmin had come to attend a lecture at the Hrasvaroma Hall. The potentially titillating subject of the discourse was the inter-relationship between kama and bhakti: sex and devotion. The Brahmin licked his lips and tried to decide whether to attend the lecture as planned or to visit the assembly hall. He decided to ask one of the palace guards milling with the crowd, lightly directing people to leave room for traffic to pass on the avenue. ‘Kshatriya,’ the Brahmin said, ‘what manner of programme takes place here today?’ The guard looked the stranger up and down, sizing him up quickly as one of those Brahmins who regarded the pursuit of spiritual and material enrichment to be closely related. ‘It’s the maharaja’s assembly hall, friend. No programmes here. Only official court business.’ The Brahmin frowned, sweat trickling down his heavy jowls. The sun was almost directly overhead and it was hot for a spring day. ‘Is there a war council on or something then?’ He gestured at the crowd milling about excitedly. There was an air of nervous expectation in the air. ‘What official business attracts a bigger audience than a kama demonstration?’ The guard looked at him with a raised eyebrow. So the Brahmin included sensual enrichment in his list of pursuits as well. Well, it took all kinds. ‘A swayamvara,’ he explained shortly. ‘The rajkumari Sita’s.’ He added curtly, ‘Today’s her fourth, I think.’ ‘Her fourth birthday?’ the Brahmin asked, wiping his bald pate with his ang-vastra and gesturing to a servant to bring him the waterskin. The guard grimaced. ‘I don’t know where you come from, friend, but here in Videha we don’t marry off our children before they come of age. I meant it’s her fourth swayamvara. She’s a finicky one, the rajkumari. But they say she’s going to catch one today.’ He glanced at the Brahmin’s swelling belly and gleaming jewellery. ‘Maybe you’d like to try your luck as well, hey? Every man of marriageable age is free to present himself without prejudice. That’s the law. Besides, they say if Rajkumari Sita finally makes a choice today, her sisters will consent to marry as well. You look like a man who could use a wife. Or four!’ The guard moved away, chuckling to himself. The Brahmin was used to disparaging comments from Kshatriyas about his bulk and his wealth. Unoffended, he sat thinking for a moment, drank a gulp of pomegranate juice, then motioned to his servant to give him a piece of betelnut. He put it in his right cheek, grinding it lightly to release the flavour as he pondered his choices. He turned his donkey’s head towards the assembly hall. ‘Who needs another boring

lecture,’ he told his servants. ‘Let’s go see if we can get ourselves a Mithilan princess as a wife!’

TWO Maharaja Janak handed the water jug back to his prime minister and folded his hands respectfully before the brahmarishi Vishwamitra. ‘Maha-dev,’ he said, ‘you honour the House of Chandravansha and all of Videha with your presence. I am truly fortunate to have this opportunity to offer you the hospitality of my humble dwelling. Pray, do me the honour of gracing my palace.’ Vishwamitra entered the vaulting facade of Chandravansha Mahal, the seat of Maharaja Janak and the centre of power of the Videha nation. It had been three hundred years since he had last come here. On that occasion, the palace was a mass of halfcaved-in ruins, the result of an asura assault. Looking at it now, it was hard to tell it was the same place. Two decades of peace and prosperity had restored the palace to its former glory. Enormous sculpted likenesses of the great ancestors of Janak watched benevolently as the brahmarishi and the two rajkumars followed the maharaja up the sweeping marble stairway that led to the administrative annexe of the palace. A sense of majesty and magnificence swept one’s senses, yet it was a spiritual rather than a rich majesty. The colour white dominated the architectural design rather than the traditional gold and silver bejewelled patterns of Ayodhya; Chandravansha Mahal, like all of Mithila, celebrated the majesty of the aatma, not regal splendour and wealth. As they ascended the vaulting stairs, Vishwamitra recognised almost every one of the larger-than-life sculptures, and those he had not met personally, he could name by their position in the order of ascendance. Nimi, founder of the dynasty, his son Mithi, who built this capital city, Janak the First, Udavasu, Nandivardhana, Suketu, Devarata, Brhadratha . . . all the way up the stairway through twenty-one generations, the last of which was Janak himself and his younger brother Kusadhvaja. From the garlands and joss sticks adorning each statue, it was evident that Janak respected and honoured his ancestors in true Arya tradition. But none of this distracted Vishwamitra’s sharp eyes from noting the absence of armed guards in the palace. Except for the pair of lightly armed sentries at the main gate and an occasional guard walking his rounds, there was almost no palace security visible. It was a sharp contrast to Ayodhya’s heavily guarded royal residences. They entered the throne room, a smaller chamber than the enormous assembly hall of Ayodhya. Unlike Dasaratha, who presided over his own court and made all major decisions himself, consulting his prime minister and council only when required, Maharaja Janak left the daily administrative part of governance entirely to his ministers. The maharaja spent far more time in prayer, meditation and philosophical and spiritual discussions than on statecraft.

Vishwamitra knew all this despite his long retreat from the physical world during his twohundred-and-forty-year bhor tapasya; he knew it in the same way that he knew that Janak had renounced the eating of flesh and the taking of intoxicants in any form twenty years ago. The flow of Brahman revealed everything to those who had the power to see. After a further round of formalities and ritual greetings, Maharaja Janak turned his attention to the rajkumars standing beside Vishwamitra. Rama and Lakshman were still in the same ang-vastras and dhotis they had worn when they left Siddh-ashrama the previous morning. Although only a day, a night and another morning had passed since then, so much had happened that they looked less like princes of Ayodhya and more like travellers who had been on the road for weeks. Their clothes were soiled by dust and mud and various dubious stains that the sage knew was the blood of vetaals spilled during the fight last night. Their vastras were torn in several places, ripped by the clinging barbs of the vinaashe-wood bushes and leaves. Their hair was unkempt and matted with dust and dirt, their skin grimy. And this was despite their having bathed in the sacred Ganga at dawn today. Yet none of this seemed to trouble Maharaja Janak. He was accustomed to meeting with sadhus and rishis who regarded any concern for personal hygiene as being a sacrilegious waste of precious time needed for devotion and meditation, the twin goals of every Brahmin. The maharaja smiled warmly at the princes as they greeted him with polite namasakars. ‘You are fortunate to be travelling in such illustrious company, young shishyas. Your proud bearing and gracious manner impresses me. Guru-dev, are they the sons of some noble sage? Or perhaps the scions of some great Brahmin house? Clearly, they have spent their young lives devoted to religious pursuits and holy activities only. They have an enviable Brahmin air of serenity and peace about them.’ Vishwamitra replied without preamble. ‘They are Kshatriyas. Valiant warriors both. Their serenity comes from following the path of dharma scrupulously.’ Maharaja Janak blinked, taken aback. He looked disappointed but smiled on regardless, acknowledging the namaskars performed by the two princes. ‘Well met, young Aryaputras.’ ‘Well met, Janak-chacha,’ Rama said, echoed by Lakshman. In Mithila, the royal dais was on the same level as the rest of the chamber, reflecting Janak’s famous writ that a king was no different from his subjects. Only the moonwood throne, massive and magnificent, suggested the maharaja’s great warrior ancestry and hinted at the heritage of the Chandravansha dynasty. Dwarfed by its looming carved bulk, the lithe, slim and smiling Janak looked more like a young prince than the descendant of a great line of warrior-kings.

Rama approached the throne and bent low to touch the feet of the maharaja. Lakshman did likewise. Janak gave them his ashirwaad without showing any sign of recognition. Even Rama’s affectionate use of the term ‘chacha’ hadn’t rung a bell. It was customary in Arya society to politely address any older man as ‘uncle’ and woman as ‘auntie’. Janak would have to be given more than a subtle hint to recognise the two rajkumars, Vishwamitra saw. The sage said, ‘The grime of the road conceals their true identities from you, Mithilanaresh Janak. When last you saw these two lads they were probably little more than half as high and certainly no more than half as old as they are now. Eight years at Guru Vashishta’s gurukul, the inevitable progress of time, the appearance of maturity on their faces and bodies, and their adventures these past ten days have lent them an air of the unfamiliar to your eyes. Yet they are your own distant relatives by marriage, the rajkumars Rama Chandra and Lakshmana, sons of Dasaratha, Maharaja of Ayodhya, ruler of Kosala.’ Janak sprang up from his throne. ‘Rama and Lakshman? Impossible!’ He came forward, taking Rama by the shoulders, then Lakshman, looking at each one with stunned amazement. ‘Yes! Of course. I see the resemblance now. You, Rama, have inherited Maharani Kausalya’s striking beauty and complexion as well as your father’s magnificent physique. While you, Lakshman, have inherited your father’s features and gentle Maharani Sumitra’s grace and charm! What magnificent young men you have become!’ He embraced them both, unmindful of their grimy clothes and unwashed bodies. ‘When last I saw you both, you were mere boys! You were still innocent enough to run around and play childish games with my daughters, I recall! Look at you now. It makes my heart proud to see you grown so well. And under the tutelage of such a great brahmarishi no less. Truly, this is a doubly happy day. I knew the omens were unmistakable: this day shall go down in history, mark my words. I have studied the configuration of the constellations and cast my predictions at daybreak, as I do every day after my pre-dawn meditation. Great things shall happen in Mithila before the sun sets on this happy day.’ Rama and Lakshman exchanged a glance. Rama spoke for them both. ‘Janak-chacha, we are happy to see you as well. But—’ ‘But, raje,’ Vishwamitra said, ‘as you yourself have read in the stars, today is destined to be an eventful day in your kingdom’s history. Much as you would like to sit and pass the time talking with the rajkumars about how the intervening years have treated them, we have important matters to discuss and much to do.’ ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Janak said. ‘In the excitement of hearing of your arrival, Guru-dev, I neglected to mention that I have a swayamvara to preside over as well. It would do my house great honour if you would join me there. The rajkumars as well, of course.’ Janak laughed as he looked disbelievingly at the two princes. ‘Rama and Lakshman. With the brahmarishi Vishwamitra. On a feast day no less. Who would have believed it?’

‘A swayamvara?’ Vishwamitra kept his voice devoid of inflection. It was good to be able to know all by dint of the powers of Brahman, but it was not always appropriate to let others know that you knew. ‘Who is it who will choose a husband today? Is it one of your daughters?’ Janak’s smile reduced in intensity. ‘Yes, Guru-dev. My daughter Sita.’ ‘Then this is a fortunate coincidence indeed. It will give me great joy to see you give away your daughter Sita today, raje. You can count on my attending both the swayamvara and the marriage.’ Janak laughed nervously. ‘You honour me, maha-dev. But I must inform you of all the facts of the matter. If left up to me alone, I would have given my daughter away years ago. But as you must know already, we of the Chandravansha and Suryavansha dynasties do not wed children. We believe an Arya has the right to choose his or her own lifepartner. Hence the practice of a swayamvara, which enables any suitor, regardless of stature, wealth, appearance, caste or creed, to come forward and seek the hand of my daughter. Whom she chooses, or even whether or not she chooses at all, is entirely up to her. I can only watch and offer suggestions when called upon.’ ‘An excellent and commendable attitude, raje. In my experience, most swayamvaras result in marriage. After all, when a mature young woman has every imaginable choice before her, it’s usual that she will make her pick wisely and well. You must expect that Rajkumari Sita will find a groom worthy of her taste and inclination this very day.’ Janak’s face lost its smile entirely. ‘One would normally expect that from a swayamvara. But, maha-dev, my eldest daughter is as particular about her choices as I am particular about my prayer rituals. On several previous occasions, at occasions much like this one, she has rejected more suitors than I could count using a bead-table! ‘Even today, I hesitate to raise my hopes yet again. But I am heartened by the fact that the stars are most auspicious for a marital match. That is why I have set the swayamvara for the hour of noon. If the devas–and my daughter–so decree, then I shall give her away in a marriage ceremony this very afternoon. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Guru-dev, you must say a mantra to ensure this fruitful union. I am aware of the power you wield. It would give my ageing heart great relief to see my Sita settle down with a suitable husband this very day, blessed by your auspicious ashirwaad. It would ensure her long and blissful cohabitation.’ Vishwamitra nodded before replying. ‘I should gladly speak the most powerful mantra I have knowledge of, good Janak. But even I cannot change the mind of a woman who knows what she wants. Sita is right to wait for the groom of her choice and to refuse to lower her standards and expectations.’ Janak’s face showed his disappointment. Vishwamitra went on, ‘However, take heart from this, raje. I too see propitious stars aligning themselves. And like yourself, I predict that before the sun sets on this auspicious day, not just your daughter Sita but all four of your daughters shall have

husbands of their choosing. And shall live long and happily married lives.’ Janak cried out happily, falling to his knees before the sage. ‘Maha-dev, may your words be heard by the devas themselves! If it is so then I shall undertake a pilgrimage to every holy site in the world to offer thanks to every deity. I shall give my worldly possessions to the needy and less fortunate. I shall grant the Brahmins of Mithila any gurudakshina their hearts desire.’ Vishwamitra held up a hand. ‘All this and more you may do. But first, the rajkumars and I have important matters to discuss with you. Matters that exceed the vexing concern of a loving father for his daughters’ future welfare. We must discuss these matters at once that you may prepare yourself and your beautiful city for the approaching crisis.’ Janak frowned. ‘Crisis, maha-dev? What crisis do you foretell? Pray, do not speak inauspicious words on this most excellent of days. I have forsworn all material joys and pleasures for over twenty years. The only ambition I retain for this lifetime is to see my daughters married and settled happily in good houses. Tell me not that some ugly shadow shall darken this hope. I beg of you, do not deprive this father of the only pleasurable dream he has left. ‘When my wife passed away, I took not another woman as wife or even as mistress, not for a single night. When my brother passed away, I raised his daughters under my own roof, counting my daughters as four, not two. I have performed every yagna, every sacrifice, every ritual, every obeisance to the devas, asking only two things: peace on earth to all men; and the happiness of my daughters. They are the jewels in my crown. Just now when you spoke those beautiful words, predicting marriage and happy lives for all of them, I felt the greatest pleasure of my life. ‘I pray to you, maha-dev, do not cast any shadow over this happy day. Whatever threat approaches me or my people, I shall confront it gladly and with open arms. But let this swayamvara be completed successfully and my daughters be well placed in their lives. This boon I beg of you.’ Maharaja Janak prostrated himself on the ground before Vishwamitra, clutching and kissing the seer’s feet, tears pouring from his eyes. Vishwamitra was silent for a long moment. When he spoke at last his voice betrayed neither anger nor impatience. Instead, he said affectionately, ‘Rise up, good Janak. You have lived a pious and honourable life. This boon you ask is within my power. I shall grant it to you in recognition of your great devoutness and adherence to the twofold path of dharma and karma. We shall talk of other matters afterwards. Come now, walk with me. Lead the way to the hall where this auspicious swayamvara is being held. Let us go and see for ourselves as your daughter Sita selects her mate for life.’

THREE Sita entered the packed and silent assembly hall with her head covered and eyes lowered as befitted an Arya princess at her swayamvara. Given the freedom to survey, interview, test and finally judge her suitors at this ritual event, it was nonetheless considered unseemly for a woman to simply strut about and look boldly at the men on display. She would have time to gaze at them at the right moment. Right now, it was she who was presenting herself before them. And tradition required that she present herself as a princess and a potential bride. Even though, right now, she thought of herself as neither. Sita’s mind was still preoccupied with the events of the previous day and night. At several moments during that short span of time, she had actually doubted if she would be back home in time for this swayamvara. Not that it would have mattered much to her, but her father would have been bitterly anguished. He would also have discovered her absence. Her sisters had covered up for her from the night before last, when she had slipped away incognito, making excuses and pleading a variety of different feminine and princessly reasons for her non-appearances at meals and other family occasions. It hadn’t been difficult for them to convince her father that she was fraught with anxiety over the swayamvara; it had made him think that if she was this anxious, perhaps she was finally going to choose a husband! On all the three previous swayamvaras, she had been so nonchalant and disinterested, he had known even before the event began that he would not be finding a son-in-law on that particular day. Any emotional response on her part would have given him hope. But he would have been heartbroken if she had failed to show up at the event itself. He would assume that she had deliberately missed it to avoid finding a husband. And there was more than a little truth in that assumption. One of the reasons she had left Mithila incognito had been because she wanted space and time to think. The mission to Dandakavan had been an excuse. Now that she knew how grave the asura menace really was, her little escapade seemed foolish and ineffectual. But at the time it had seemed to her that this was her one last chance to enjoy the freedom of being just herself, a person and not a princess. Now that freedom was in danger of being stolen from her for ever. She walked slowly, with cautious steps–she had always been uncomfortable in these complicated garments and heavy ornaments–as she traversed the rows upon rows of seated men, presenting herself for the ritual viewing. For the first time in the past year, she actually peeped out occasionally from beneath the pallo hanging over her forehead, glancing curiously at the faces she passed. A few were middle-aged and sagging, one or two aged and decrepit, there was even a fat red-faced Brahmin grinning idiotically at her as he chewed noisily on a paan, but the vast

majority were young, handsome, robust looking men, bursting with youthful confidence and the glow of good health. Very few were nervous or less than good-looking. She guessed that these must be sons of rich fathers, pushed forward by their parents, eager to make a match with the biggest house in all Videha. Sita knew the realities of her situation. She wasn’t a coy nymphet toying with the power given to her by this age-old Arya ritual. A swayamvara wasn’t an opportunity to see the handsomest and wealthiest men jump through burning hoops to provide a day’s entertainment. It was a serious affair. An opportunity for a woman to carefully select the very best mate available. She considered herself lucky in one way: at least she didn’t have a father who believed that it was a parent’s right to make every important choice for his child; or worse, a chauvinist who refused a daughter her right to choose while letting his sons marry as they pleased. There were parts of the Arya nations where such practices were traditional and swayamvaras were unheard of. Mithila was not one of those places and she was grateful for it. But that didn’t mean that she had to be pressured into marrying if she wasn’t ready. Or into marrying at all. She reached the far end of the hall and was guided across the width of the aisle to the other side by her sakshis–her bridesmaids, if she chose to marry today. Starting with the first suitor seated on that side, nearest the door, she began working her way up the hall. As she walked, and occasionally glanced at the men seated on the comfortable thrones designed to make every suitor feel like a prince, she thought back to the moment at the Pit of Vasuki. After they had driven the vetaals into the water and watched them all melt away, they had nothing to do but wait for Rama’s return. Even the seer had descended to solid ground again and sat with them by the edge of the pool. As the minutes passed, then turned into hours, Lakshman had grown anxious and agitated, becoming convinced that Rama had encountered some obstacle or opponent that he could not overcome. He wanted to dive into the pool and go to his brother’s aid. Each time, Brahmarishi Vishwamitra restrained him with a firm command. Finally, when Sita herself had begun to think they should all leap into the pool and go to Rama’s rescue, Rama had returned. And with him had been a woman of the most astonishing beauty Sita had ever seen. She was like an effigy made out of fine bonewood, or porcelain. In contrast to Sita’s own dusky complexion and sharp features, the legendary Ahilya was the epitome of classical Arya beauty. White as a summer rose, she was delicately boned and featured, full breasts and wide hips divided by a waist a wasp would have envied, with a smile that could have melted the snows on Mount Kailasa and eyes so mesmerising, even Sita found herself unable to look away. When she and Rama had stepped ashore, Rama had wanted to tell them about his experience finding and then freeing Ahilya, but the brahmarishi had insisted that they proceed to the next stop on their route.

So they had gone to Gautama-ashrama on the outskirts of Visala. And there, standing before the statue-like maharishi frozen in his meditative state for two thousand years, the sage had chanted mantras that cleared away the vines and creepers and detritus of the centuries, then issued an incantation that had caused a blinding flash of lightning, and when they were able to see again, the sage Gautama— ‘Rajkumari, you have already finished that side! It’s now time to take your seat.’ Sita returned to the here and now with a start. Lost in her recollections, she had traversed the entire left side of the hall as well, and had been about to walk down the right side for the second time. How embarrassing! Luckily for her, Sundari, her first sakshi and childhood friend, had stopped her in time. She let her sakshis guide her, giggling softly at her near-mistake, and took her seat on the raised dais at the head of the hall. Her father was already seated in the seat to her left. Beside him, preferring to stand, was the brahmarishi Vishwamitra. But there was still no sign of Rama and Lakshman. Where were they? Surely they would at least do her the courtesy of attending the swayamvara. It wasn’t as if she was expecting them to participate in it! Just to attend and give her some moral support. Was that too much to ask? Nakhudi and Bejoo were standing at opposite ends of the dais, watching the assembled suitors with grim, forbidding eyes. The Vajra captain had volunteered to share Nakhudi’s duty for the event, just before Sita and her bodyguard had parted from the rest of the company at the gates of Mithila this morning. Sita had hoped Rama would say something about her swayamvara, or at least promise to call on her in her apartments. After all, she knew the rajkumars and the seer were here to meet her father and discuss the imminent asura invasion. She had been so consumed by thoughts of that approaching storm and their adventures these past two days that it had been very hard for her to say goodbye to them and return to her role as princess. This was the kind of thing she had always dreaded about marriage. Although Arya law and social custom dictated that men and women had equal status, it was a well-known fact that unless checked, men invariably tended to treat their women, be they wives, daughters or sisters, as wards to be protected and watched over at all times. Sita found it humiliating to have men think she was in need of their protection when she could probably knock them flat on their rear ends in a fighting contest. But she wanted Rama and Lakshman here as friends, not brothers-inwaiting. Or as cousins— which was tenuous since they were only vaguely and distantly related through marriage and couldn’t technically be considered to be family. The past two days had been by far the most exciting and exhilarating of her life. And a large part of that was due to Rama. She had been unsure of him at their first meeting, especially when he had come flying into the clearing in the hills like some kind of vanarking. Hanuman indeed! But when they parted this morning at the city gates, she felt as if she had just met and lost the best friend she had ever known. Could that be possible after just a day and a

night and a morning? Certainly. She had been attached to Nakhudi from the first instant the hulking Jat had been introduced to her. And those hours with Rama when he still thought she was a man, that had been an extraordinary experience. She had gone incognito before, and had met and spent time with many Kshatriyas and other castes. But Rama had been different by far. One test she always applied was how men spoke of women when they were in the company of other men - or so they thought. Every last one of them ended up making at least one or two chauvinistic remarks that made her want to throw something at their faces - on one occasion, she had done just that, flinging a leaf-full of fried beans and potatoes, still steaming from the cookfire, straight in the face of one obnoxious oaf! And some were so outright misogynistic that it was all she could do to keep from having at them with her sword. But Rama really was different. Not only did he seem to genuinely not see any difference between men and women, he also didn’t regard women as sexual objects. Even Lakshman, in a good-natured, adolescent way, made ribald jokes and observations so natural and normal that Nakhudi herself sniggered at a few. Rama smiled distractedly at them, as if acknowledging that they were clever and had humorous appeal, but he never truly seemed to relish such banter. As if, to him, there were more important matters to talk about. It wasn’t even that he was totally humourless. She herself had tested that by making him laugh out loud several times. It was that he had such a healthy, open, unprejudiced mind that the concept of attaching himself to one group—the male of the species—and regarding the world from that limited perspective simply didn’t occur to him. He was a free thinker in the truest sense of the word. And that, she had realised with a lightning burst of insight at one point last night, was why he took orders from the brahmarishi so well. Where other men would need to prove their masculinity, or at least their princely stature, Rama was content to simply do the job at hand and let people perceive him as they would. Totally unselfconcious, even after he knew she was a woman. Sita had never met anyone like him. And right now, she wanted him here very badly. More than she wanted anything else in her life. But it was her swayamvara. And she had to go through with it. With or without Rama. As her father finished making the customary announcements about the formal process of the ritual, she rose with a fixed, glassy smile on her face, trying not to show how she really felt— lost and alone and friendless—and stood before the assembled men, preparing to announce the test for this swayamvara.

FOUR Rama watched as Sita rose and took a step forward on the dais. The princess seemed very unsure and hesitant, as if she were distracted by other matters. It lent her an air of snobbery that he knew she didn’t possess. Even though he had known the rajkumari less than two days, he was sure she was not spoilt or snobbish. He had met his share of royal snobs and Sita was about as far at the opposite end of the scale as could be imagined. But he wondered what was on her mind that was causing her such trepidation. She had even walked past him without so much as a second glance! It was as if she hadn’t seen him at all, even though her eyes had been open and she had passed within a few yards, led by those giggling and blushing sakshi maids. Lakshman and he were seated on the left side of the hall, in the seats nearest to the podium. He would have been content to sit with the public audience on the matting at the far end of the hall. At least that way they could simply watch the whole show and relax. This way, he felt as if he were one of the dozens of suitors arrayed like so many new army recruits waiting to be given their marching orders! He had never taken part in a swayamvara before, and never intended to in his life. At the moment, marriage was the remotest thing on his mind. His immediate concern was the asura invasion. Why had the brahmarishi not told Maharaja Janak about it? True, Janakchacha’s eloquent appeal had been heart-wringing. But Sita’s marriage would hardly matter if Mithila didn’t prepare itself to face the oncoming hordes. Rama shuddered mentally at the memory of his recurring nightmare. The brahmarishi himself had turned the nightmare into a living vision before all of Ayodhya on the feast of Holi, ten days ago. If that was the horror that Mithila now faced, then the devas help them all. From what he had seen, Mithila was not even one tenth as prepared as Ayodhya was. Even though both cities had been built with similar seven-wall, seven-gate defensive circuits, Mithila had allowed her security procedures to lapse years ago. Now, all gates stood open at all hours, people came and went as they pleased, and Brahmins outnumbered Kshatriyas a hundred to one because of the current annual festival. When the attack came, as Rama knew it would, Mithila would be torn to shreds like a sheet of wet parchment. The Videhans stood no chance of putting up a defence, let alone resisting such a formidable invading force. Perhaps that was why the brahmarishi had agreed to discuss the matter later. Maybe Vishwamitra knew that Maharaja Janak could do little in these last few remaining hours to stem the Lord of Lanka’s progress, and had decided to grant the king his last wish out of sheer sympathy. Yet even that didn’t make sense. If Mithila was such a lost cause, then why had Vishwamitra bothered to take them on that mission last night? Why had they travelled using the power of Brahman to the Pit of Vasuki and risked their lives to free Ahilya?

He recalled the moment of utter helplessness at the bottom of that deep pit. The instant when the giant kachuas had appeared, storming along the bottom of the pool. When their mottled bald green heads had reared at him, exposing maws large enough to swallow him whole—after those half-yard-long teeth crunched him into chowder—he had thought that was it. Even the shakti of the maha-mantras would be unable to save him from these lumbering amphibian beasts. They had seemed as imposing and fearsome as the Ancient Ones themselves, the giant turtles that were once believed to have borne the universe on their backs. But instead of attacking him, the kachuas had simply examined him. Sniffed at him. Nudged him. And when he gripped the Brahman stones harder in his fist, certain that they would lunge and rip out his belly at any moment, they had tilted their heads and looked at him with renewed interest, as he might look at a dancing ant or a rabbit that had suddenly burst into lyrical song. The kachuas had taken him to a deep grotto, a cave within the side of the pit. Because it curved upwards, it was dry at the end, with air brought in through unseen fluted passages. He could breathe and speak in that place. There he had found a woman as immobile and unblinking as a statue. Ahilya. Frozen by her husband’s ancient curse, incapable of feeling anything physically, locked in an endless inner existence of pain and guilt and remorse at her transgression with the lord of lightning and thunder. Rama had only a few moments to wonder what to do next when his foot had accidentally kicked up some loose soil from the ground of the underwater cavern. The soil touched the statue, and to his everlasting amazement, Ahilya had begun to move and speak. She had thanked him for freeing her from the curse and had asked him his name and identity. He had told her about the brahmarishi Vishwamitra. At the mention of the seermage’s name, Ahilya’s beautiful green eyes had lit up. She said that she had always known it would take another sage as great and powerful as Gautama himself to undo the curse. But she had not counted on a boy, and a mortal at that, to come to her aid. Ahilya and Rama had left the cave and risen to the surface of the pool, neither the kachuas nor the snakes, nor even the enormous dolphin-like creatures at the upper levels of the pool, giving them any trouble whatsoever. They had found Vishwamitra and the others waiting for them, and after a few words with Ahilya, the brahmarishi had told them that they must now go to Gautama-ashrama. There, he had performed his Brahman sorcery once more, awakening Maharishi Gautama from his long, deep tapasya and reuniting husband and wife. Afterwards, Gautama had thanked Rama profusely for daring to be the one who braved the depths of the Pit of Vasuki and freed his wife. He had become a victim of his own anger, he admitted, warning Rama that young as he was, he ought to learn from his example and never speak an angry word without first considering its effect carefully. The maharishi had then had words privately with brahmarishi Vishwamitra and Rama had seen the maharishi speak an arcane mantra and hand over a small object of some kind to Vishwamitra, who had accepted it with the same reverential gratitude that most shishyas displayed before their guru. In a way, Rama realised, Vishwamitra was like a shishya to

Gautama. Despite his five thousand years on the earth, he was junior in stature to Gautama, who had been ordained all of eight thousand years ago. After that, they had performed their morning ritual, bathed in the Ganga, and proceeded to Mithila. That was the whole purpose of their mission, Rama recalled. To obtain something from Gautama that would help strengthen Mithila’s defence against the asura invaders. That was why he had rescued Ahilya, why they had fought vetaals in the vinaashe wood, why they had rushed to Visala through the Brahman corridor, why they had left the rest of the Siddh-ashrama procession in the thick of night. And yet, what were they doing now that they were finally here in Mithila? Not discussing last-minute defence strategies, urging Maharaja Janak to deploy his troops, nor sending word to Ayodhya or the other Arya nations to ask for urgent aid; not doing anything constructive that might help ease the heavily stacked odds against the Videha kingdom in the coming war. Instead, they were attending a swayamvara and watching Rajkumari Sita choose herself a suitable husband. And, if the rajkumari obliged by finding one of these fine young Aryaputras acceptable as a mate for life, why then they would continue to watch as Sita’s sisters did likewise! And once those good ladies were done with their browsing and shopping, all four couples would then be united in matrimonial alliance with full Vedic rites, which would take at least another hour or three. And before it all, the test itself had to be performed, to eliminate the unworthy suitors. At this rate, the whole charade could go on until sunset! By which time the Lord of Lanka would have arrived at the gates of Mithila and led his army in to ravage and plunder as they pleased. The whole situation just didn’t make sense at all. While Rama had faith in the brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s infinite wisdom and knew that the sage had a good reason for everything he said or did, he couldn’t fathom what attending this silly swayamvara had to do with anything. If Sita had to return to being a dutiful princess and pick a husband out of this line-up then let her do it. Why did Lakshman and he have to endure the whole spectacle? Worse, why were they sitting here like eager suitors on display along with these hundred and ten other fools? Rama watched in seething indignation as Sita finally found her voice and addressed the hall. The princess had decided her test for the swayamvara and was informing the assembly. A roar of consternation met her announcement, snapping Rama out of his thoughts. He frowned and looked around. Men were standing up and shouting. Several seemed to be complaining that if the rajkumari didn’t want to be married, why did she waste their time by calling this swayamvara? Rama scanned the length of the hall. Almost every suitor was on his feet, supporting the general complaint. Apart from Lakshman and himself, only one elegant-looking young man remained seated. He occupied the first seat on the right side of the hall, directly opposite to Rama. He smiled as Rama’s eyes lingered on his face, and Rama blinked and looked away. Did

he know the man? He didn’t think so. The face was completely unfamiliar. Yet there was something about the way the man had looked at him, as if he knew Rama. Well, maybe he did. Rama supposed that many citizens of Ayodhya must know him, and he could hardly know them all on sight. He avoided looking in the man’s direction again. Maharaja Janak stood up and called for silence. As the hue and cry died down, he said firmly, ‘The rajkumari has spoken. The test is declared. Those of you who do not wish to participate may leave at any time. Those of you who have the courage to proceed, please be seated in dignified silence.’ The maharaja clapped his hands and called to his prime minister, standing beside the dais, ‘Have the Bow of Shiva brought to the assembly hall at once.’ A fresh murmur of protest rippled through the hall as the prime minister left the hall to do the maharaja’s bidding. Rama leaned across the arm of his chair and said softly to Lakshman, ‘What exactly is the test that Sita announced?’ Lakshman looked at him. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Where were you when she spoke just a moment ago? Gone fishing in the Pit of Vasuki for sages’ wives?’ Rama shot him an irritated glance. ‘Just answer the question.’ Lakshman shrugged. ‘Our new friend said that she has only one test for us. Anyone who can lift the Bow of Shiva single-handed, string an arrow and fire it will have her hand in marriage.’ Rama waved an admonishing hand. ‘You mean them.’ ‘What?’ ‘She set that test for them.’ Rama gestured at the disgruntled suitors down the length of the hall. ‘Not us. We’re just spectators here.’ Lakshman leaned over and looked at him closely. ‘Are you feeling well, brother? Did you hear what I just said?’ ‘Yes, she wants them to fire an arrow from Shiva’s bow. The man that does it will be her husband. What’s the tiebreaker? What if more than one man passes the test?’ Lakshman pinched Rama’s arm hard. Rama winced but didn’t make a sound. ‘That dive into the pool must have melted your wits,’ Lakshman said, ‘the way it melted those vetaals. I don’t think you know what you’re saying right now.’

Rama looked at him, frowning. ‘What are you talking about, Lakshman?’ Lakshman shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you but you’re obviously not thinking straight. This is the Bow of Shiva we’re talking about. Remember it? It’s the enormous one that stands in the armoury of the royal museum at the back of the throne room in Janak-chacha’s palace. We used to peek in at it when we were children. We peeked in because we were forbidden to go into the armoury. Not that it stopped you and Sita from hiding in there during our hide-and-seek game. You two—’ Rama snapped at him, keeping his voice low, ‘What’s the point, Luck? Get to it.’ ‘Well, if you remembered the bow, you’d also remember that it’s made of solid iron yet never rusts. That it’s a million years old. Or ten million. I forget which. And that it’s called the Bow of Shiva because it once belonged to Lord Shiva himself. Only he of all the devas can lift it. There’s no question of any mortal ever being able to do it. Let alone one of these eager young Arya-putras!’ Rama shrugged. ‘So? A swayamvara test is supposed to be difficult.’ ‘Difficult?’ Lakshman chuckled softly. ‘Difficult is what you are, my brother. Difficult is what climbing Mount Himavat in winter might be. Difficult is what flying to the stars and back home in time for breakfast would be called. Sita’s test isn’t difficult. It’s impossible.’ Rama still didn’t see what Lakshman’s point was. He was trying not to look at Sita on the dais. Apparently, she had finally noticed him and was now trying to catch his attention. He studiously avoided her. ‘So?’ ‘So don’t you see the point? She’s specified an impossible task because she doesn’t want anyone to succeed. She isn’t interested in getting married, Rama. Not today, and if you ask my opinion, not any day. Nobody in the three worlds can lift the Bow of Shiva. Let alone anyone in this room!’

FIVE It took five hundred men the better part of an hour to drag the bow on a wheeled platform into the assembly hall. The crowd of citizens gathered on the avenue outside had swelled to over a hundred thousand as word of the rajkumari’s test spread through the city. They watched in awed silence as the entire palace guard strained and sweated to drag the wheeled platform across the fifty yards separating the armoury museum from the assembly hall. Finally, the platform was in the hall. And the Bow of Shiva stood in the centre of the chamber, its lustreless arc gleaming dully in the afternoon sunlight. It was close to two hours past noon and the assembled suitors were already sweating profusely in their heavy rich garments and jewellery. None of them had left the hall, not because they thought they could lift the bow but because nobody wanted to be remembered as the first to leave. So until one of them had the courage to stand up, admit defeat and walk out, they would all remain. They were the sons and brothers of the greatest houses in the kingdom, heroes of countless contests and champions of various sports. To walk out without even attempting the test, however impossible, would be humiliating. And to these proud sons of Arya, failure was acceptable; humiliation was not. A strapping young Kshatriya took first try. A court crier called out the suitor’s name as he stepped up to the platform and walked around it, examining the bow from every angle. It was huge, no doubt about that, at least twice the length and width of any normal bow. Its double-ribbed design was in the fashion of ancient bows from the early days of the Arya nations. Apart from that, it didn’t look extraordinary. There was no polish, no shine, no gleaming jewels embedded in it. Just a seven-foot-long curved shape cast from solid iron. The courageous—or foolishly deluded—suitor stepped up to the bow, arching his back in anticipation of its weight, and bent down. Laying his right hand on the centre of the bow, he heaved with all his strength. Nothing happened. Sweat began to pop out on his forehead, then on his neck and back. His muscles strained and stood out as sharply as bamboos beneath an upraised tent. He gripped his right forearm with his left hand, bracing it while keeping only one hand on the bow as the rajkumari’s rule demanded. After an eternity of straining, he let go and fell back on the ground, panting heavily. The watching assembly released a huge sigh. Word of the failed attempt rippled through the public spectators to the crowd on the avenue outside. The suitor rose slowly to his feet, head bowed, and looked around at his rivals, eyes shining wetly with frustration.

‘It’s impossible, my brothers,’ he cried out. ‘I can lift three hundred kilos with one hand, yet that bow didn’t move a fraction of an inch. I tell you, no mortal can move it!’ He left the hall amid a pandemonium of cries, catcalls and renewed complaints. The rest went much the same way. After the first dozen or so failures, the others barely made an effort. Several left the assembly hall then, unable to stand the humiliation any longer. At the outset, the crowd had started placing bets with city bookmakers on the odds of individual suitors. The bets had dwindled to almost nil by the tenth attempt. Now, the bookmakers themselves had stopped accepting further wagers, on the grounds that it wasn’t fair to take people’s money for impossible odds. Maharaja Janak rose to his feet and addressed the assembly. There were still about two dozen suitors left, perhaps hoping that some miracle would save them from having to lose face by walking out as failures. They were from the twenty biggest houses in Videha, fiercely loyal to the maharaja. Most of them had grown up watching Sita and had dreamed of winning one of them as a wife some day. They sat silently, sullenly, waiting for something to happen. ‘Good Mithilans,’ the maharaja said brightly. His manner seemed undimmed by the crushing failure of the suitors or by the obvious impossibility of the task. ‘Take heart from this news. The brahmarishi Vishwamitra, whom I introduced to you at the start of this function, spoke to me before we began. The good sage, with his infinite knowledge of all things past, present and future, predicted that today’s swayamvara will have a successful conclusion. He predicted that not only will my daughter Sita choose a suitable husband, but her sisters will find husbands as well before the fall of sunset this evening.’ Amazed murmurs met the maharaja’s announcement. Janak looked around at the few seats that remained occupied, greeting each suitor with a smile. ‘I believe implicitly in the seer’s prediction. The man who is destined to wed my daughter is in this very hall today. Let him step forward and try his hand at the bow, and I am certain he will succeed. The might of dharma itself will give him the strength he requires to lift it. Come forward then, and show yourself.’ In the silence that followed, the remaining suitors looked around at one another. Each was thinking the same thing: Is it true? And if it is, then who is the chosen one? Is it me? Before anyone else could say another word, a solitary suitor rose to his feet. It was the man seated in the first throne on the right hand of the rajkumari Sita. He strode forward, his handsome face creasing with a confident smile. ‘I am the man chosen to be your son-in-law, raje. I am the one destined to lift the bow. Give me your blessing now and let me fulfil my destiny.’ Janak’s smile could hardly be brighter or more intense. ‘Well said, Arya-putra! It would be my pleasure to bless you. May Shiva himself give you strength.’

The man accepted the maharaja’s ashirwaad. He walked to the platform and approached the bow. Without so much as an intake of breath, he reached down and clutched it with his left hand. Flexing his arm, he lifted the bow above his head in a single smooth motion.

***

Sita watched in amazement as the handsome suitor lifted Shiva’s bow single-handedly. The strain was evident; she could see the young man’s jaw clench with the effort. But he had done it! He had completed the first part of the task she had set. A stunned silence fell across the assembly hall. It spread like a fire to the crowd outside, hushing them. Over a hundred and fifty thousand people now watched and waited with bated breath as the young man in the assembly hall attempted the next part of the test. Taking up the end of the leather cord wound around the head of the bow, the suitor unwound it slowly, using his right hand. All the while, he kept the bow suspended overhead with his left hand. Sweat poured down his face and arms, but his grip never yielded for an instant. His concentration was absolute, his focus impressive. Sita watched with growing disbelief as the man finished unwinding the cord and pulled it across to the other end of the bow. The man strung the bow tight and wound the end of the cord around the pointed horn at the tip of the curve. He tested the stretched cord with a flick of his right forefinger. It twanged audibly, the reverberations echoing through the vast hall. Eyes widened, hands flew to open mouths. Sita couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The man picked up one of the arrows provided, a perfect longbow arrow with a peacock feather trim at the end. It was dwarfed by the size of the bow, reduced to looking like an ordinary shortbow arrow, but it fitted, just. He set it on the bow, fixed its end to the cord and pulled tight. Then he turned the bow slowly around, seeking a suitable target, and loosed the arrow. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra didn’t blink an eye as the arrow struck a crossbeam a yard over his head and embedded itself a foot deep, shuddering. The roar of exultation from the spectators was deafening. The people went wild with ecstasy. They had just watched the impossible being done. It was a feat that would be talked about to the end of their days. They would tell their grandchildren about this

amazing day. Nay. Their grandchildren would tell their grandchildren about it! Word spread through Mithila like a fire out of control. The town criers galloped to the farthest corners of the city carrying the news. In the assembly hall, Maharaja Janak stared at the arrow embedded in the beam above the brahmarishi. The maharaja turned to the suitor, who was still holding the bow in one hand. The smile on his face was still as smug and confident as before; he seemed to have grown accustomed to the strain of the bow, but the crinkles around his eyes and the straining muscles of his arm suggested that it still took all his strength to keep it aloft. His eyes sought out and fixed on the rajkumari Sita. Janak glanced at his daughter. Her face was as white as chalk. ‘Young man,’ the maharaja said, ‘you have accomplished what nobody thought possible. Not even my strongest Kshatriyas were able to lift the Bow of Shiva. Yet you did so single-handedly, strung it, and fired an arrow from it as easily as other men might fire from any ordinary longbow.’ The maharaja gestured uncertainly at the beam. ‘I assume you did not mean the brahmarishi any disrespect by aiming the arrow in his direction. No doubt your aim is excellent and you knew you would not endanger the esteemed sage in the slightest degree. Still, a brief apology would be in order. If you could merely offer your regret to the sage and take his forgiveness, we can proceed with the rest of the ceremony.’ The young man reached down to the quiver provided for the test and pulled out another arrow. He strung this one as well, and aimed the bow once more at Vishwamitra. ‘I would rather put an arrow through the seer’s heart than apologise to him,’ he said. Janak stared at the man as if he had just spoken in a foreign tongue. ‘Arya-putra,’ the maharaja said sharply, ‘I will not condone an insult to a Brahmin in my kingdom. Apologise to the seer at once!’ The young man insolently released the cord and dropped the arrow on the floor. Then, with a loud crash, he let the bow fall on to the platform. The platform shattered and sank to the floor, its two-inch-thick wooden planks splintered by the impact. ‘I have passed your daughter’s test,’ the suitor said, his tone arrogant and demanding. ‘Now I demand her hand in marriage. Fulfil your promise, Janak of Mithila! Give me Sita!’ Janak frowned down at the suitor. ‘Arya-putra, it is true that you have passed the test, and displayed amazing talent. Yet that is no excuse for speaking thus. First you insult my honoured visitor, now you speak to me arrogantly. Mind your tone, young . . .’ The maharaja glanced at the crier deputed with calling out the names of suitors. ‘What is this man’s name?’ ‘Maharaj,’ the crier said nervously, ‘he refused to give his name at the start of the swayamvara.’

‘My name is Jay,’ the man said, striding up to the edge of the dais. He leapt up on to it with a single bound. Maharaja Janak stepped back, surprised at the suitor’s boldness. Both Nakhudi and Bejoo, as well as the other guards posted by the dais, started for the man, their weapons drawn. The maharaja shook his head, gesturing to them to stay back. Nakhudi retreated reluctantly, staring balefully at the arrogant young man. The maharaja pointed sternly at the suitor. ‘Young Jay, I do not know from which part of our kingdom your family hails, but if you are to be my son-in-law, I suggest you learn how to conduct yourself in the presence of—’ ‘I am not from your kingdom,’ the man said. There was menace in his tone now, and a challenge in his eyes. He swung around, addressing the entire assembly. ‘I am not a Videhan and I would be ashamed if I were one!’ Janak’s face coloured at that. ‘That is enough insolence. How dare you insult our proud nation?’ Jay turned back to the maharaja. ‘I am not an Arya either,’ he said. ‘Do you understand now? I am not one of you!’ Janak stared at the suitor with irritated incomprehension. ‘What do you mean? If you are not Arya, then who are you? Where are you from?’ The suitor shrugged carelessly. ‘Originally I am of Vaikunta. But presently I call Lanka my home.’ ‘Lanka?’ The maharaja looked around, as if to confirm whether he had heard correctly. ‘You make a poor jest, young Jay. There are no mortals in Lanka. Only asuras.’ The man was silent. Only his smile spoke. Janak’s voice faltered. ‘What manner of story is this? Where are you from really, boy? What is your family crest? Who are your parents?’ Brahmarishi Vishwamitra stepped forward, his staff thumping the wooden dais. ‘He speaks the truth, Mithila-naresh. His birth-name is indeed Jay, although it is millennia since he used that name. He was originally of Vaikunta, celestial home of Lord Vishnu Deva, and his present residence is Lanka. But you are right as well, raje. There are no mortals in Lanka, only asuras. Behold then, the lord of asuras himself!’ And the sage threw his staff at the young suitor as hard as he could. The man named Jay had no choice but to catch it to avoid being struck. The instant the staff touched his hand, a blinding flash of brilliant blue exploded, dazzling everybody.

When Sita was able to see clearly again, she looked at the spot where the handsome young suitor had stood. “Jay” was gone. In his place was Ravana.

SIX Rama sprang to his feet, his hand reaching for his bow. Lakshman was beside him in the same instant. Bejoo and Nakhudi were by Sita in a trice, swords drawn. The hulking Jat grabbed her mistress in one powerful arm, lifting Sita as easily as she might a child, and retreated to the rear of the dais, her sword keeping any aggressors at bay. But Ravana already had Maharaja Janak by the throat. The Lord of Lanka’s ten heads quivered, ranted and screamed with fury in as many different languages as they had tongues. Their eyes blazed with ten different expressions of rage, exultation, lust and triumph. The rakshasa stood over seventeen feet high, the maharaja clutched in one yellow-taloned hand. Janak’s feet were a whole yard off the ground, the veins on his neck standing out like cords. If the asura lord squeezed just once, the king of Videha would die on the spot. The guards saw this and kept their distance, staring fearfully at the demon lord’s many heads, unable to tell which one to look at or how to proceed. The spectators at the far end of the hall had screamed and begun exiting the chamber in panic when the rakshasa king appeared. One or two of the suitors had left as well, running for their lives—a portly Brahmin was one of them, an elderly merchant another. The rest stood and watched with impotent rage as this new drama unfolded on the stage. They were Kshatriyas all and would have come to the maharaja’s rescue, but by swayamvara rules none were armed, and they were too far away to be of any help in the drama taking place on the raised dais. Only Vishwamitra seemed calm and unruffled. The sage strode forward and picked up his staff from where it had fallen. The move brought the sage within the target area of Rama’s bow. Rama saw that the place where the rakshasa king had grasped the staff bore the imprint of his six long, inhumanly shaped fingers. The handprint stood out in sheer pitch-black against the ivory whiteness of the wild-wood staff. A glance at the rakshasa’s left hand revealed a matching scar. Where the demon lord’s hand had clutched the staff, a mark of its length and texture lay imprinted on the skin, stark white against Ravana’s night-black complexion. Wisps of smoke still trailed from the burn. For a burn was what it was, a Brahman burn. The asura had been scorched by righteous shakti. ‘What did you hope to accomplish by coming here?’ Vishwamitra said quietly. ‘Did you believe you would be able to come into our midst and escape unscathed, demon? Did you forget the fate that befell your mother’s brother Kala-Nemi, whom you sent to infiltrate Ayodhya? He reached only as far as the palace gate before Vashishta and I despatched him to another nether destination!’ One of Ravana’s heads roared in fury. Another cried out a single word in an alien tongue.

‘I have already come farther than my uncle, Brahmin! I have the life of the king of Videha in my hands.’ Another head chuckled. ‘In one of my hands, I should say.’ He turned around slowly to face the brahmarishi, the maharaja spinning through the air with him like a rag doll suspended from a string. ‘Should I show you how much more capable I am than my uncle now? By dispatching Janak to a nether destination as well?’ ‘NO!’ Sita’s voice rang through the hall. ‘I beg you, please, don’t harm my father. He is a man of peace. He would not hurt a living soul.’ Ravana turned a head to look at her. ‘Just the princess I wanted to speak with. You do recall the terms of your test, don’t you, girl? I fulfilled your conditions and passed with flying colours. Now come with me as my bride and I will spare your father’s life.’ Sita stared at her father’s face with anguish. Janak’s already pale complexion had turned as white as limestone. The maharaja was starting to lose consciousness, the bloodflow to his brain suspended by the immense pressure on his neck, Rama saw. If he was not lowered to the ground, he might die in minutes. ‘But you’re an asura!’ she screamed. ‘You had no right to come to my swayamvara. You don’t belong here. Why don’t you go back to your island-fortress and leave us alone!’ ‘My lady,’ Nakhudi growled, restraining Sita, who would otherwise have run to her father’s aid and physically assaulted the rakshasa king. ‘Come now,’ Ravana said. ‘I had every right to be here. Even the sage recalls days when asuras and mortals attended swayamvaras together. And as often as not, it would be a mortal who rode away with the prize even though he had failed the test. I recall those days full well. Do you not remember them, sage?’ ‘I have nothing to say to you, rakshasa. Except to command you to release the maharaja at once, or face the consequences.’ Ravana’s heads snarled balefully. ‘Threats! Always threats! Can’t you be honest for once, Brahmin mortal! I played by your rules. I passed the swayamvara test fair and square. I won the rajkumari’s hand in marriage. Give her to me, and I will leave you!’ ‘You lie,’ Vishwamitra said. ‘Your army is only yojanas away from Mithila. You came here to steal away the rajkumari and undermine the people’s confidence by showing off your superhuman strength. You wish to take Sita Janaki away not as a wife but as a prize commemorating your victory over the Videha nation.’ ‘And the sacking of Mithila, don’t forget that, sage,’ Ravana said quietly. ‘It’s what any mortal invader would do. How do you think Janak got the Bow of Shiva in the first place? As a boon from the three-eyed deva himself? Never! Videha was invaded by a usurper, Sudhanva of Samkasya, who laid siege to its capital. Janak murdered Sudhanva and stole the bow from him. He doesn’t deserve to keep it. When I leave, I will take it with me as well. Spoils of war!’

‘That’s not true!’ Sita cried as she saw Janak’s eyes flutter and close. ‘My father challenged Sudhanva to single combat, to spare his people the horrors of another needless war. He won fairly and the bow was given freely by Sudhanva’s widow.’ Ravana laughed. ‘If you care so much for your father, Sita Janaki, then make your decision quickly. Already I feel his life ebbing. Or tell me, should I clench my fist and end it for him mercifully?’ Sita fell to her knees. ‘Please. I will do as you wish. You passed the test, it is true. You are my champion. I will wed you and go with you where you please. But spare my father’s life. In the name of the devi, mother of all creation, I beg of you. Spare him!’ Ravana grinned with pleasure, raising his heads to the ceiling and roaring his exultation. ‘FINALLY! A MORTAL WHO HONOURS HER WORD!’ He flicked his wrist as if he was brushing away a drop of water. Maharaja Janak flew across the dais and landed sideways on a trio of palace guards and Captain Bejoo. Bejoo had the presence of mind to grab hold of the maharaja’s arms and cradle his head against his own chest as he fell back on to the floor. Lakshman and Rama loosed arrows at the exact same instant. Each aimed at a different head of the rakshasa king. But when the arrows reached their targets, the demon lord was gone from that place. He had leapt into the air, landing with a deafening impact beside Sita. This put Vishwamitra between him and the rajkumars, who were now forced to stay their arrows, reluctant to shoot and risk hitting their guru, or Sita and Nakhudi should Ravana move again. Before anyone could react, Ravana reached out to grab Sita’s hair. Instead, he found Nakhudi’s sword at his chest. ‘Touch her and I’ll cut you to ribbons, monster!’ the Jat said. Ravana’s eyes smouldered with rage. ‘Rajkumari? Is this how you honour your word? Sita’s hand shot out, knocking Nakhudi’s sword aside. ‘Back off, Nakhu. He kept his word. He let Father go. Now I have to keep my part of the bargain. I have to go with him.’ Nakhudi stared at her mistress, her friend. ‘Are you insane? He’s a monster! You owe him nothing! Let me at him. I’ll kill him with my bare hands.’ ‘NO!’ Sita yelled. ‘We are Aryas. We keep our word. I made a pact. Pass the test and I marry the man. He passed the test! Move aside, Nakhu.’ ‘He’s not a man!’ the Jat screamed back. But she moved aside sullenly. Her eyes never left Ravana, scouring across the demon lord’s ten heads. Ten pairs of eyes watched her suspiciously.

Sita turned to Bejoo. ‘Captain, my father . . . ?’ Bejoo nodded shakily. ‘Alive. Unconscious but alive.’ Sita turned to Ravana. ‘Then I am yours.’ ‘WAIT!’ Vishwamitra strode forward. Ravana snarled and stepped back. ‘Sage, again you try to cheat me of my just reward. You heard the rajkumari. She comes with me of her own free will.’ ‘Nay, asura. She comes with you because she believes you won the contest. But the contest is not yet over.’ Ravana growled malevolently. ‘What new sorcery is this, mage? You saw it with your own eyes. I was the last to try my skill at the bow. Nobody else could even move it!’ Vishwamitra shook his head. ‘Her condition was that who ever picks up the bow singlehandedly, strings it, and fires an arrow shall be her groom. But she meant that the arrow should be fired at the target, not at that beam.’ The brahmarishi pointed at the target provided for the contest, at the far end of the hall, high up by the rafters, where a miss would not risk harming anyone. Then he pointed with his staff at the crossbeam where Ravana had shot his single arrow. It was nowhere near the target. ‘The point is moot, sage,’ Ravana said. ‘Nobody else could lift the bow, let alone string and shoot it. Therefore I win. The princess is mine. Let me have her and leave before I change my mind and decide to kill all of you.’ ‘The contest is not won yet, demon,’ Vishwamitra said calmly. ‘Two contestants remain. Only if they are unable to pass the test will you win by default.’ Ravana’s heads scanned the assembly hall. ‘Which two contestants? All these other young fools declared in my favour the minute I picked up the bow! Ask them yourself! Why do you seek to cheat me of my fairly won prize?’ Vishwamitra shook his head. ‘I speak of these two contestants, Ravana.’ He pointed his staff at Rama and Lakshman.

SEVEN Lakshman stepped forward and looked at the bow. It lay mutely on the smashed planks of the wheeled platform, oblivious to the human conflict raging around it. Its cord was still strung. Lakshman took a deep breath and reached a decision. He stepped back, shaking his head. Rama stepped forward. ‘Lakshman?’ Lakshman looked at his brother, then at the brahmarishi. He knew what he was doing was right. Even if he won the contest, he had no desire to wed Sita. If there was anyone here who was suited for the rajkumari, it was Rama. Lakshman had seen how Rama and she looked at each other. How the air between them seemed to sparkle with magic. There was no point in playing if the prize wasn’t yours to covet. He could probably complete the test with the help of Brahman shakti, but what would be the point? If he stepped out now, Rama would try his hand, and he would win. Lakshman never doubted that for a moment. He looked at Rama, his mind made up. ‘I withdraw. Your turn, brother.’ Ravana laughed. ‘There goes one of your champions, sage! Your other one will fare no better, I warrant!’ Vishwamitra said nothing. All eyes were on Rama as he stepped past his brother. He looked at Lakshman, searching his face to make sure he was all right. Lakshman nodded reassuringly and squeezed Rama’s hand. Rama stepped up to the broken platform. He looked down at the Bow of Shiva for a moment, discarded as carelessly as an unwanted toy. His heart burned with anger at such foul treatment of a treasured relic. He bent down and picked up the bow with one hand. It came easily. On the dais, someone released a long-held breath. It sounded like Nakhudi. Rama looked at the cord of the bow. The terms of the contest were clear. He reached up and carefully began to unwind it. It took several moments. Finally, it was done. He loosed the cord, held it in his free hand to show all those present that it was untied, then began to wind it again. When it was done, he picked up an arrow and strung it. He took aim at the target.

He loosed the arrow. It flew straight to the heart of the painted wooden target, striking the centre, and quivered there. The silence in the assembly hall was deafening. Then a roar of triumph rose from the throats of all assembled in the sabha hall filling the air for miles around. ‘Satyamev Jaitey!’ Lakshman yelled punching a fist into the air. Truth always triumphs! Ravana roared and sprang down from the platform. ‘GIVE ME THE BOW. GIVE IT TO ME, BOY! YOU THINK I CAN’T HIT THAT TARGET? I CAN HIT IT BLINDFOLDED IF I WISH.’ He strode across the hall, his powerfully muscled body thrice as tall as Rama and twice as wide. Vishwamitra’s voice stopped him in his tracks. ‘The rajkumari called for one shot. Nothing was mentioned of a retrial. You had your chance, demon. Rama is the victor. Accept your defeat now and show how honourable you are!’ Ravana roared. His remaining arms, hidden until now within their sheaths of flesh, emerged and spread wide, each pair strong enough to tear a grown man in two. ‘The princes of Ayodhya were only watching, sage. You know that as well as I. You connived to let them take part to cheat me once again. I allowed that. Now you will not deny me the same licence! I will shoot that bow again and place my arrow in the tail of this young whelp’s. Then I shall wed and bed the rajkumari!’ Rama raised the Bow of Shiva over his head. His eyes were glowing with blue fury now. ‘Ravana!’ The Lord of Lanka turned to look at him. ‘You want this bow?’ Ravana watched him suspiciously. ‘Give it to me, boy. Or die. It’s the same to me.’ Rama took the bow in both hands and bent it. Ravana watched him curiously. ‘What would you do now, boy? That is the Bow of Shiva. The Three-Eyed One himself anointed it with everlasting endurance. It cannot be broken. What do you think you will do?’ ‘WATCH, DEMON!’ Rama shouted, his eyes spitting gold and blue fire. ‘WATCH AND LEARN! THIS IS THE POWER OF THE LIGHT!’ And with one massive scissoring of his arms, Rama snapped the Bow of Shiva in two.

The sound that came from the cracking of the bow was monstrous. It rolled through the assembly hall, through the palace, and through the city entire. It swept the streets like a wind with lightning in its breath. Like a rolling tidal wave of thunder, the sound rumbled through Mithila, carrying to the distant fields outside the city, to the Siddhashrama procession arriving just now at the crossroads leading to the capital. It was like a crack of the mightiest thunder ever heard, like the snapping of the backbone of the world itself. Birds fell from the skies, killed outright by the sound. Small creatures ran gibbering to their holes for safety. Large predators mewled in fear and cowered in dark thickets. Glass shattered throughout the city, cracks appeared in walls and floors, and in the highest point in Mithila, the Sage’s Brow, an enormous bell that had not been rung for twentytwo years sounded a single pealing toll, then was silent again.

***

Sita couldn’t believe her eyes. Rama had outmatched Ravana. And now he had broken Shiva’s bow. Broken it! But that was impossible. She heard Vishwamitra speak a single phrase: ‘Om Namay Shiva.’ All around her, everyone repeated the invocation, praying to the three-eyed god to forgive the destruction of his weapon. ‘Om Namay Shiva,’ Sita said. Her father stirred in her lap. She had gone to him while Rama and Lakshman went to try their hand at the bow. She looked at his wan, bloodless face. His eyes fluttered, then opened slowly. He peered up at her with difficulty, groaning. ‘Sita,’ he said, relieved. ‘That monster . . .?’ ‘It’s over, Father. Rama bested him in the contest.’ Janak sat up with difficulty, peering across the assembly hall. Sita followed his gaze. Ravana was staring at the two broken halves of the bow in disbelief. He looked at Rama, whose eyes had returned to their normal deer-brown colour. ‘So,’ Ravana said softly, ‘the boy has learned some new tricks.’ ‘These were old when the world was young, demon,’ Rama replied. Ravana laughed. ‘You try to teach me, boy? Me? I was old when the world was young! I!’

‘No, demon. You weren’t even born at the time. You’re no deva, no god. Only an antigod. That’s easy enough. Far more difficult to be a god. Or even aspire to that divine status.’ Ravana looked startled. Then he recovered, his faces breaking out in a variety of enraged expressions. ‘Enough banter! Do you think by breaking the bow you have ended this? Nothing has ended! The sage said it truly. Already my army masses on the north bank of the Ganga. In hours they will be here, tearing down the gates of Mithila, laying waste to this city. And after we finish raping the city, I will do the same to Rajkumari Sita! Enjoy your ill-won wife while you can. I will be back before nightfall to take her from you. And this time, your puny Brahman tricks will not save you. I will make your nightmares come true tonight. You do remember your nightmares, don’t you, boy? Sita remembers too! Don’t you, princess?’ ‘Rama! Cut him down now. Use your shakti and bring him down! Together we can take him! Now, Rama! Now!’ Lakshman sprang forward, his sword ready. ‘Come on, brother. Don’t let him leave alive. He’s alone and unarmed now. We can kill him together. If he leaves, he’ll return with a million of his kind and we won’t even get close enough to strike at him.’ Ravana turned to Lakshman. The demon lord’s eyes glinted and gleamed with dark anger. His mouths snarled silently, fangs bared, dripping saliva as thick and viscous as insect ichor. ‘You mortals. Always dishonourable, yet you pretend that you are the only honourable ones. You would fight me now? Come! Fight me! I will take your odds and to hell with your honour and your so-called eternal souls!’ Rama stepped forward, drawing his sword. The blue light of Brahman flashed in his eyes again. Nakhudi whooped with exultation and leapt down from the dais, ready to join in. Bejoo jumped down beside her. The seer-mage Vishwamitra strode forward, his staff held high, preparing to chant. ‘No,’ Maharaja Janak cried. His voice was cracked and hoarse, but his authority was indisputable. This was his roof, his city. He was liege here. Everybody froze. They looked at him. Sita helped her father to his feet. He said hoarsely, ‘You cannot attack this creature under my roof. It violates the law of dharma. A guest is as a god by our Arya traditions. To cause harm to this guest, monster though he may be, would dishonour the Chandravansha dynasty and the Arya people.’ ‘But he harmed you, Father,’ Sita said urgently. ‘And if they allow him to leave, he will return with an army! Lakshman spoke truly. We must kill him now and end it. It’s our only chance.’ ‘No.’ Janak shook his head, adamant. ‘He knows our ways. That is why he came here alone and unarmed. He knows that Arya law dictates that no guest can ever be attacked

beneath his host’s roof. If we kill him, we will put the lie to every Arya tradition. People will stop believing in our nobility and say we are not worthy of the title Arya. What face will we show to the world then?’ Turning to the tableau of warriors and sage in the assembly hall, Janak raised his voice with difficulty, continuing, ‘I command all of you, my own people and visitors from Ayodhya alike. This guest must be allowed to leave unharmed. If he chooses to return with hostile intentions, then he will be answered in like fashion. But for now he has come to attend a ceremonial function and as such he must be permitted to leave safely. Go now, demon king, go and never darken my door again!’ Ravana raised his head and laughed. ‘A fine way to speak to a man you were willing to make your son-in-law a little while ago! But I think it’s for the best. You and I would have had a hard time getting along under the same roof, wouldn’t we? I don’t think you would have liked hearing a rakshasa bed your beautiful daughter every night! It might have tested your Arya honour more than you could bear!’ ‘Begone, demon!’ Janak shouted fiercely, his damaged voice cracking with strain. ‘Begone before I rescind my words and turn you over to your enemies.’ Ravana chuckled and began sheathing his arms again, pair by pair. His muscled torso glistened darkly as he strode to the doorway. Citizens watching wonderstruck fled away like rabbits before a wolf. Some spat at the demon’s feet before they ran. ‘I shall go, Janak. But I will be back this very eve. And then we shall see who owns this roof. Or even if you have a roof left, for that matter!’ The rakshasa lord sketched a series of symbol in the air as he walked. A misty sheen formed before him, like an oval doorway, and he stepped through it. Briefly at the edges, over his shoulder, Sita glimpsed a green field of grass and a great body of water flowing beyond. The Ganga’s north bank. And there, just at the periphery of the portal, the unmistakable dark mass of an alien army. The portal closed behind the demon lord and the air sparkled briefly before resuming its normal appearance. The laughter of Ravana echoed through the hall.

EIGHT Kausalya ran down the winding corridor, forcing the leader of her personal guard to run as well. The woman, a short but strapping Banglar named Sengupta, tried to answer a question the First Queen had asked a moment ago. ‘She seems all right, my queen. But she looks like she’s been at a funeral pyre.’ ‘A what?’ Kausalya didn’t slow her pace, but her face registered her surprise. ‘I thought you said you found her in the south corridor of the palace.’ ‘That we did. But she was wandering around in a daze. And her vastra, her face, her arms . . . well, she looks like she’s been rolling in ashes.’ Sengupta wrinkled her dark snubby nose. ‘And the stench of her, my queen . . . How can I describe it?’ Rolling in ashes? What in the world had Sumitra been up to? Where had she been? Kausalya had got word of Sumitra’s disappearance this morning, when the Third Queen’s maids had taken her some breakfast and had found Sumitra’s bedroom door ajar and the maharani nowhere in sight. Kausalya had been alarmed at the news. She hadn’t stopped feeling guilty and miserable since placing Sumitra under palace arrest the previous day. But she’d had no choice in the matter. She’d done it as much to protect dear Sumitra as to prevent further mishap. Too much was happening to take any risks. She had hoped to be able to discuss the matter with Guru Vashishta and see if he still felt that Sumitra had accidentally dropped the vinaashe poison in the maharaja’s punch yesterday, or if it had been more supernatural mischief perpetrated by some agent of the Lord of Lanka. After all, if their enemy could reanimate a dead man and send him within strangling distance of Maharaja Dasaratha himself, might he not possess the ability to somehow poison the maharaja as well? Kausalya reached the place where the corridors bifurcated, heading south and west. She took the former and ran past a clutch of serving girls, maids and daiimaas all trying to catch a glimpse of the latest mishap to befall the House Suryavansha. O Sri, Kausalya prayed silently as she approached the jewelled arch that marked a titled queen’s palace annexe, let Sumitra be okay. Let her not be culpable of any further mischief, deliberate or otherwise. She entered the Third Queen’s private apartment, slowing to give herself a moment to catch her breath, and breezed past a clutch of Sumitra’s private guards and servants. The alert angrakshaks, the birth-caste of personal bodyguards sworn to live and die protecting the Third Queen, glanced sharply at the First Queen as she entered. It was yet another sign of how much Ayodhya had changed in just a few days. The recent spate of intrusions, attempts, supernatural occurrences and grim news had left the capital city shaken.

The result was that even she, the Maharani of Kosala, was now scrutinised as sharply as anyone else. Distrust and suspicion was visible on every palace guard’s face, and even the servants and daiimaas glanced nervously at her as she strode past. She reached the closed doors of Sumitra’s chamber and was about to knock on them herself rather than wait to be announced and shown in formally, when the doors flew open and an apparition straight out of a tribal folk play appeared before her. ‘Kausalya!’ The apparition oddly resembled Sumitra in its low-pitched voice, tall stature and excessively slender build. ‘I found the witch’s lair!’ ‘Sumitra?’ Kausalya stared at the ash-covered face and arms. ‘What happened to you? Where have you been?’ She sniffed the air around the Third Queen. ‘What have you been doing?’ Sumitra looked around the foyer full of women. They had fallen silent and were watching the two queens with open and avid curiosity. Kausalya saw an uncharacteristic look of caution steal over Sumitra’s ash-smeared features as she took in the huddle of servants. Sumitra turned and took Kausalya’s elbow. ‘We have to talk privately,’ she said softly. ‘There are surely others in the conspiracy. Come.’ What conspiracy? Kausalya wondered as she allowed herself to be led into the bedchamber. It looked much as it had appeared when Kausalya had left Sumitra here under house arrest the previous afternoon. She watched, puzzled, as Sumitra shut, barred and bolted the door. The precautions themselves had been recently installed in the past few days. Previously, it had been unheard of for any royal family member to need to bar or bolt a door. But since Holi, a great deal had changed. Sumitra turned to face Kausalya, a grin breaking the powdery grey mask coating her face. ‘You won’t believe what I discovered! The enemy has spies within the palace. They are the ones who poisoned the punch yesterday. And they’ve been working secretly for years, sabotaging a hundred different things. Guru Vashishta could never find them because they were in the heart of the royal family itself, in a place where he never looked. But I know it all now. I know who the ringleader of the conspiracy is and I’ve got her trapped in her own secret chamber! We’ve got to get the guru to confront her and disable her shakti. She’s too powerful for us to face on our own.’ Kausalya held up her hands. ‘Hush, Sumitra. Slow down and tell me everything from the beginning. What conspiracy are you talking about? Who’s this ringleader?’ ‘It’s Manthara-daiimaa! She’s an acolyte of Ravana, can you believe it? She’s been loyal to him since before she came to the palace. And she’s recruited a few palace staff over the years, using her ill-gotten shakti to control and manipulate them. Kausalya, it’s horrible, the way she carried on all this time, right under our noses. She beat and tortured people, did you know that? She tried to attack our sons even. Remember the time the royal wheelhouse broke a wheel and almost fell into the ravine at Chindig? That was Manthara’s foul sorcery. The boys were barely five years old at the time and would have

been killed. She tried to murder our sons, Kausalya. That’s how heartless she is. She sacrifices little Brahmin boys to appease her lord. In a secret yagna room within her own private chambers, right here in the palace!’ Kausalya’s head was spinning. For a moment, she wondered if Sumitra was suffering from the same delusional state that had afflicted her the previous day. From hallucinations of Kaikeyi as a giant serpent to visions of Manthara performing black magic wasn’t a big leap. But there was something in Sumitra’s voice and eyes that was very convincing. ‘Slow down, Sumitra,’ she said again. ‘Sit down here and explain it to me properly.’ Sumitra did as she was told, although she was too excited to sit calmly. Her hands kept clenching and unclenching, as if she held some invisible object in her fists. Kausalya put her hands over Sumitra’s, stilling them. ‘Calm down, Sumitra. Take deep breaths and slow your heartbeat. You have to calm yourself first.’ Sumitra did as Kausalya suggested. After a moment of breathing deeply in the pranayam yoga method, the Third Queen’s demeanour became less agitated and excited. Her hands stopped twitching. Kausalya released them and looked at Sumitra’s face closely. She rubbed at Sumitra’s right cheek with her forefinger and examined the tip of her finger. It was unmistakably ash. Not just firewood ash, but the particular grainy particled greyblack ash produced by sandalwood and moonwood with copious amounts of ghee and various ritual condiments. Yagna ash. ‘First of all,’ Kausalya said, ‘before you say anything else, explain this to me. Why in the three worlds are you coated with yagna ash?’ Sumitra took another deep breath, then explained everything. Kausalya listened raptly. Ten days ago, if Sumitra had told her this tale, she would have sent for the royal vaids and had her fellow maharani examined closely for signs of a head injury or mental illness. But too much had happened these past ten days, and in the last day and night, for her to dismiss even such a fantastic tale out of hand. So she asked calmly, ‘And then what happened? After you leapt back through this . . . hole, or whatever?’ ‘I came straight here to my chambers and sent for you,’ Sumitra said. ‘On the way I told my personal guards to take post outside Manthara’s door and if she emerged then to hold her there and send word to me.’ Kausalya frowned. ‘And that was how long ago?’ ‘A few minutes. You came very quickly. All my women,’ Sumitra gestured at the closed door, ‘bombarded me with questions. I told them nothing. Some of them may be

working for Manthara for all we know.’ ‘I thought you said the serving girl was the only one who did these . . . things.’ ‘That’s what she said. But who knows? Maybe others were secretly in league with the witch without Sulekha’s knowing. Manthara didn’t exactly confide in her, Kausalya. Whatever the girl knew, she picked up by seeing things, hearing things. Besides,’ Sumitra smiled sheepishly, ‘she was very intoxicated, very scared, and not very intelligent to begin with.’ Which was what Kausalya found oddest about the tale. Everything else was within the bounds of possibility, however remote it seemed–even the horrifying notion of Brahmin boys being sacrificed under the very roof she slept beneath–but the serving girl was a loose thread that didn’t fit the overall pattern. If Manthara was the scheming sorcerous witch-spy of the king of asuras, as Sumitra said, then why would she be foolish enough to have a witness to her every crime? One obvious reason suggested itself: Manthara was bodily incapacitated. She could hardly do some of the more physically demanding things that she would have to if Sumitra’s tale was true. And even if she could, and had done so herself, with or without the aid of black sorcery, it would have raised suspicions at once. The incident in the maharaja’s sickchamber the previous day was one example. Had it been Manthara who had gone into the room, the guards would have been very curious and would have told Kausalya later. But because it was an ordinary serving girl, one of hundreds, nay thousands, in the enormous royal complex, it had raised no suspicions at all. Still, could Manthara afford to risk her ambitious world-spanning schemes by trusting the loose tongue of a slip of a girl? Loyalty could be bought and sold like any other commodity perhaps, even in the dharmic and honourable nation of Kosala, but no sum of gold could guarantee silence. Finally, she decided, Sumitra’s entire story rested on just one thing: this girl Sulekha. If she could back up even a tenth of what Sumitra had just told her, or describe a single misdeed that Manthara had committed, Kausalya would bear down on the daiimaa with all the force she could muster. And with the maharaja ill and the princes away, all the force of Ayodhya was at her sole command. Even if the army was not at hand, the PF battalion and palace guard were sufficient to take care of one depraved daiimaa, surely. And if Sumitra had indeed injured her as mortally as she said she had, then even Manthara’s sorcery would logically be diminished, perhaps incapacitated. Sumitra was watching her intently, an anxious look on her face. Her eyes flickered as she tried to read Kausalya’s thoughts. Kausalya could see that the first flush of excitement had passed and now Sumitra was weighing the pros and cons of her situation. Kausalya didn’t need to explain to the Third Queen that by reeling off such an outrageous story, she had put herself at risk of being thought totally insane. Which ironically was the most credible aspect of the whole thing. Why would Sumitra make up such an extravagant fantasy when it could be proved or disproved within a few minutes?

Especially when she had been discredited yesterday and fallen under suspicion? No, she didn’t think Sumitra was making this whole thing up, but she might be labouring under another elaborate hallucination again. After all, if the Lord of Lanka could send the reanimated corpse of a Vajra Kshatriya into the very heart of Ayodhya, surely he could delude a sensitive, susceptible, emotionally overwrought maharani? ‘Kausalya,’ Sumitra said shakily, ‘you do believe me, don’t you? It all happened just the way I said it did. I’m not making any of this up. Why would I? What would be the point, when just yesterday you and Guruji refused to believe me?’ Kausalya nodded. ‘That’s true. Why would you make up such a tale?’ Sumitra’s face brightened cautiously. ‘Then you believe me?’ Sri, guide me. Kausalya took Sumitra’s hands in her own again and nodded slowly. ‘I think I do.’ Sumitra’s smile was as brilliant as a harvest moon. ‘Devi be praised!’ She rose to her feet, pulling Kausalya up. ‘Come quickly then. Let’s go to Guru Vashishta and take him to the witch’s lair. He’ll be able to confront her and cleanse that awful place. The sooner it’s done, the better. Come, Kausalya, we must hurry before she does something.’ ‘Sumitra, Sumitra, wait a moment. I’ll have to get Drishti Kumar to get a contingent of palace guards to come with us. It will take a few minutes. Meanwhile, maybe you should cleanse yourself.’ ‘There isn’t time! We must go now. We don’t need guards. Guru Vashishta is sufficient. Let’s go call him, Kausalya!’ Kausalya pulled herself away from Sumitra. ‘Guruji isn’t here, Sumitra. He’s gone to Mithila. You probably haven’t heard, but the asuras are invading the Arya nations. Guruji expects the main force to come through Mithila, so he’s gone there to help them make a stand.’ Sumitra stared at Kausalya. ‘He’s gone? But how will we face the witch without him? Rishi Vamadeva and Punditji are strong, but if Manthara is as powerful as I think she is, then they may not be able to confront her. We need a seer-mage of brahmarishi stature. Guru Vashishta or Vishwamitra. Have Rama and Lakshman returned with the sage yet?’ ‘No, Sumitra. And Bharat and Shatrugan aren’t here either. So much has happened since last evening, you’ve been out of touch. The army was sent away on false information; it was divided and sent to Gandahar and Kaikeya yesterday. Bharat and Shatrugan went as well. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra is occupied with organising the PFs for a full city defence in case the asuras make it this far. There’s only you and me to take care of this problem now. That’s why we have to fetch Captain Drishti Kumar.’

Sumitra’s face reflected her anxiety and confusion. But to her credit, she didn’t react with hysterics or melodrama. Instead she said, ‘All right. Then let’s get him and go to Manthara’s rooms. We have to act quickly.’ That response, so sure and sensible and logical, impressed Kausalya more than anything else. Now she was certain that whatever the truth might be, Sumitra wasn’t perpetrating a deception. She was either the victim of another elaborate illusion, or she was telling the truth. Even though she wanted with all her heart to believe Sumitra, Kausalya still hoped that it was the former. The alternative was chilling to contemplate and difficult to accept. She would know which one it was very soon. ‘All right,’ she said, moving to the door. ‘I’ll send for Captain Kumar and four quads and ask them to meet us in the south corridor. But we’ll not go inside until the guards arrive, are we agreed on that?’ ‘Of course,’ Sumitra said. She shuddered suddenly. ‘You think I want to go in there alone again? I’ll have nightmares all my life about the moment she pushed me through that wall! I thought I was falling into hell!’ Kausalya and Sumitra unbarred and unlatched the doors. When they opened them, a female rakshak guard was waiting outside. She was one of Sumitra’s clanswomen. She saluted both maharanis smartly and addressed Sumitra. ‘Maharani, as you requested, I’ve come to inform you that Manthara-daiimaa has emerged from her chambers.’

NINE Maharaja Janak reached the top stair of the tower and finished reciting the Gayatri mantra for the thousand and eighty-fourth time, one for each step. He stepped out into the centre of the large domed chamber named the Sage’s Brow. Vishwamitra followed the king, with Rama and Lakshman close behind. Rama experienced a moment of disorientation as he crossed the chamber. An image from his recurring nightmare flashed in his mind. Himself, standing in the identical Ayodhyan counterpart of this watchtower, there named the Seer’s Eye. Leaning out of the large windowless portals running continuously around the circular chamber, watching with impotent rage as his beloved Ayodhya was ravaged by an enormous asura horde. He understood now that the nightmare had been implanted in his brain by the Lord of Lanka, Ravana himself. And that it was a vision of the future. Not the only future destined for him, but one of several possible futures that his own karma could lead him towards. A future that the asura king was determined to make a reality. Right now, as he walked grimly across the bright windswept stone floor of the Mithilan Sage’s Brow, it felt like a very possible, even likely, future. Already the sun was low in the western sky, its slanting rays warming his right profile as he stood facing the southern side of the Sage’s Brow. In less than two hours it would be dusk, and then night. The almost total darkness of a slender waning moon. Not a moonless night as his nightmare had depicted, but close enough. In the nightmare, he had assumed he was in Ayodhya, but now he knew that it was this very tower he had stood in during that awful vision. He had witnessed the rape of Mithila, not Ayodhya. From the glimpse they had been given when Ravana had stepped through the supernatural portal in the assembly hall, the demon lord’s threat appeared to be genuine. An asura force was amassing on the north bank of the Ganga. That would place the invaders within two yojanas’ distance of Mithila. And that had been almost an hour ago. In another two hours or less, but certainly before sundown, the asura armies would be at the city gates. Maharaja Janak had accepted this shattering news and its crushing implications with all the majesty and dignity of a true Arya sovereign. Ignoring his injuries at the hands of Ravana, the maharaja had ordered that the assembly hall be cleared at once, and had called for his council and Senapati Bharadwaj, the general in charge of Mithila’s sadly diminished armed forces. While the general had been given an immediate order to assemble his entire force, arming all volunteers and retired veterans, the maharaja and his council had debated their next course of action. The flurry of anxiety and dismay that had followed the council’s acceptance of their predicament had been akin to an innocent man’s reaction when told

that he had been found guilty of an uncommitted crime and was to be sentenced to death within the hour. Why were the asuras attacking? Why Mithila, now a holy city with almost no military power? Why had they not known of this earlier? How could such an enormous army have been raised by the Lord of Lanka and brought so swiftly and stealthily this far north without the Arya nations knowing? Vishwamitra had intervened then, cutting short the panicked flurry of comments and queries. These questions were all irrelevant now, the sage had said sternly. They must put aside all discussions and move immediately to prepare themselves for the city’s defence. The council’s silence had been almost as heartrending as their earlier confusion. Finally, the prime minister of Videha had appealed to the maharaja to in turn appeal to the brahmarishi for advice. Unlike Kosala, Videha had no guru of Vashishta’s stature to guide their governance. This was partly because, unlike Kosala, which was a highly militarised state and required the constant supervision of a spiritual guru, Mithila was itself a spiritually enlightened city. There were more Brahmins in Mithila alone than there were Kshatriyas in all of the Videha nation. The ratio of Brahmins to Kshatriyas in Kosala and its capital Ayodhya was almost equal, but Videha had long since discarded its swords, bows and maces for prayer necklaces, red-ochre robes and wildwood staffs. A military crisis was something this once-martial nation no longer had the knowledge or the manpower to contend with, let alone confront. Vishwamitra had said as much when appealed to by the maharaja. But the seer had seemed curiously calm and unruffled as he spelled out how poorly prepared the Videhan capital was to face the oncoming asura forces. Even if it had been equipped with an army the size of, say, Ayodhya, Gandahar or Kaikeya, the three most martially powerful Arya cities, Mithila would not have been able to withstand such a massive surprise assault. Even as they spoke, the outlying areas of the capital were being evacuated, all civilians and travellers brought into the city-fortress. Soon the gates would be shut and the walls manned. But despite its formidable defensive design–identical to that of its sister city Ayodhya–Mithila’s defences were in no condition to face such an attack. It would take days, if not weeks, to rebuild the infrastructure needed to maintain a long siege, and that was only conditional on having an army large and well trained enough to undertake this mammoth task. These reinforcements could possibly be had from the other Arya nations–most likely from Ayodhya, their closest neighbour. But that itself would take time. And their enemy was a few yojanas hence and approaching rapidly! Nay, the sage said decisively, they would have to face this onslaught on their own, with their existing resources. After that harrowing session, Maharaja Janak, the seer-mage and the two rajkumars had made their way up to the top of this tower. From this vantage point, the sage said, they would be able to view the city entire as well as see the approach of the asura armies. Now, the brahmarishi pointed with his staff. ‘They will come from the south. Look now and see the fury of their approach.’

Maharaja Janak and the two princes leaned forward, staring southwards. The city walls themselves extended outwards in concentric circles for a distance of a full yojana from the centrally located tower. The Sarayu river flowed beneath the tower and the palace complex itself, the architecture designed to vault over the gentle river without disturbing its natural course. The river flowed roughly north-west to south-east. As they peered out beyond the first city wall, they could see the golden thread of the sun-kissed river winding its way into the distance. At some point it crossed its sister river, the sacred Ganga, before continuing its journey to the ocean. The brooding darkness of a dense hilly forest, the Mithilan equivalent of the Ayodhyan Southwoods, loomed over the river’s south bank. Several yojanas further south, beyond the Shona river and the placid groves of Siddh-ashrama, these menacing woods grew in size and denseness to become the dreaded Dandaka-van, the haunted forbidden woods that marked the southern border of Videha and all the Arya nations. Mithila was the southernmost Arya city, designed to stand, like its sister Ayodhya, as the first line of defence against any attack from the south, the direction in which the distant island of Lanka lay. As Rama’s eyes followed the brahmarishi’s staff, he saw what he was seeking. Shockingly close, just a little way beyond the end of the Sarayu valley, was what seemed to be a rising fog. It was clearly moving in a northward direction, rolling steadily across the lush green Videhan landscape. He knew that what seemed like fog was in fact a cloud of dust raised by an enormous force marching at considerable speed. The cloud’s rolling swell trailed to a plume that dwindled and rose in the far distance. He wondered that nobody had noticed such a huge dustcloud. It must have been visible for several hours after all. But then he recalled that there were no other towers this tall in Mithila, and that nobody kept watch for such things as approaching dustclouds. ‘Brahma be merciful,’ Maharaja Janak said, his voice still strained from the throttling he’d received at the hands of the demon king. ‘That front is well over a yojana wide!’ ‘Nay, raje,’ Vishwamitra replied. ‘It is closer to three yojanas wide. The asura hordes prefer to travel in separate armies, but with all travelling laterally, so that each feels it is in the front line while keeping a prudent distance between individual species.’ ‘Three yojanas wide,’ the maharaja said faintly. ‘What size of army could cover a front that wide?’ ‘And six yojanas long,’ Vishwamitra said calmly, as if estimating the size of a Brahmin procession at a tirth-yatra. ‘This is the main force of Ravana’s vast army. The forces he sent to the other Arya capitals are less than a fifth of the size of this single horde. As I estimate it, his combined asura armies number over ten million in all.’ ‘Ten million?’ the maharaja said, leaning weakly against the stone overhang of the chamber. ‘And four-fifths of that would make eight million,’ the sage said. ‘It is the second largest army ever assembled. The only force greater than this was raised by Ravana himself when he invaded Swarga-lok and sacked Indraprastha, the capital city of the devas.’

Maharaja Janak’s hands slid slowly down the stone pillar. He came to rest on the curved ledge of the window, sitting weakly as he contemplated the brahmarishi’s words. Then he lowered his head to his hands, moaning softly, ‘What have we done to deserve this fate, maha-dev? We are a good nation, deva-loving and pure of heart, deed and word. Our citizens follow the path of dharma and respect the laws of karma meticulously. I have devoted my life and resources to the pursuit of spiritual gain rather than the accumulation of material wealth. I have eschewed violence and embraced the creed of ahimsa, as have the majority of my people. We are known throughout the Arya nations as a Brahmin nation. Why then are we being subjected to such devastation?’ He looked up at the brahmarishi, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘Tell me, maha-dev. What have we done to deserve this fate? Why do the devas seek to punish us thus? What noble deed have we left undone, what mortal sin have we committed? If it is my fault, then let me be blamed and penalised. Why are my people to be subjected to this karma? What is their error?’ Vishwamitra looked down sagely at the maharaja. The chill wind sweeping through the open-walled chamber billowed his robes and bent his long white hair and streaming beard. The light of the setting sun caught his proud regal features, making his ancient battle scars shine red like freshly bleeding whiplashes. ‘There is no error, Mithila-naresh. Neither your people nor you are at fault here. This is simply the way the samay-chakra turns. The great wheel of time does not differentiate between good and evil.’ ‘But the devas do,’ Janak said, his eyes flashing with angry incomprehension now. He wiped his tears away roughly. ‘They see and weigh our actions and our thoughts. It was through his appeals to mighty Brahma and later the great Shiva that Ravana himself obtained the shakti he now wields. If a rakshasa with his unmatched history of countless sins and crimes can be granted such power, why should a holy and unblemished king such as I be treated so harshly? Have the scales of celestial justice been broken and thrown aside? Do the devas no longer respect dharma and karma?’ ‘It is dharma and karma that save you today, good Janak. Your great and virtuous deeds and prayers have earned you an enviable position among mortals. Few individuals on this earth can claim as great a stake in celestial admiration as yourself. Even we, the Seven Seers, have watched and applauded your piousness and your great achievements from afar.’ Janak shook his head, still lost in his miasma of shock and grief. Vishwamitra continued in a more gentle tone: ‘In many ways, your eldest daughter Sita is a perfect symbol of the Videha nation. Pure, beautiful and honourable to the core. This great land deserves not to be wrested away as the lord of asuras sought to do with beautiful Sita. It deserves instead a long, honourable and dignified existence, free from pain and strife, violence and humiliation.’ ‘And yet,’ Janak cried out, his voice cracking with his anguish, ‘who will grant Sita these things when Mithila herself is sure to fall tonight?’

‘I shall protect Sita,’ Rama said, stepping forward to show his face to his future father-inlaw. ‘I won her hand before the people of Mithila, and I shall honour and keep her as she deserves. No asura, Ravana or any other, shall lay a hand on her as long as I stand.’ ‘Nor as long as I stand,’ Lakshman said. Janak looked at both of them. Rama knew that his eyes and Lakshman’s were glowing with the light of Brahman. He could feel the shakti still coursing through his veins. It had not ceased to do so since the encounter in the assembly hall. Yet the voice that he spoke with was his own, uninfluenced by the power of the maha-mantras. He meant every word he said. After saving Sita from Ravana’s attempt to win her at the swayamvara, Rama was honourbound to wed her. And if the first stirrings of emotion in his breast were any indication, he would do so for a more compelling reason than to uphold honour. Janak rose to his feet slowly. He put a hand on Rama’s shoulder, then did the same to Lakshman as well. His hand felt cool to Rama’s inflamed skin. ‘I would hold you to that promise, young princes of Ayodhya, just as I would hold Rama to his well-won commitment.’ He looked to the south briefly, at the cloud of dust now filling the view from side to side for as far as the eye could see, as if the horizon itself was burning and coming closer by the minute. ‘Yet I fear that samay has decreed otherwise. Even I who believe in miracles do not see how we may survive this dreadful night, but if the devas were to see fit to allow us to do so, then on the morrow itself I would see Rama wed Sita with all due pomp and ceremony.’ The brahmarishi spoke quietly. ‘And you would do well to consider taking Rajkumar Lakshman here as husband to your second daughter Urmila, raje. As well as joining the hands of their brothers Bharat and Shatrugan with those of your nieces and adopted daughters Mandavi and Shrutakirti. Even without consulting the rajkumars and rajkumaris on whether this meets their individual wishes, I would venture to propose this auspicious and excellent match. I am certain that Maharaja Dasaratha and the maharanis Kausalya, Kaikeyi and Sumitra would be more than pleased as well.’ Maharaja Janak stared at the sage. ‘I would consider myself truly fortunate to see my daughters married into the House Suryavansha. And while I would need to make sure that each of them approves of the match, I can already tell you that my daughters are dearly fond of Rama’s three brothers and think highly of them.’ He shook his head, continuing, ‘But maha-dev, what is the use of discussing such matters when our very existence is in peril? By the time Surya completes tonight’s circuit of the globe and returns to us tomorrow morning, neither Mithila nor the House Chandravansha will remain. What good does it do us to speak of the marriages of my daughters at such a time?’ Vishwamitra smiled. ‘At such moments does history turn on its heel, just as our planet turns on its invisible axis, raje. There is no time more opportune to decide such matters

than these cusps of history. If you indeed approve these matches, and I speak on behalf of the House of Suryavansha by saying that they would not disapprove of them, then consider my earlier prediction fulfilled. Your life’s desire will be granted, and on the morrow you shall see your four daughters wedded to four eminently suitable bridegrooms by their own consent. This I predict by the shakti given unto me by mighty Brahma himself.’ Janak’s face was a conflicting battlefield of emotions. ‘Mahadev, your coming here was a result of my life’s karma. May your words be true. I shall be blessed indeed if this were to come to pass as you describe it.’ There was no need for him to add, ‘although I cannot see how it possibly can’. His face spoke those words eloquently. Vishwamitra placed a hand on the maharaja’s shoulder in the same paternal gesture that the king had extended to the two rajkumars. ‘Then let me make another auspicious prediction, Mithila-naresh. This one will gladden your heart as well.’ The seer pointed his staff south at the looming dust-cloud. ‘I decree that this very night your great and virtuous city shall be given the fruit of its immense spiritual labours. You shall resist this approaching asura horde and defend Mithila with great honour and valour.’

TEN Captain Drishti Kumar led the way down the south corridor, his shortspear held in an aggressive attack stance. Four guards strode forward with him, two on either side, their speartips aligned perfectly with their captain’s weapon. Kausalya and Sumitra followed close behind the captain and the quad. Twelve more guards enclosed the two maharanis in the defensive quadrangular formation for which the Kosalan army was famous. The captain of the palace guard had arrived minutes after Kausalya and Sumitra reached the mouth of the south corridor, accompanied by sixteen of the ablest personal angrakshaks oathsworn to the royal family’s protection. He had listened briefly to Kausalya’s succinct explanation and had issued curt orders that were instantly passed down the line of back-up guards. Even as they approached Manthara’s residence, several dozen more guards were surrounding the wing of the palace where the daiimaa’s apartment lay, blocking off every possible exit and entrance as well as evacuating all servants and other employees to a safe distance. Ayodhya had witnessed enough treachery to ensure that any new evidence of disloyalty would be met with ruthless discipline. Sumitra had never seen the young captain of the palace guard look as grim as he did now. She noticed that Drishti Kumar had begun to resemble his father, the illustrious Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, more closely than ever. Truly, this father and son were the backbone of Ayodhya’s defence. As long as Kosala had Arya Kshatriyas of the calibre of the House of Kumar, Ayodhya would remain the Unconquerable. They rounded a curve in the corridor, passing the portrait of the newly crowned young Maharaja Dasaratha that Sumitra had noticed the previous time she came this way. That had been last night, when her quest for the true culprit had led her to the daiimaa’s chambers. Until then she had never visited this part of the palace before: maharanis didn’t go to the residences of daiimaas; daiimaas were summoned to maharanis’ chambers. Sumitra was an exception in that she frequently visited her son’s wet-nurse in her own residence. She and Sakuntala-daiimaa shared a relationship that was as warm and friendly as the one she had with Maharani Kausalya, and like most Kosalans she regarded the caste divisions as what they actually were–an economic system for more efficient organisation of labour rather than rigid class divisions. She wondered if Kaikeyi ever visited her daiimaa’s quarters; she doubted it very much. Not only was Kaikeyi not the kind to befriend any other women–a restriction that didn’t seem to apply to men, though–but had the Second Queen been coming here, Sumitra felt sure that Manthara’s game would have been exposed a long time ago. Whatever Kaikeyi’s faults–and her

notoriety as a man’s woman rather than a woman’s was only one of a long list–treachery and treason were not among them. Manthara’s long-lasting deception and betrayal had to have been outside the purview of Maharani Kaikeyi. Which begged the other question: What hold, if any, did Manthara exert over the Second Queen? How much of Kaikeyi’s own sourness of disposition and bitterness of worldview stemmed from her wet-nurse’s dark asura leanings? Like most daiimaas, Manthara had been Kaikeyi’s own wet-nurse before performing the same role for young Bharat, and daiimaas could wield a great deal of influence over their wards, even greater than the mothers of those children at times. In the case of the other rajkumars, this wasn’t so, mainly because of Kausalya and Sumitra’s close bonds with their sons. But Kaikeyi was notorious for her unmotherly ways and attitudes. Sumitra shuddered to think of little infant Bharat growing up in the care of a woman who secretly worshipped the lord of asuras and sacrificed Brahmin infants to that dark ungod. Later, when they had dealt with Manthara, they would have to look into the damage Manthara’s secret evil side might have wrought on Kaikeyi’s mind and Bharat’s growth. Right now, it was time to face the witch herself. Captain Drishti Kumar spoke quickly to the four guards beside him. They strode forward in single file, with no pretence of being quiet or discreet. This was the heart of the royal palace. It was the enemy that would have to skulk around and hide if it chose to do so; they would march through its corridors like the proud ang-rakshaks they were, fearless and eager to give up their lives for their duty. Sumitra and Kausalya waited with bated breath as the four soldiers marched around the curve of the corridor and disappeared from sight. After a moment or two, their fading footsteps stopped sharply. Sumitra knew they must have reached the doorway of the daiimaa’s residence. After another moment, the marching footsteps resumed, this time growing louder and closer. Two of the four guards reappeared and saluted their captain. They spoke to him briefly. Captain Kumar turned and addressed the First Queen. ‘Maharani, the guards posted outside the daiimaa’s threshold say nothing worthy of alarm has transpired. They say the daiimaa is still cloistered within her apartment and has asked several times to be permitted to leave to visit her mistress Maharani Kaikeyi’s chambers. What do you wish to do next?’ ‘I would like to go in and meet Manthara now,’ Kausalya said. She glanced at Sumitra. ‘Are you ready?’ ‘Yes,’ Sumitra said. The captain nodded. ‘Follow me then, maharanis. And whatever happens, do not break out of the protection of the guards.’

Sumitra remembered the terrifying hours she had spent imprisoned in that stinking secret yagna chamber and shivered. She thought silently, Not for a million gold rupees! If the guards weren’t there, she would never have gone back into the daiimaa’s chambers. As it was, she was very nervous at going back without Guru Vashishta. She hoped and prayed that soldiers and weapons would be sufficient to restrain the witch. Please, devi, you helped me escape that evil woman’s clutches. Now help me expose and arrest her. From Kausalya’s long thoughtful silences and dubious expressions during her explanation, Sumitra knew that the First Queen regarded this as a test of Sumitra’s sanity itself. Not just the safety of the royal family and Ayodhya itself, but the Third Queen’s reputation too was at stake here. If by some asura trick, Manthara managed to deceive everyone again, Sumitra herself would be regarded as the villain of the piece. She was risking everything on this jaunt. And yet she had no choice. What must be done must be done, she thought, setting her jaw grimly. In that instant, her resemblance to Lakshman was very striking. Drishti Kumar turned back to the two waiting guards and snapped off a quick order. Then he and the guards began marching forward again. Kausalya followed them, enclosed by the phalanx of spear-wielding rakshaks. Her heart skipping in her suddenly ice-cold breast, Sumitra followed. Manthara sat calmly on the mat, her prayer beads clutched in her right hand, chanting the mantra softly but just loud enough to be heard within a yard’s distance, rocking herself to and fro in rhythm with the recitation. She continued to ignore the two guards standing to either side, their spears pointing directly at her. The bead-curtain at the door shirred as someone entered. Without looking up or breaking rhythm, she knew it was Captain Drishti Kumar. He was followed by more guards, who formed a quad around her, spears pointing within the square, and then by the maharanis Kausalya and Sumitra. She knew that Sumitra’s face blanched when she saw her on the floor, but the Third Queen remained silent, her jaws grinding hard together in a manner that was strongly reminiscent of her sons. Manthara continued to recite her mantra with the self-absorbed air of a devotee lost in the ecstasy of prayer. After a brief consultation with the First Queen, Captain Drishti Kumar spoke in a curt but formal tone. ‘Daiimaa, rise to your feet and greet your queens.’ Manthara continued to the end of the repetition of the mantra, then, as the captain was about to repeat his command in a harsher tone, raised the prayer beads to her lips, kissed them devoutly, and placed them on the book stand in front of her. As she struggled to raise herself off the floor, she saw that Maharani Kausalya wanted to order the captain to help her up, but decided against it. It was one of the things she had never been able to understand about Kausalya. How could the queen be so ruthless and

so humane at the same time? But then that was the Arya way. To go to war against your own kith and kin, yet obey the rules of warfare scrupulously. Madness, mortal madness! Manthara gained her feet at last and peered up at the two queens, who were watching her as intently as a mongoose watched a cobra. She joined her hands in a respectful namaskar. ‘Namaste, Maharani Kausalya. Namaste, Maharani Sumitra. You do me great honour by visiting my humble residence. To what do I owe this privilege?’ Kausalya’s eyes narrowed. Evidently, nothing Manthara had done or said thus far was what she had expected. That made the First Queen suspicious. She was trying to decide if Manthara had genuinely meant her ritual response or if she was just being bitterly ironic. The latter was more her style, Manthara conceded, but she had been careful to keep the statements accentless and plain. They weren’t going to catch her out on something as trivial as tone of voice! ‘Daiimaa,’ Kausalya said curtly, resorting to formal behaviour by the use of Manthara’s work-title rather than her name, ‘if you have anything to confess, do so now. The penalty for treason, conspiracy and attempted assassination is too harsh to commute. But if you show remorse and admit your guilt now it may bring some relief to your immortal aatma. When your judgement on Prithvi ends and you stand before that great celestial court in Swargalok, you may well be judged on the actions and words you now perform. Bear that in mind before you speak.’ Manthara allowed an expression of incredulity to appear on her wizened face. It was genuine, thanks to the First Queen’s own words. ‘Maharani,’ she said, hearing the surprise in her voice. ‘Treason? Conspiracy? Attempted assassination? Who has committed these crimes? If you are suggesting that I would be responsible for such heinous sins, then surely I would be judged not in Swargalok, but sent straight to Patal, the lowest level of Narak!’ Kausalya stepped forward. ‘So then you deny these charges? Think before you reply. Captain Drishti Kumar here bears formal witness to everything you do or say and may well be called upon to testify against you if so required.’ ‘Deny? I cannot comprehend such allegations, my lady. How can I deny them then?’ Kausalya glanced at Sumitra. The Third Queen’s eyes were glowing like embers now, their soft brown pupils fiery with growing anger. ‘Sumitra? Do you want to say anything at this point?’ ‘Only that she should have been an actress, not a daiimaa. She would have earned a fortune performing on the stage! She’s lying to save her skin.’ Manthara turned her distressed gaze to Sumitra. ‘Maharani? Would I lie to my own liegequeens?’ ‘Yes, you would! You have lied. And killed, and conspired, and indulged in a hundred heinous deeds for the sake of your evil master. He’s your liege, not Dasaratha. Go on, say his name, admit it! Ravana! Say it!’

Kausalya’s hand caught Sumitra’s and squeezed it lightly. ‘Easy, Sumitra. Let me do the talking.’ She looked at Manthara again. ‘Daiimaa, by the authority of the maharaja himself, I am now ordering a search of your apartment. For the last time I ask you, do you wish to confess?’ Manthara joined her hands again, this time not in a namaskar but in an attitude of appeal. Her hands shook naturally enough of their arthritic ailing, and putting a tremble in her voice came even more easily. ‘Mistress, I beseech you, whatever this misunderstanding is, I pray to the devas that it should be cleared away at once. I do not understand what it is I am accused of. Why do you torment an old lady thus?’ Kausalya’s eyes flickered for a second. Got you, Manthara thought triumphantly, smiling inside if not on the surface. The words ‘old lady’ had struck home deeply, she knew. All Aryas bore great respect for the elderly, but some, like Kausalya, considered it their dharma to always treat them with respect. She admired the strength of will that made the First Queen take such strong action against an old and disabled employee of the royal family. Clearly the Third Queen had done a good job of convincing her senior queen. Kausalya paused, then said quietly, ‘If, by some chance, I am incorrect in my assumptions, then I shall ask your forgiveness for treating you thus. But at present, I must order Captain Drishti Kumar to conduct a full and thorough search of your apartment. Do you have anything further to say that could be of use to yourself?’ Manthara raised her hands skywards. ‘May Almighty Sri have mercy on my ageing aatma,’ she said shakily, knowing full well that the Mother-Creator was Kausalya’s patron deity. She was pleased by the touch of anguish in her voice. Kausalya’s voice, in contrast, sounded strained and worried as she said, ‘Captain, ask your men to search the apartment thoroughly. Spare no effort. And I would appreciate it if you would accompany me to the daiimaa’s pooja chamber. I wish to search that place personally.’ The captain issued orders to his men, ending with, ‘Break the place apart if you have to.’ Palace guards filed into the apartment in a seemingly endless flow, marching through the corridors and rooms. Manthara shook her head mournfully, muttering softly to herself in agitation. She felt Third Queen Sumitra’s eyes boring into her. A guard called out from the north wall of the apartment, addressing his captain. Drishti Kumar turned to the maharanis. ‘The pooja room, maharani. Come with me.’ Manthara waited a few moments as the two queens and the captain, accompanied by a double-quad of guards that seemed to be linked to the maharanis by invisible rods, left the room and entered the pooja room. She lurched after them, ignoring the guards working everywhere, tearing open mattresses, spearing pillows, smashing through the rear walls of closets and cabinets, taking their captain’s last words very seriously.

She heard a shout of outrage from inside the pooja room. It was the Third Queen. As she reached the doorway of the pooja room, she heard Sumitra say, ‘It’s sorcery! Kausalya, I told you the woman’s a witch! She did this with her black art somehow. You have to believe me!’ Manthara entered the pooja room and looked in to see the main altar shifted carefully to one side to allow access to the rear wall. Captain Drishti Kumar, the two maharanis and their eight guards were arranged in a tableau that seemed quite hilarious to Manthara’s eyes. They were staring at the window that occupied a large part of the rear wall. The evening sky was clearly visible through it. The light of the setting sun filled the room indirectly, lighting everyone’s faces in a soft reddish-orange glow. Sumitra pointed accusingly at Manthara. ‘She did this somehow, Kausalya. She changed this whole room. I tell you, when I was here earlier, there was no window at all. Just a wall. And behind that wall was the secret yagna chamber where she’s been conducting her vile sacrifices!’ Kausalya was staring at the window. ‘I understand that, Sumitra. But how could she have changed the room? Even sorcery can’t alter the design of the palace itself. If she did wield such huge shakti–and, mind you, that’s a very big if–then we would be able to tell at once just by seeing how the building’s structure is changed.’ Sumitra nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right! She’s changed the structure of the building! Ask Drishti Kumar to check. Go on!’ Kausalya looked at the captain. ‘What do you think, Captain? Could you find out for us if this part of the palace could somehow have been altered through sorcery?’ Drishti Kumar hesitated, glancing at Maharani Sumitra. ‘Go on, Captain,’ Kausalya said. ‘You can speak your mind freely.’ ‘Maharanis,’ he said, ‘I can vouch for this myself, since this section of the palace used to be the senapati quarters a long time ago. This was before the end of the last asura war and I was but a slip of a lad then. Yet I remember every wall and crevice of this apartment well, because it was my father’s.’ ‘Of course,’ Kausalya said, looking astonished. ‘That was before the cantonment complex was built, wasn’t it?’ She looked at Sumitra. ‘Before we came here as young brides, Sumitra. A long time ago.’ ‘Just so, maharani,’ Drishti Kumar said. ‘Yet not so long ago for those who remember.’ Kausalya nodded. The captain had lost three uncles and four brothers in the Last asura War. This apartment must be filled with painful yet nostalgic memories for him. ‘I

understand, Captain. Tell me then, do you recall this room specifically?’ ‘I do, maharani. It was our pooja room then as well, since it’s the only north-facing room.’ He pointed at the window with the haft of his spear. ‘Our altar was located on that wall too, since it was the north wall.’ He paused and looked at Maharani Sumitra. ‘And the window was always there.’ Sumitra cried out in shame and humiliation. She buried her face in her hands, unable to bear the disappointment. Manthara wanted to drop her old-hag act and leap up and down. But she was aware that although they weren’t watching her directly, everybody was keenly aware of her presence, and the two guards who had first entered the apartment were still standing to either side of her, their spears pointing at her heart and her vitals. She allowed herself a smile of triumph, concealing it with a cry of relief. Throwing her hands together, she raised them to her forehead, directing her words at the altar across the room. ‘Truly, the devi watches over me and protects me!’ She resisted the urge to spit after saying the words. Just a little while longer and this charade would be over, and she could continue with her efforts on behalf of the Dark Lord. She needed to perform another yagna and summon Ravana soon. Shifting the corridors of the palace as well as her quarters from one end to the other had used up every last ounce of her shakti. And to have accomplished this feat of dark sorcery without anyone noticing . . . that was surely her crowning achievement. Now, drained as she was, she needed more power desperately, and only her master could provide that. She also needed healing badly, and only Ravana could do that as well. The wounds that Sumitra had inflicted on her with the trident were concealed for the moment by a maya spell. Even if the Third Queen insisted on having her strip-searched here and now, they would find nary a blemish on her bony chest. But beneath the illusion, the wounds were still there, still bleeding, still shriekingly painful.

ELEVEN Sita gained the top of the Sage’s Brow, Nakhudi close behind her. She arrived just in time to hear the brahmarishi say to her father, ‘You shall resist this approaching asura horde and defend Mithila with great honour and valour.’ Maharaja Janak stared at the sage with a strange mixture of emotions. ‘Maha-dev, you are infinite in your wisdom. May you not reveal to us what the outcome of this conflict will be?’ ‘Nay, Janak,’ the sage replied. ‘That is forbidden to me. Not because I do not wish to set your mind at ease, but because the samay chakra has infinite minute variations. Just as a compass may not point precisely to the north or the east, thus a future event may have an outcome that is not wholly good or bad. And this is a broad simplification. A compass needle may point not even north-east, but north-by-north-east, for example. In the case of geography, this will result in a definite direction.’ The seer pointed his staff over the maharaja’s shoulder. ‘That way is north-by-north-east exactly, but in mortal events, too many factors and lives are interwoven in a constantly changing, enormously complex pattern. So your great and pious city may survive, yet if you were to lose someone dear to you in the conflict, would you count it as success or as failure?’ Janak joined his hands together. ‘Maha-dev, when you first arrived this morning, I told you in my throne room that my life’s only remaining selfish desire was to see my daughters wed happily. But what I ask now is not a selfish whim, it is for the greater good of the Videhan people in particular and the Arya nations at large. Tell me then, will Mithila survive this invasion or will we be overrun by the hordes?’ Vishwamitra was silent for a long moment before he replied. ‘I have already given you my prediction, raje. Ask me no more. To reveal too much would be to tamper with the finer workings of the samay chakra itself. For by knowing a certain event, a person may seek to influence that event and change its predestined outcome.’ Sita stepped forward, bowing her head formally and performing a namaskar as she approached the sage. ‘And is it possible to do so? To influence and change the outcome of an event?’ Vishwamitra turned his wise grey eyes on her. She felt them pierce through to her very soul, searching her consciousness the way a torch might illuminate a darkened cave. ‘Rajkumari Sita, you share your father’s curiosity for metaphysics and spirituality. Your question is a very wise one. It deserves a wise answer. You ask me whether, knowing the predestined outcome of an event, it is possible to influence and change that outcome. The answer then is this: It is not humanly possible to know the predestined outcome of

any event. This is what I was just trying to explain to your good father. The variations in the samay chakra’s movements are too complex, too minute, for any mortal mind to comprehend, understand, analyse and predict. Even astrology gives you only the broadest indications of what may transpire. Even if two persons are born at the same instant in the same place, they will not have the same life-history. This is a law of science, as you well know from your gurukul studies. Hence cold, hard, precise science determines the apparently mystical workings of the universe and metaphysics helps us understand those workings. But no mortal may master both science and spirituality equally and completely.’ ‘And if a mortal were to master both, Guru-dev?’ Sita said. Vishwamitra raised his eyebrows. ‘Then that person would be a deva or devi, not a mortal. And to answer your first question again, yes, then he or she would be able to know the exact outcome of an event and could influence and change the outcome of that event.’ He sighed and gestured at himself. ‘I am unfortunately mortal. And at times like this, I am painfully reminded of it.’ Sita saw Rama looking at the southern side of the tower. Maha-dev.’ Rama’s voice was tight and tense. Sita turned to look at what Rama had seen. Her eyes found it at once but it took her several seconds to come to terms with the evidence of her eyes and accept that she was really seeing it. ‘Devi protect us!’ she said hoarsely, clutching the hilt of her sword. She had changed into full battle armour after the swayamvara. The entire southern horizon was a rolling mass of dust. The dustcloud rose a hundred yards in the air, she saw, and spanned the horizon from end to end. Like a fiendish freak of nature, it caught the light of the setting sun, burning bright shining red. At that angle and in that light, it resembled a tidal wave of blood rolling towards Mithila. Bejoo stared up at the southern sky with a feeling close to awe. Except that the Vajra captain was filled with too much dread and anger to be awed by the incredible sight. Just knowing what was producing that dustcloud was enough to taint any admiration he might feel for the epic proportions of the sight. The Vajra captain was mounted on his horse once more. Sona Chita was beside him, and so was the rest of his Vajra regiment. They had arrived in Mithila barely an hour before the order went out to bring in all citizens and bar the seven gates. The Siddh-ashrama procession had been delayed at the Ganga crossing; every last Brahmin and brahmacharya had insisted on immersing himself and performing the full ritual before proceeding further. From the looks of it, Bejoo had commented, Sona Chita and the Vajra Kshatriyas had spent a little time bathing in the sacred river as well.

The lieutenant had admitted that they had taken a dip. When asked why they hadn’t done so at the River Shona, where they had spent the whole of the previous evening and night, Sona Chita had explained to his captain, ‘Any other river is just water. It washes your body. The Ganga cleanses your soul.’ Bejoo’s soul didn’t feel very clean at the moment. As he sat on the fair ground and watched the asura dustcloud approach, he felt very dirty and tainted. Not by his own misdeeds, but by the very sight of that approaching holocaust. He was old enough to have memories of the last asura war. Bad memories, all. And now here was the stormcloud risen again, rolling across the land like a juggernaut of hellish destruction. He knew all the facts of the matter. Of how woefully inadequate Mithila’s defences were, how underequipped the army was in numbers, training and weapons. There was nothing he could do about that. By an ironic twist of karma, his mission to protect the rajkumars had brought him here to this neighbouring land and dropped him bang into the middle of a situation where he and his Vajra were among the most able warriors available. True, there were a few other strong orders. The Mithila bowmen, renowned for their skill with the unwieldy double-curved longbow, were lined up on the walls of the city, ready to wreak havoc. But they were pitifully few in number to begin with, and compared to the odds, they faced an impossible task. So this is what it comes down to, Bejoo thought sombrely. One last stand in a strange city, fighting unbeatable odds. No hope of survival, no chance of victory. Just certain death to face. A horrible, agonising, brutal end to a long and equally brutal life. There had been moments of great beauty, peace even. He had not fought any needless fights, nor taken life for pleasure as some warriors did when intoxicated by the power of their youth and strength. He had fulfilled his dharma, done all that was demanded of him, and had done it well. He had loved a wonderful woman, and had lived a fine life with her. He would leave her secure in life and wanting for nothing. Except for the children they had both desired so much and had never been able to have. In his prayers to his patron deity, Shaneshwara, Bejoo had prayed every single day that he would die fighting with his fellows by his side and Ayodhya behind him. He was getting half his wish. And Mithila was as worthy of defence as Ayodhya. He would die a good, honourable death. He reached his decision then. They would not wait within the innermost wall for the enemy to breach the gates. A last line of defence was hardly any use once the asuras broke into the inner fortress and township. By that time, all the remaining Kshatriyas in Mithila would be gathered here, making their last stand in these confined quarters, giving their lives to defend each inch of precious mother-soil. That was their duty, their dharma even. But he was not Mithilan. He had leeway in choosing where to deploy his men and how to do so. Senapati Bharadwaj had said as much to him a short while ago. The veteran general knew that with these odds, no formation or strategy could even delay the inevitable. It was a hopeless, desperate, doomed last stand, and all they could do was make that stand bravely, taking as many of the enemy as they could before they died. Bejoo was free to do as he pleased.

He decided he would do what he would have done in Ayodhya. There, with the inner city manned thoroughly and every egress and ingress guarded heavily, the city’s Vajra units would have been ordered to ride forth from the sally ports and inflict planned damage on particular parts of the besieging army before returning to await orders for the next sally. Of course, there they would be replenished with reinforcements and each sally would be carefully planned and ordered by senapatis observing from the Seer’s Eye to achieve a strategic gain. Here, he had no back-up, no strategy, not even the guarantee that he would be able to return safely to the sally port he had left from. But it was what his men were trained to do in the event of a siege, and it was better than waiting here and listening and watching the horrors of the first waves, waiting for the monsters to kill all the lines of defence and come rolling in to wash over them. This way, at least they would die as Vajra Kshatriyas ought to die—striking with the speed and accuracy for which they were named. Like bolts of lightning flung by the hand of Indra himself, digging into the flanks of the asura invaders and leaving them a little bloodier and messier each time. He rode a few yards forward, then turned his horse to face his men. They were drawn up in a straight line, unlike their usual spear formation, the cavalry, chariot, bigfoot all arrayed in one long row. At least it made it easier for him to speak to them. ‘Vajra,’ he said, speaking loud enough to be heard down the line. The lead elephant raised its trunk to half-mast in salute and trumpeted briefly to acknowledge the captain. ‘We have but two choices here. To stay and wait within these walls. Or to go out and harry the enemy in the open. Each course will certainly lead to our ends. You already know that the odds are insurmountable. By staying here, we may hope that the beasts change their mind halfway through and decide to go scurrying back home.’ ‘Why would they do that, Captain?’ Sona Chita asked curiously. Bejoo shrugged, his eyes glinting mischievously. ‘Deva knows. Maybe they might remember some forgotten chore. Or get terrified at the sight of so many Brahmins.’ A wave of laughter broke out. Bejoo smiled. ‘Anyway, I’m in favour of sallying forth and biting the monster in the haunches as best we can before he slams us into the dirt. It’s not going to be much fun with a host that size, but it’s what we do. I for one would rather go down fighting in open country than wait cloistered here until those scum come to pick us off. But these are unusual circumstances. We are free to go as we please and fight as we will. So I leave it up to you to decide what you would do. Sally forth and nip the giant in the testicles—’ Another burst of laughter. ‘Or stay here and wait for the giant to come and smash us.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘The choice is yours. Decide quickly. Personally, I prefer the former. I’m waiting five minutes then riding out of the gates before it’s too late. Those who wish to follow, do so. Those who wish to stay behind, do so. Either way, we’ll all

feed the carrion birds come dawn and will be remembered as the Vajra who fought like lightning bolts, and died just as quickly!’ He turned his horse around to avoid seeing the men’s faces and influencing them unduly. When five minutes was up, he nudged his horse forward, whispering affectionately to her, ‘Come on, old lady, let’s go for one last ride together.’ She whinnied and trotted towards the side gate that had once been used as the route to the sally port. Because the layout of the city was identical to that of Ayodhya, that was one less hurdle to cross. The odds were huge enough as it was. The captains at the gates had been told to let his Vajra leave if they wished to do so at any time. They saluted him smartly as he rode past. He returned the salute just as respectfully. Mithila’s small standing army might be limited in numbers, but their discipline and spirit weren’t limited in any way. He felt a pang of regret for these brave outnumbered men and women who would die today without a ghost of a fighting chance. The bowmen on the walls waved to him as he rode past, shouting slogans of encouragement. Mostly they yelled the Videhan war cry, ‘Satyamev Jaitey!’ Truth Always Triumphs. He wished that were the case: in his experience, more often than not, truth lost out to reality. Today was yet another instance. He vowed not to look back until he was out of the sally port and riding across open land, headed south-east. He intended to circle the city and meet the foe as they made their first attack, staying far enough to the west to be out of range of the Mithila arrows. He had no knowledge of how the asura forces were arrayed but he prayed he wouldn’t find pisacas before him. He couldn’t stand any of the species, but at least rakshasas, gandharvas and vetaals walked on two legs, and nagas and uragas stood more or less upright as they slithered along. Pisacas crawled like the giant carapaced insectile beasts they were, and they spouted that disgustingly foul ichor when you cut them, and if they got you, they laid their horrendous eggs within your belly, fusing the wound with their flame-throwing mouths. You lay there unconscious for hours on the battlefield until the eggs were ready to hatch, at which point the younglings ate their way out of you, killing you if you were lucky, or leaving you lying there half-eaten and half-alive until eventually you succumbed. Please, Shani-deva, he prayed silently, give me anything but pisacas. When he was a half-mile out from the city, he looked back at last. Every last member of his Vajra was behind him, following in perfect attack formation, bigfoot in front, wheel and horse following. He studied them for a moment, then blinked rapidly and turned back to face forward. ‘Looks like we’re not alone after all, old girl,’ he told the horse. She didn’t reply. Maybe she was as moved as he was. He was out of range of Mithila now, and riding directly toward the dustcloud. It loomed

impossibly high above the landscape, dwarfing everything around, seeming to stretch like a wall reaching up to the sky itself. Now the sound of the asura hordes was audible; he could hear the keening, wailing and howling of the species as they smelt the sweet blood and soft flesh of the mortals in their walled city. It was a sound that made babies stop crying in sheer fright. No human ear could hear it and be unmoved. Bejoo glanced back one last time at his Vajra. Pride swelled in his chest like a gorge of fire. He raised his sword, urging them on, then pointed the sword forward, indicating a small hillock from which they could make a more effective downward rush. Strike like lightning, die like thunder. ‘Jai Shree Shaneshwara,’ he said softly. There was no need to shout it. In moments, when the army beneath that vaulting dustcloud arrived, the noise would be too great to hear anything. Even his own last prayers.

TWELVE ‘Guru-dev,’ Rama said softly, ‘I ask your leave to go to the first gate and face the assault.’ ‘And I ask your leave to go with Rama and fight by his shoulder,’ Lakshman said. Sita looked at her father. His face was wan and pinched. His eyes were riveted to the looming dustcloud. It was now less than a yojana distant and closing fast. Already, the top of the cloud reached twice as high as the three-hundred-yard-high Sage’s Brow, darkening the entire horizon from west to east. The slanting light of the setting sun, almost at its nadir now, continued to glow red and deep purple where it caught the countless dust motes of the approaching cloud, turning it into one enormous blood wave. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘I too wish to fight. I will not sit in my chambers and wait until the demon hordes break through. I wish to use my last moments defending our city and our heritage. I beg of you, do not deny me this last honourable act.’ Janak gazed ahead with unfocused eyes. The maharaja seemed to have reached a place beyond anger, hate or fear. He had the preternatural slowness of a saint, oblivious to every worldly pain or pleasure. But when his eyes rested on Sita, life returned to them. He strode forward, enfolding her in his arms. ‘My beloved child,’ he said, his voice filled with the tears his dry eyes were not shedding. ‘If this were a normal day, by this time you would be married and would be the wife of Rajkumar Rama Chandra. You would be embarking on a new life, a new hope, a new future.’ He gestured at the approaching cloud. ‘Instead, you face this. And now you ask my leave to go out into that monstrous . . . thing and fight to the death? What can I say, my lovely Sita? Do you think any father can tell his child yes, go out into that storm and let yourself be torn to shreds by creatures from the lowest levels of hell?’ Sita shook her head. ‘If Rama and Lakshman can go, why can’t I?’ ‘If your sisters can stay, why can’t you?’ Janak replied. Vishwamitra held up a hand. ‘Hush, Sita, Janak. Neither will you be required to sacrifice your lives defending Mithila, nor will the rajkumars of Ayodhya need to do so.’ All eyes turned to the sage. He pointed his staff at the cloud, now turning violet and indigo with the darkening light. The sun was sliced in half by the western sky, its southern side shimmering in the haze of the approaching dustcloud. ‘This was all ordained and foreseen,’ he said. ‘The reassembling of the asura armies, the building of the vast fleet, the crossing of the great ocean, the subterfuge and spying and deception to avoid the Arya nations learning about the invasion in time to prevent it,

even Ravana’s attendance at your swayamvara, Rajkumari Sita. Everything was foreseen and foretold by the omens and the astrologers. Right up to the siege of Mithila and beyond.’ ‘Siege, maha-dev?’ Janak’s voice was bitter but not angry. ‘What siege? We will be overrun in moments by that host. This is a massacre, great one. It is no siege.’ ‘And yet a siege it is. For Mithila is only a symbol of the Arya nations as a whole. All of Arya is besieged by the asura menace, in the same way that a noble person is constantly besieged by impure thoughts and desires. What else is mortal life if not one long siege against the weaknesses and temptations of the flesh? Today, this eternal conflict is played out in reality, with the body of Mithila being invaded by the asura hordes. And as mortals individually combat their mortal desires, so also must Mithila defend itself against the invaders.’ ‘But how will we do so?’ Janak asked, the desperation in his voice making Sita wince. ‘Give us a way and we will do it, mahadev. Show us a road and we shall take it.’ Vishwamitra nodded. ‘That is my dharma. That is why the Seven Seers were ordained. To be The Ones Who Show The Way. I do indeed have a road to show you, my good Janak. But you must prepare yourself. For as often happens with such choices, the road that lies before you is almost as treacherous as the dilemma in which you now stand.’ Janak rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, a gesture he made when troubled. ‘You speak in riddles, maha-dev. And yet I listen with all reverence. Show me the way.’ Vishwamitra nodded. ‘Very well then. I shall show you.’ The brahmarishi reached into the folds of his robes and pulled something out. It was an object so small, it fitted into his closed fist. ‘This was given to me this morning by the maharishi Gautama, when I restored his wife to him.’ Vishwamitra looked at Rama and Lakshman. ‘The rajkumars assisted me in that mission, as did certain other brave companions.’ He didn’t look at Sita and Nakhudi, and he didn’t name them. The maharaja still knew nothing of his daughter’s escapade, and, Rama thought, this was no time to speak of the matter. ‘The maharishi Gautama gave this to me willingly, for one seer may give it to another if he pleases. I made the trip to save Ahilya and restore her to her estranged husband for the express purpose of securing this favour. As you shall see, it is not a thing easily obtained, but once obtained, the owner desires to give it away as soon as possible. Yet it may not be given into the wrong hands. The maharishi Gautama actually thanked me for taking this immense burden from him, for very great power such as this object brings is a burden.’ Rama looked at the sage’s closed fist, willing himself to see through the bunched fingers. All he could see was the fine tracery of scars around the back of the sage’s hand, marking the many times he had stopped a blow with his sword pommel and had been cut on the hand.

‘Maha-dev,’ the maharaja said, staring with equally rapt intensity at the closed fist, ‘will this object of power be able to help defend Mithila from this invasion? Will it perhaps enable us to hold the enemy at bay long enough to receive help from the other Arya nations? Turn this slaughter into a siege, as you put it yourself?’ Vishwamitra sighed softly. His face, caught by the fading light of the almost set sun, looked every bit its age. Five thousand years of living and abstinence and hard penance and guiding the lives and actions of his mortal fellows had taken its toll, Rama realised. And what a toll it was. ‘Nay, raje,’ the seer said sadly. ‘What I received from Maharishi Gautama and which he in turn received from mighty Brahma himself will help in neither defence or delay. It will destroy the entire asura force in one blow!’ He opened his hand and showed them the object in his palm. It was a tiny scroll, they saw now. A little piece of parchment weighed down by some mystic force - even the fierce wind buffeting them didn’t stir it. There were words in Sanskrit written on the piece of parchment. A mantra. Like so many other great keys to Brahman power. ‘This is the Brahm-astra. The weapon of the Creator Brahma himself. It is the most potent and terrible weapon ever created. And it exists for one purpose only. To wipe out one’s enemy. Not to conquer, defeat, or achieve victory over, but simply toannihilate . It would be like slaughtering the entire force of Ravana in one flash of an eyeblink. More terrible and awesome than even the one-sided slaughter that the lord of asuras seeks to inflict upon you. For at least you and your supporters can lift a sword and cut down an asura or ten before they kill you. By using the Brahmastra, you will massacre them without a chance of survival. The entire horde you see approaching now, less than five miles from the city gates, will cease to exist. They will in fact be uncreated through the cosmic power of Brahma’s own weapon.’ He reached out the hand to Maharaja Janak. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I give you this Brahm-astra. You may use it but once. And by doing so, you damn your soul to an endless cycle of karmic rebirth. No more will you be able to redeem yourself through good words, good deeds, good thoughts or prayer. By using this most terrible of all weapons in creation, you give up your right to absolution for ever. You will never attain salvation, or nirvana, or enlightenment. And never will you attain oneness with Brahman.’ Janak staggered back. Sita and Nakhudi both reached out and supported him. He remained on his feet but his face was drained of all colour. The last tip of the setting sun was all that remained above the western horizon. Its rays caught the maharaja’s face and cast it in a deathly pallor. ‘Maha-dev,’ he said, his voice choked with emotion, ‘you ask me, a man who has devoted his entire life to the attainment of spiritual salvation, to give up the chance of absolution, enlightenment and even nirvana? You ask me to damn my eternal soul irrevocably? To be lost in an endless cycle of karmic rebirth, forever suffering for my sins and crimes?’ ‘Not just you, Janak, but all Aryas living at this time. For it is in their interest that you seek to destroy this asura menace. You will not be alone in your spiritual

excommunication. Every living Arya will share in that eternal crime. This is the price you pay for using the Brahm-astra.’ The sage gestured with the staff in his other hand. ‘You have but a little time to wield it, Janak. Use it now and save your people.’ The sun slipped below the edge of the horizon and the last rays of the sun god faded from the sky. From the south, the distant rumbling of the approaching asura army grew into a roar of exultation. The long day had ended. Night had fallen on Mithila city, for perhaps the last time in its illustrious history. Maharaja Janak turned his face away, sobbing. The tears that he could not release before now spilled freely down his lined face. ‘I cannot do it,’ he cried. ‘I cannot commit such a sin. It would be like condemning all of mortalkind to eternal damnation. We would be no different from asuras then, human in appearance but ungodly in our lost aatmas.’ Vishwamitra sighed. ‘Then we are lost. For I cannot wield the weapon. As a seer ordained by Brahma himself, it is the one dev-astra forbidden to me. Were I to attempt it, I might destroy all of humankind. This is a precaution laid down by mighty Brahma in his infinite wisdom. For no one person should possess so much power.’ There was a long moment of silence then, as everyone assimilated the implications of the seer-mage’s words. Into that silence, Rama said, ‘I will do it, Guru-dev. I shall wield the Brahm-astra.’

***

Bejoo waited on the top of the hillock, on the south bank of the Sarayu. His view of the southern horizon was limited by the rising cliff beyond which lay the beginings of the Southwoods that led eventually to Dandaka-van. The sunlight had faded as well, leaving a misty haze that illuminated everything with an ominous pinkish light. He could hear and feel the thundering approach of the invaders clearly now. The entire ground seemed to rattle and shiver with the impact of those pounding hoofs, claws, talons, pugs and whatever other terms described the nether limbs of asuras. Loose soil fell in a ceaseless shower from the sides of the cliffs, adding to the particles of dust and haze in the air. It was like being in the heart of a funeral pyre after a battle, surrounded by the smoke of a thousand burning corpses. The only thing missing right now was the awful sweet stench of roasting human flesh. Bejoo was glad of one thing: at least this time he wouldn’t have to lug the bodies of fallen comrades to the pyres. This time it would be someone else’s task to carry him. If there was enough left of him to carry, and if there was anyone left to carry it.

The dustcloud was a solid wall now, rising as high as the eye could see. As he watched, it seemed to slow visibly, the roiling reducing to a slow churning. After a moment, the thundering impact reduced as well. He understood at once what was happening: the asura hordes were slowing as they came in sight of their destination. He watched as the cloud hung suspended in the air, thick as a brick wall and as dense. For a long moment, nothing happened. The rumbling died away completely and the valley fell silent as a stone. The wall of dust remained motionless and still, neither advancing forward nor dissipating, catching the residual light of the sun, sunken below the horizon but still throwing its rays high up into the sky over this part of the earth. Then, like a dancer’s face emerging from a diaphanous veil, the asuras emerged from the wall of dust. They seethed and swarmed down the valley at a pace twice as fast as a mortal walk. They were almost at the end of their long march now, the march that had begun on the shores of a bayside town named Dhuj many hours earlier. Their alien jaws salivated in anticipation of their inevitable triumph. Bejoo saw movement out of the periphery of his vision. He raised his eyes and saw the tops of the cliffs swarming with dark shapes. asuras were climbing down the almost vertical sides, swarming like lizards descending a wall. He watched as the asura armies covered the earth before him, approaching steadily. A mile, then half a mile, and finally, a quarter-mile away. He raised his sword, preparing to give the order to charge. He wouldn’t wait for those vermin to come at him. He would go to them and show them how Vajra Kshatriyas fought. And how they died.

***

All eyes turned to Rama. He stood resolute, addressing the brahmarishi. ‘Grant me the Brahm-astra, maha-dev. Allow me to wield it and save Mithila.’ Vishwamitra’s eyes were filled with an emotion that Lakshman hadn’t thought the brahmarishi was capable of feeling; the seer’s face showed actual pain as he looked at Rama. ‘You do not know what you ask, Rama. This is not like the other dev-astras I gave unto you earlier. This is the Brahm-astra, the supreme weapon of all creation. Used correctly, it can certainly dispel the asura armies before they overrun this city. But that is only a fraction of its boundless power. For by using the power of anti-

Brahman, the antithesis of the force that all matter is created from, it cancels out Brahman itself.’ ‘Forgive me, Guru-dev,’ Rama asked, ‘but I do not comprehend your meaning. Are you saying I cannot wield the Brahm-astra?’ Vishwamitra shook his head sadly. ‘Would that it were so. In fact, you are the perfect person to wield it. Infused with the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala, proven in your championship of Brahman by your triumph over the asuras of Bhayanak-van, endowed with the dev-astras I gifted unto you, you would be able to wield this weapon masterfully, destroying only the asura hordes and no more. Few other Kshatriyas would be able to do so as skilfully.’ The sage indicated the others, watching with rapt attention. ‘Not even your brother Lakshman, nor the valiant Kshatriya princess Sita, nor even her formidable guardian can claim to be as well versed in battling asuras as you already are, young Rama. Even at your tender age, you have championed the cause of Brahman more notably than a thousand thousand veterans of the last asura war ever did. For who amongst them can claim to have downed a rakshasi of Tataka’s mighty stature, her hundreds of hybrid offspring, as well as her ferocious sons Mareech and Subahu. Nay, Rama Chandra, it is as if mighty Brahma himself has chosen to bring you here for this very task.’ Rama nodded. ‘So this is the end for which I was brought here. Instead of going to Ayodhya.’ ‘Indeed, Rama. This was your dharma. And while I did not know precisely what the end would be, I knew that the road was correct. Hence it was given to me to ensure that you came on this journey. Not just to gain a perfect bride and dispel the rapacious lord of the asuras, but to break the siege of Mithila with one single blow.’ ‘Then grant me your ashirwaad, Guru-dev. And let me use the Brahm-astra before it is too late.’ Vishwamitra held up his hand, his lined palm as creased with age as his weathered face. ‘Wait a moment longer, Rama. There is one last thing I must tell you before you do this.’ ‘Speak then, master.’ Vishwamitra sighed and inclined his head, as if unable to speak the next words directly. ‘There is a price to be paid for using the Brahm-astra. Because this is the ultimate weapon of Brahman, and because it employs the universe-destroying force of anti-Brahman, the wielder will lose all other Brahman shakti. In short, Rama, if you use the Brahm-astra, you will save Mithila and all Arya certainly, but you will lose all the Brahman power I have given unto you. You will become once more an ordinary mortal, stripped of all divine protection for your days on this mortal plane, and nothing you do or say will ever earn you even a mite of that power again. This is the toll demanded of the one who wields the Brahm-astra. Pray, answer me wisely now. Are you willing to pay this price?’

THIRTEEN ‘So be it,’ Rama said. As he spoke, his eyes flashed with the blue light of Brahman and even his tongue flicked sparks of blue illumination in the gathering dusky light of twilight. ‘If that is all it costs to save so many lives, it is naught. Give me the weapon, brahmarishi. Let me do what my dharma demands.’ Lakshman reached out, catching Rama’s hand as he held it out to the sage. ‘Brother. If you do this, you will earn the wrath of the asuras for ever. And at your next encounter, you will be naked of all power. Without your Brahman shakti, how can you hope to fight against the forces of evil henceforth?’ Rama shook off Lakshman’s hand. ‘Hush, brother. The time for debate is past. The sands of samay have run through our fingers now. This step must be taken and taken at once. Give me the Brahm-astra, sage. Give it to me now!’ The sage stepped forward, holding out the parchment scroll. But even as Rama’s hand closed over the tiny curl of precious papyrus, Lakshman’s hand lunged out and caught Rama’s fist. Rama stared at his brother, his eyes flashing blue sparks. Lakshman’s eyes shone back with equal intensity, lit by the shakti of his own power. ‘Then let us share in this as well,’ Lakshman cried. ‘Let us wield the astra together.’ Rama was still for a moment. Then a smile opened his face from the mouth outwards, like an invisible blade unveiling his soul. It was a terrible smile to behold. ‘So be it, brother. Together in this, as in all else!’ As the others watched in wordless stupefaction, Rama and Lakshman stepped forward to the southern windows of the tower. Rama opened his hand, holding up the parchment with the mantra written on it. The corner of the tiny chit fluttered in the wind. Lakshman caught the other side and held it firm and still. With an invocation to the devas, speaking as if with a single voice, Rama and Lakshman began to read the Brahm-astra mantra.

***

Bejoo’s horse charged forward with a loud neigh of protest. Even though the mare had given him years of good service and had served through any number of violent

encounters, she had only carried him into battle against asuras once before. And, on that occasion in the Bhayanak-van battle, she had faltered momentarily and had needed to be goaded on. Now she tried to turn her head aside, seeking to take a different path, anything to avoid charging headlong at that seething mass of alien predators. The asura force stank. The reek coming off them was unbearable and indescribable. It was like a thousand cesspools and a thousand corpse-laden battlefields all thrown together. It was like the stench of fluids exuded by insects in the deep forest. Or by bats in a subterranean cavern that had not had fresh air blow through it for a thousand years. It was like death itself, and Bejoo knew the smell of death, for he had faced it often before. It drew you towards it, despite the disgusting odour, drew you in like a kite on a length of twine, calling you with its horrible yet mesmerising stench. Bejoo went to meet his death. The Vajra rode behind him. He could feel the pounding impact of the bigfoot, hear their trumpeting, the rattling of the chariot wheels, the lusty cries of his men. Arrows fired by the chariot archers flew overhead, arcing through the smoky air to fall out of sight in the asura ranks. They seemed like pitiful pebbles tossed against a thousand-yard-high waterfall. A hundred yards ahead, the line of asuras roared and howled and urged him on. As a war veteran, he understood why they weren’t advancing any more. They were waiting for their leader to give the command. When that command came, they would smash through Mithila as easily as a fist through a paper wall. But for now they waited. And he rode towards them like an insane fool. Now he could see individual asuras in the dense black mass. The air was foggier here, the dustcloud raised by the enormous army still standing high in the sky. On the ground, the dust-filled air coupled with the gathering dusk made it difficult to see clearly more than a few dozen yards ahead. But he could make out the unmistakable shapes of nagas, their large hooded heads rising yards above the ground. They hissed and seethed at his approach. And beside the nagas were yaksas, shape-shifters. Bejoo’s heart lurched. Yaksas were the only other species he hated almost as much as pisacas. The Elvish races could wreak havoc in his Vajra’s ranks. Their ability to morph into different animal forms, or even half-forms, meant that they could confuse the most obedient bigfoot or horse. Without their mounts, even Vajra Kshatriyas couldn’t hope to last long against the towering nagas and the inevitable uragas which would come in their wake. But it was too late for second thoughts now. Bejoo cried his battle call and forced his protesting mount directly at the front line of the asuras. Ten yards now, then seven, then five . . . four . . . three . . . And then he was amongst them, slashing into the top of the hood of the lead naga, a gleaming black-hooded beast stippled with red spots. The creature lunged at him, its yard-high fangs flashing, venom spilling from its eager sacs, its diamond-bright eyes glinting hatefully. Bejoo’s sword drove through the top of its hood, dividing its head in two. The naga swayed for a moment, then fell back, blocking its companions to either side.

Bejoo cried out in exultation, caught in the heat of battle fever. He had drawn first blood. Or, to be more accurate, first venom. A moment later, his Vajra crashed into the asura ranks to either side, an elephant trumpeting as it smashed a naga hood beneath its massive feet, chariots carrying their lance-wielding riders over the coils of nagas, crushing the serpentine bodies, to drive their pointed lances into the hoods and eyes of other nagas.

***

As the princes of Ayodhya called out the words of the Brahmastra, Sita felt the change in the floor beneath her feet. The Sage’s Brow, like its corresponding tower in the capital cities of each of the seven Arya nations, was said to be built with the shakti of Brahman, raised by the Seven Seers themselves. And the Seers were ordained by Brahma, creator of the universe, the foremost channel of Brahman shakti. As if in recognition of this fact, the tower itself seemed to be coming alive as the recitation progressed. It vibrated and thrummed in response to the mantra’s chanting. Below the sound of the shrieking wind, Sita could hear a faint ringing echo. Was that merely the voices of Rama and Lakshman reverberating off the stone walls? Or was it that the walls themselves, along with every single stone of which the tower was composed, had begun to echo the potent syllables? She looked around and saw her father gripping the edge of a windowsill to avoid being knocked off his feet. Even hulking Nakhudi, squinting fiercely, was crouching to maintain her balance. Only Brahmarishi Vishwamitra seemed untouched by the wind; he seemed almost to relish the unleashing of power, his flowing beard and tresses flickering in the eddies and currents like a white banner in a battlefield. The wind was growing stronger by the minute, as if Vayu, the wind god, was being called down to join in the battle himself. The sky outside the tower had turned deep blue, the blue of the shakti of Brahman energy. Sita saw that this was not a result of refracted sunlight or the twilight; it was a supernatural light effected by the mantra itself. It was as if the forces of the universe were being called together to coalesce their powers in one mighty blow. Somewhere through the sound of the wind and the chanting of the mantras, she also heard the sound of the asura army massed below. They were howling to be unleashed. Awaiting the final order to fall on the mortal city and tear it to pieces. The resonant voice of Rama-Lakshman - for they were as one being now, not two - rode the rising howl of the wind, reached a climax, and then fell silent. The mantra was over. The Brahm-astra had been unleashed.

***

Jatayu led its forces high above the hills, above the enormous dustcloud raised by the asura armies, above even the clouds. From this height, it could see the cusp of the sun. Twilight had already fallen across the earth below, but where it flew, the sun still shone, catching its wings and warming them. It cried its ululating hoarse cry, and its brethren answered, calling back. Their screeching cries filled the sky for miles around, terrifying birds flying to their nests for the night. Jatayu loved the sensation of power that came before an assault like this one. And the promise of food. It had chosen to remain hungry even after receiving the Lord of Lanka’s orders, knowing that the edge its hunger gave it would make it that much more vicious in the battle. It swooped down through a cloud and saw the landmarks that indicated it was reaching Mithila. It called to its companions and they passed the word along. It had close to a thousand bird-beasts with it, mostly jatayus like itself, man-vultures, but also a large clutch of garudas, man-eagles descended from the great Garuda himself, and several other subspecies. A moment later, it saw the familiar concentric circles of Mithila, and the asura armies massed on its south side, stretching for yojanas in both directions, and yojanas back almost to the banks of the Ganga. It wondered how Ravana had convinced his forces to cross the sacred river. Most asuras feared the Brahman-blessed water, believing it would melt them down to nothingness on contact. Jatayu itself had lived long enough to know that this wasn’t strictly true. It depended on the species of asura really. For instance, vetaals would indeed melt like running hot wax if they came into contact with Ganga waters. But rakshasas were not affected usually— unless they were vetaal-rakshasa crossbreeds. Jatayu’s kind wasn’t affected either, but it would still take a very large whip to get it to touch even a wingtip to that sacred body of water. It was sheer folly to attempt such madness; like standing before Shiva and waiting witlessly for his third eye to open. Jatayu called out the final order and began the spiralling descent that would take it quickest into the city. Now it could clearly see the flashes of white- and ochre-clad mortals assembled in large groups across the city. Brahmins! They would hardly know what had hit them. In another few seconds, the sky would fall upon them, tearing their soft flesh with bone-hard beaks and sword-sharp claws. The streets of Mithila would run red with Brahmin blood tonight. It was only a few hundred yards from the ground when it felt the massive wave of Brahman shakti unleashed. It had time to cry out one last time before being buffeted up, up, up, high above the clouds, higher than it had ever flown before in its five thousand

years of existence. It felt its wings tear to shreds and was blanketed by agony. Then the world vanished from existence.

***

Bejoo felt the wave hit before he saw it. In fact, he never actually saw it. All he knew was that some tremendous force, the likes of which he had never heard of nor seen before, was sweeping across the entire surface of the earth. It came from behind him, which meant its source was Mithila. But that was all he knew. Then the wave struck him and knocked him off his horse, flinging him to the ground and pressing him flat, like a thousand bigfoot standing on his back. Ahead of him, the wave rolled on, tearing through the asura ranks, shredding the nagas to bits so tiny that they were as powdered rang at a Holi festival. The asura hordes behind the front ranks sensed some awesome force being unleashed and cried out in horror and rage. Then the aftershock struck Bejoo, even as the wave itself was still rolling across the asura armies, and he lost consciousness.

***

From the vantage of the Sage’s Brow, the two princes of Ayodhya, Rajkumari Sita and her father, and the bodyguard Nakhudi all watched. They saw the deep blue wave of Brahman ripple outward from the tower itself, rolling harmlessly over humans and their animal friends and the city and its structures. But when it reached the asura armies massed on the south bank of the Sarayu, the effect was numbing. The dense black hordes of asuras disintegrated as the wave touched them, turning into powder, like the dust-cloud their tramping hoofs and paws had raised on their northward march. An instant later, as the aftershock hit, the powder itself disintegrated into nothingness. Here and there, particles of coloured light, red, purple-black, green, lingered in the air for a moment, then faded away as well. In the sky, the asura bird-host was falling to attack when the wave hit them. Sita saw the leader of the host, a man-vultureshaped being, buffeted by the first ripples and thrown in an arcing sweep across the bowl of the sky. The rest of the host suffered the same fate as

their ground-borne asura brethren: powdered and then disintegrated. A moment later, the last echoes of the wave faded away, leaving behind a silence as deafening as the wave itself. The entire asura army had vanished from the south bank, leaving no trace that they had ever been there. Except for the dark hanging mass of the dustcloud that was still visible in the dusky twilight light. That was the only sign that remained to mark that the great alien army had ever existed. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra had kept his face averted as the wave struck. Now, he turned and looked southwards, at the vanished army. Then he raised his gaze to Rama and Lakshman, who stood, staring together with identical expressions of shocked numbness. The blue light of Brahman was gone entirely from their faces, making them appear oddly naked. ‘It is done,’ said the brahmarishi. To Sita’s surprise, the seer-mage’s eyes welled with tears. He stepped forward and embraced both the princes at once, his large bony arms encircling the two slender young torsos easily. He hugged them tight, as tightly as a father bidding his sons goodbye. ‘You have done the impossible,’ he said at last, tears flowing freely down his lined, ancient face. ‘You have rid the world of almost all the evil of Ravana. Never again will he be able to assemble such a vast army. Surely, he has a large number of wretched asuras still extant on his island-fortress of Lanka, but he will never again be able to assemble a force vast enough to invade the mortal realm. Even his vast fleet, asura-polluted as it was, is gone, destroyed by the Brahm-astra.’ Rama’s voice was hoarse, choked with his own emotion. ‘Is it truly over then? The asura threat to our people? Is it finally ended?’ Vishwamitra released them both and turned away. Only Sita saw the seer-mage’s face clearly as it looked away from Rama and Lakshman. The anguish on those ancient features was unmistakable. ‘The threat is ended,’ the sage said. But there was no joy on his face, or in his voice.

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