Scion of Ikshvaku Page 4

  She had to save her husband.

  Suddenly an arrow whizzed past her and crashed into the front board of the chariot with frightening intensity. Kaikeyi spun around in alarm. One of Raavan’s cavalrymen had broken off from his group and was in pursuit.

  Kaikeyi turned back and whipped her horses harder. ‘FASTER! FASTER!’

  Even as she whipped her horses into delirious frenzy, Kaikeyi had the presence of mind to shift slightly and use her body to shield her husband.

  Even Raavan’s demons would be chivalrous enough not to attack an unarmed woman.

  She was wrong.

  She heard the arrow’s threatening hum before it slammed into her back with vicious force. Its shock was so massive that it threw her forward as her head flung back. Her eyes beheld the sky as Kaikeyi screamed in agony. But she recovered immediately, the adrenaline pumping furiously through her body, compelling her to focus.

  ‘FASTER!’ she screamed, as she whipped the horses ferociously.

  Another arrow whizzed by her ears, missing the back of her head by a tiny whisker. Kaikeyi cast a quick look at her husband’s immobile body bouncing furiously as the chariot tore through the uneven countryside.

  ‘FASTER!’

  She heard another arrow approach, and within a flash it slammed into her right hand, slicing through the forefinger cleanly; it bounced away like a pebble thrown to the side. The whip fell from her suddenly-loosened grip. Her mind was ready for further injuries now, her body equipped for pain. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry.

  She bent quickly and picked up the whip with her left hand, transferring the reins to her bloodied right hand. She resumed the whipping with mechanical precision.

  ‘MOVE! YOUR EMPEROR’S LIFE IS AT STAKE!’

  She heard the dreaded whizz of another arrow. She steeled herself for another hit; instead, she now heard a scream of agony from behind her. A quick side glance revealed her injured foe; the arrow had buried itself deep into his right eye. What she also perceived was a band of horsemen moving in; her father and his faithful bodyguards. A flurry of arrows ensured that the Lankan attacker toppled off his animal, even as his leg got entangled in the stirrup. Raavan’s soldier was dragged for many metres by his still galloping horse, his head smashing repeatedly against the rocks strewn on the path.

  Kaikeyi looked ahead once again. She did not have the time to savour the brutal death of the man who’d injured her. Dashrath must be saved.

  The rhythmic whipping continued ceaselessly.

  ‘FASTER! FASTER!’

  Nilanjana was patting the baby’s back insistently. He still wasn’t breathing.

  ‘Come on! Breathe!’

  Kaushalya watched anxiously as she lay exhausted from the abnormally long labour. She tried to prop herself up on her elbows. ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter with my boy?’

  ‘Get the queen to rest, will you?’ Nilanjana admonished the attendant who was peering over her shoulder.

  Rushing over, the attendant put her hand on the queen’s shoulder and attempted to coax her to lie down. A severely weakened Kaushalya, however, refused to submit. ‘Give him to me!’

  ‘Your Highness…’ whispered Nilanjana as tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘Give him to me!’

  ‘I don’t think that…’

  ‘GIVE HIM TO ME!’

  Nilanjana hurried over to her side and placed the lifeless baby next to Kaushalya. The queen held her motionless son close to her bosom. Almost instantly the baby moved and intuitively gripped Kaushalya’s long hair.

  ‘Ram!’ said Kaushalya loudly.

  With a loud and vigorous cry, Ram sucked in his first breath in this, his current worldly life.

  ‘Ram!’ cried Kaushalya once again, as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Ram continued to bawl with robust gusto, holding on to his mother’s hair as firmly as his tiny hands would permit. He opened his mouth and suckled reflexively.

  Nilanjana felt as if a dam had burst and began to bawl like a child. Her mistress had given birth to a beautiful baby boy. The prince had been born!

  Despite her evident delirium, Nilanjana did not forget her training. She looked to the far corner of the room at the prahar lamp to record the exact time of birth. She knew that the royal astrologer would need that information.

  She held her breath as she noticed the time.

  Lord Rudra, be merciful!

  It was exactly midday.

  ‘What does this mean?’ asked Nilanjana.

  The astrologer sat still.

  The sun was poised to sink into the horizon and both Kaushalya and Ram were sound asleep. Nilanjana had finally walked into the chamber of the royal astrologer to discuss Ram’s future.

  ‘You’d said that if he was born before midday then history would remember him as one of the greatest,’ said Nilanjana. ‘And that if he was born after midday, he’d suffer misfortune and not know personal happiness.’

  ‘Are you sure he was born exactly at midday?’ asked the astrologer. ‘Not before? Not after?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure! Exactly at noon.’

  The astrologer inhaled deeply and became contemplative once again.

  ‘What does this mean?’ asked Nilanjana. ‘What will his future be like? Will he be great or will he suffer misfortune?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

  ‘I mean I don’t know!’ said the astrologer, unable to contain his irritation.

  Nilanjana looked out of the window, towards the exquisite royal gardens that rolled endlessly over many acres. The palace was perched atop a hill which also was the highest point in Ayodhya. As she gazed vacantly at the waters beyond the city walls, she knew what needed to be done. It was really up to her to record the time of birth, and she didn’t have to record it as midday. How would anyone be any the wiser? She’d made her decision: Ram was born a minute before midday.

  She turned to the astrologer. ‘You will remain quiet about the actual time of birth.’

  She needn’t have exercised any caution. The astrologer, who also belonged to Kaushalya’s parental kingdom, didn’t need any convincing. His loyalties were as clear as Nilanjana’s.

  ‘Of course.’

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  Chapter 4

  FlyLeaf.ORG

  Maharishi Vashishta approached the fort gates of Ayodhya, followed by his bodyguards at a respectful distance. As the guards on duty sprang to attention, they wondered where the great raj guru, the royal sage of Ayodhya, was headed early in the morning.

  The chief of the guards bowed low, folded his hands into a namaste and addressed the great man of knowledge respectfully, ‘Maharishiji.’

  Vashishta did not break a step as he nodded in acknowledgement with a polite namaste.

  He was thin to a fault and towering in height, despite which his gait was composed and self-assured. His dhoti and angvastram were white, the colour of purity. His head was shaven bare, but for a knotted tuft of hair at the top of his head which announced his Brahmin status. A flowing, snowy beard, calm, gentle eyes, and a wizened face conveyed the impression of a soul at peace with itself.

  Yet, Vashishta was brooding as he walked slowly towards the massive Grand Canal that encircled the ramparts of Ayodhya, the impregnable city. His thoughts were consumed by what he knew he must do.

  Six years ago, Raavan’s barbaric hordes had decimated the Sapt Sindhu army. Though its prestige had depleted, Ayodhya’s suzerainty had not thus far been challenged by other kingdoms of North India, for every subordinate kingdom of the empire had bled heavily on that fateful day. Wounded themselves, none had the strength to confront even a weakened Ayodhya. Dashrath remained the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu, albeit a poorer and less powerful one.

  The pitiless Raavan had extracted his pound of flesh from Ayodhya. Trade commissions paid by Lanka were unilaterally reduced to a tenth of what they had been before the humiliating defeat. In addition, the p
urchase of goods from the Sapt Sindhu was now at a reduced price. Inevitably, even as Lanka’s wealth soared, Ayodhya and the other kingdoms of North India slipped into penury. Why, rumours even abounded that the streets of the demon city were paved

  with gold!

  Vashishta raised his hand to signal his bodyguards to fall behind. He walked up to the shaded terrace that overlooked the Grand Canal. He raised his eyes towards the exquisite ceiling that ran along the canal’s entire length. He then ran his gaze along the almost limitless expanse of water that lay ahead. It had once symbolised Ayodhya’s immense wealth but had begun to exhibit signs of decay and poverty.

  The canal had been built a few centuries ago, during the reign of Emperor Ayutayus, by drawing in the waters of the feisty Sarayu River. Its dimensions were almost celestial. It stretched for over fifty kilometres as it circumnavigated the third and outermost wall of the city of Ayodhya. It was enormous in breadth as well, extending to about two-and-a-half kilometres across the banks. Its storage capacity was so massive that for the first few years of its construction, many of the kingdoms downriver had complained of water shortages. Their objections had been crushed by the brute force of the powerful Ayodhyan warriors.

  One of the main purposes of this canal was militaristic. It was, in a sense, a moat. To be fair, it could be called the Moat of Moats, protecting the city from all sides. Prospective attackers would have to row across a moat that had river-like dimensions. The adventurous fools would be out in the open, vulnerable to an unending barrage of missiles from the high walls of the unconquerable city. Four bridges spanned the canal in the four cardinal directions. The roads that emerged from these bridges led into the city through four massive gates in the outermost wall: the North Gate, East Gate, South Gate and West Gate. Each bridge was divided into two sections. Each section had its own tower and drawbridge, thus offering two levels of defence at the canal itself.

  Even so, to consider this Grand Canal a mere defensive structure was to do it a disservice. The Ayodhyans also looked upon the canal as a religious symbol. To them, the massive canal, with its dark, impenetrable and eerily calm waters, was reminiscent of the sea; similar to the mythic, primeval ocean of nothingness that was the source of creation. It was believed that at the centre of this primeval ocean, billions of years ago, the universe was born when The One, Ekam, split into many in a great big bang, thus activating the cycle of creation.

  The impenetrable city, Ayodhya, viewed itself as a representative on earth of that most supreme of Gods, the One God, the formless Ekam, popularly known in modern times as the Brahman or Parmatma. It was believed that the Parmatma inhabited every single being, animate and inanimate. Some men and women were able to awaken the Parmatma within, and thus become Gods. These Gods among men had been immortalised in great temples across Ayodhya. Small islands had been constructed within the Grand Canal as well, on which temples had been built in honour of these Gods.

  Vashishta, however, knew that despite all the symbolism and romance, the canal had, in fact, been built for more prosaic purposes. It worked as an effective flood-control mechanism, as water from the tempestuous Sarayu could be led in through control-gates. Floods were a recurrent problem in North India.

  Furthermore, its placid surface made drawing water relatively easy, as compared to taking it directly from the Sarayu. Smaller canals radiated out of the Grand Canal into the hinterland of Ayodhya, increasing the productivity of farming dramatically. The increase in agricultural yield allowed many farmers to free themselves from the toil of tilling the land. Only a few were enough to feed the massive population of the entire kingdom of Kosala. This surplus labour transformed into a large army, trained by talented generals into a brilliant fighting unit. The army conquered more and more of the surrounding lands, till the great Lord Raghu, the grandfather of the present Emperor Dashrath, finally subjugated the entire Sapt Sindhu, thus becoming the Chakravarti Samrat.

  Wealth pouring into Kosala sparked a construction spree: massive temples, palaces, public baths, theatres and market places were built. Sheer poetry in stone, these buildings were a testament to the power and glory of Ayodhya. One among them was the grand terrace that overhung the inner banks of the Grand Canal. It was a continuous colonnaded structure built of red sandstone mined from beyond the river Ganga; the terrace was entirely covered by a majestic vaulted ceiling, providing shade to the constant stream of visitors.

  Every square inch of the ceiling had been painted in vivid colours, chronicling the stories of ancient Gods such as Indra, and the ancestors of kings who ruled Ayodhya, all the way up to the first, the noble Ikshvaku. The ceiling was divided into separate sections and, at the centre of each was a massive sun, with its rays streaming boldly out in all directions. This was significant, for the kings of Ayodhya were Suryavanshis, the descendants of the Sun God, and just like the sun, their power boldly extended out in all directions. Or so it had been before the demon from Lanka destroyed their prestige in one fell swoop.

  Vashishta looked into the distance at one of the numerous artificial islands that dotted the canal. This island, unlike the others, did not have a temple but three gigantic statues, placed back to back, facing different directions. One was of Lord Brahma, the Creator, one of the greatest scientists ever. He was credited with many inventions upon which the Vedic way of life had been built. His disciples lived by the code he’d established: relentless pursuit of knowledge and selfless service to society. They had, over the years, evolved into the tribe of Brahma, or Brahmins.

  To its right was the statue of Lord Parshu Ram, worshipped as the sixth Vishnu. Periodically, when a way of life became inefficient, corrupt or fanatical, a new leader emerged, who guided his people to an improved social order. Vishnu was an ancient title accorded to the greatest of leaders, idolised as the Propagators of Good. The Vishnus were worshipped like Gods. Lord Parshu Ram, the previous Vishnu, had many centuries ago guided India out of its Age of Kshatriya, which had degenerated into vicious violence. He’d ushered in the Age of Brahmin, an age of knowledge.

  Next to Lord Parshu Ram, and to the left of Lord Brahma, completing the circle of trinity was the statue of Lord Rudra, the previous Mahadev. This was an ancient title accorded to those who were the Destroyers of Evil. The Mahadev’s was not the task to guide humanity to a new way of life; this was reserved for the Vishnu. His task was restricted to finding and destroying Evil. Once Evil had been destroyed, Good would burst through with renewed vigour. Unlike the Vishnu, the Mahadev could not be a native of India, for that would predispose him towards one or the other side within this great land. He had to be an outsider to enable him to clearly see Evil for what it was, when it arose. Lord Rudra belonged to a land beyond the western borders of India: Pariha.

  Vashishta went down on his knees and touched the ground with his forehead, in reverence to the glorious trinity who were the bedrock of the present Vedic way of life. He raised his head and folded his hands in a namaste.

  ‘Guide me, O Holy Trinity,’ whispered Vashishta. ‘For I intend to rebel.’

  A sudden gust of wind echoed around his ears as he gazed at the triumvirate. The marble was not what it used to be. The Ayodhya royalty wasn’t able to maintain the outer surface anymore. The gold leafing on the crowns of Lords Brahma, Parshu Ram and Rudra had begun to peel off. The ceiling of the terrace had paint flaking off its beautiful images, and the sandstone floor was chipped in many places. The Grand Canal itself had begun to silt and dry up, with no repairs undertaken; the Ayodhya royal administration was probably unable to budget for such tasks.

  However, it was clear to Vashishta that not only was the administration short of funds for adequate governance, it had also lost the will for it. As the canal water receded, the exposed dry land had been encroached upon with impunity. The Ayodhyan population had grown till the city almost seemed to burst at its seams. Even a few years ago it would have been unthinkable that the canal would be defiled thus; that new housing would not be constructed f
or the poor. But, alas, many improbables had now become habitual.

  We need a new way of life, Lord Parshu Ram. My great country must be rejuvenated with the blood and sweat of patriots. What I want is revolutionary, and patriots are often called traitors by the very people they choose to serve, till history passes the final judgement.

  Vashishta scooped some mud from the canal that was deposited on the steps of the terrace, and used his thumb to apply it on his forehead in a vertical line.

  This soil is worth more than my life to me. I love my country. I love my India. I swear I will do what must be done. Give me courage, My Lord.

  The soft rhythm of liturgical chanting wafted through the breeze, making him turn to his right. A small group of people walked solemnly in the distance, wearing robes of blue, the holy colour of the divine. It was an unusual sight these days. Along with wealth and power, the citizens of the Sapt Sindhu had also lost their spiritual ardour. Many believed their Gods had abandoned them. Why else would they suffer so?

  The worshippers chanted the name of the sixth Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram.

  ‘Ram, Ram, Ram bolo; Ram, Ram, Ram. Ram, Ram, Ram bolo; Ram, Ram, Ram.’

  It was a simple chant: ‘Speak the name of Ram.’

  Vashishta smiled; to him, this was a sign.

  Thank you, Lord Parshu Ram. Thank you for your blessings.

  Vashishta had pinned his hopes on the namesake of the sixth Vishnu: the six-year-old eldest prince of Ayodhya, Ram. The sage had insisted that Queen Kaushalya’s chosen name, Ram, be expanded to Ram Chandra. Kaushalya’s father, King Bhanuman of South Kosala, and mother, Queen Maheshwari of the Kurus, were Chandravanshis, the descendants of the moon. Vashishta thought it would be wise to show fealty towards Ram’s maternal home as well. Furthermore, Ram Chandra meant ‘pleasant face of the moon’, and it was well known that the moon shone with the reflected light of the sun. Poetically, the sun was the face and the moon its reflection; who, then, was responsible for the pleasant face of the moon? The sun! It was appropriate thus: Ram Chandra was also a Suryavanshi name, for Dashrath, his father, was a Suryavanshi.