Warriors of Dandaka

Kaand I
Night Has A Thousand Eyes
1

They started early, bathing in the last rays of a dying moon. Ratnakar led the group, with Lakshman and three others following closely. Mashaals were out of question. They wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. With only smidgen of pearly moonlight to lead them, progress was slower than what Lakshman would have expected. With some visible effort, not lost on Ratnakar, he stifled an urge to prod the group further. It had rained steadily for three days. Thankfully, it was a clear night. Lakshman glanced upwards into the dark sky. Trutiya, third night after Amaavas, the night when even the moon sleeps. They had to reach their destination before Pournima, the full moon night. They marched on, a silent procession.

They had descended the slopes of the hills two days ago. The plains of Khandesh opened up before them, sparse pockets of vegetation indicating some sign of life in an otherwise arid landscape. Each man carried light provisions - they would live off the land - and necessary weapons. Travel from the third prahar of the night to noon, and stay out of sight the rest of the time, Rama’s instructions replayed in his mind. Most Rakshashas were nocturnal hunters, and by dawn, even the heartiest of the scouts would have returned back to the camp or dug a hole in the ground to sleep. Rama had chosen the duration of their journey taking into account the rains and the light of the moon, brighter as they reached their destination and then waning as they returned, which would make it harder for the Rakshasas to spot them. Of course, it would also make it harder for their party to move swiftly. Rama, he thought. Forever - the leader. Forever - the king. Rama was the king of this band of warriors, though he wore not a crown, or demanded to be treated as one. He could see the respect and awe in their eyes when in Rama’s presence. He was their hero, their champion, and they would follow him to hell and back, if he asked them to. For that was Rama’s way, to lead from the front. Never had he asked anyone to perform a task he would not have performed himself. Never had his request been turned down.

He looked back to catch a glimpse of his weary companions. They were following him, maintaining the pace with some visible effort now, keeping a distance of five feet between themselves. Enough room to wield a sword should the time come. Basic principles of Arya warfare. Never bunch together and provide an easy target for the enemy archers. They were tired, walking for the third consecutive night. He looked ahead at the lean form of Ratnakar, walking at a constant pace. Lakshman wondered if he was tired too. Ratnakar would rather eat gobar than admit that he was tired. He smiled, now there was a proud man! At times, he felt Ratnakar would fit perfectly in his father’s court. He had all the markings of an Arya soldier, nay Captain, and certainly showed signs of some early formal education. A couple of years under Bejoo chacha and Ratnakar would emerge as a polished gem, true to his name. Maybe his father served in an army once. Ratnakar never mentioned the life before he turned into a brigand. It was a touchy subject, Lakshman guessed. Maybe someday, he sighed. Tonight, they had a destination to reach, a mission to fulfill. He glanced up into the sky again, gauging their direction with the help of constellations. Westwards, they were walking westwards.

A cool breeze swept through the forest, carrying the scent of a blooming mogra on its wings. Lakshman closed his eyes and stopped for a moment. Urmila, he thought. The scent of their wedding night. The scent of her soft skin, her sweet lips, their lovemaking… Mograi, he had fondly named her – the grove of mogra blossoms. He recalled their conversation after.

“Aryaputra”, she whispered on his chest.

“Blessed am I to be in your arms, my love. I promise thee
The fleeting nights, the waning moon, our love shall never be.”

“What is it with you women and poetry?” he smiled.

“No lofty words, no starlight skies nor the radiant moon can I conjure,
Alas, no master of words am I, but just a lowly warrior”

Silently, he thanked the frustrating hours spent in the Gurukul, learning the intricacies of Sanskrit grammar and style. Never thought that would pay off somewhere. Bless you Milind, for your patient tutoring.

“Hmmm… where did you … What are you smiling about, my love?” she had asked.

Lakshman nearly bumped into Ratnakar.

“My prince, I asked - what are you smiling about?” Ratnakar had a quizzical expression he could barely make out in the dim light. When Lakshman shook his head, Ratnakar decided to let the matter rest.

“We are nearly there.” By now the rest of the pack had come together. “Let us make haste and reach the other bank before its sunrise.”

They started walking in their single line formation again. Lakshman noticed for the first time that the landscape had changed from the last time he had noticed. They were no longer walking on the plains. The path was steeply going up a hill. He mentally calculated the distance to the top. About five hundred feet. Another ghatika or so to go.
The cool breeze gained strength as they climbed higher, and by the time he was on the top, Lakshman could feel the goose bumps on his arms. Ratnakar was standing on the top, his right hand outstretched; clutching the staff he was leaning on. Lakshman joined him, as did others in a short while. Ratnakar swept his left hand, from North to West and beyond, and spoke a single word.

“Godavari!”

2
“Kausalya …”

“Husshhh, my dear. The rajavaid has left strict instructions for you to rest well. You would do well to follow them this time at least!” The face on the bed broke into a conspiratorial smile, and then as if recollecting something of paramount importance - “I met him … Dasa … He was here!!” Kaikeyi’s eyes widened like two pools reflecting the full moon.

“Rest well, my sister. Here - a spoonful of milk with kesar - this should help you relax.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Kaikeyi’s voice strained as she looked up at Kausalya. “Nobody believes me, do they?” she looked at the serving girls standing nearby, their faces blank with incomprehension.

“Shaant ho jaao behena!!” Calm down, my sister.

Kausalya adjusted the pillows at Kaikeyi’s head to make her more comfortable. Kaikeyi was staring at her, expecting something more in support of her statement. Her eyes brimmed up with tears as she noticed Kausalya tidying her bed with an almost impassive look on her face. Why does not anyone believe me? I saw him, I saw Dasa! Right here, by my bedside!!

She detected a hint of nutmeg in the milk, an aftertaste on her palate. Too late, she realized. Sumitra, she smiled, expertly mixing the nutmeg into the concoction to put me to sleep. Kausalya had been feeding a spoonful to her for the past hour or so. Soon, she would fall back into the blissful embrace of Nidra-devi. Soon … She closed her eyes.

Kausalya confirmed that Kaikeyi was asleep before sending the serving girls away. They shuffled out hurriedly, giving her an impression that they were glad to finally keep their distance from the ‘mad queen’. The mad queen was now sleeping, prone on her bed. A few deep breaths to calm myself, that’s better! The air seemed thick, the kind which one feels when entering a room unused for years. The serving girls had dusted the room before the servants fetched Kaikeyi, but the dust lingered on, faithful occupant for the past days. I should probably move her to my palace. Seating herself on an aasan near the bed, she picked up a paper fan and began to fan herself. A maid, standing in attendance at the door, hastily came inside to perform the task herself, but Kausalya waved her out of the room by a mere gesture of eyes.

With the air around her clearing a bit, her thoughts cleared as well, and she recollected the events of the day.
Mandavi was the first to react, her sleeping quarters being the nearest. She roused the rest of the palace, and made sure the word reached the other queens. Kausalya shuddered as she saw the scene upon her arrival play back in her mind. Kaikeyi was twitching on the ground, held down by Mandavi and Urmila. Someone, and she guessed Sumitra, had the presence of mind to shove a piece of leather in between Kaikeyi’s teeth, now foaming at her mouth. The other servants appeared too shocked to be of any help. She could even hear a couple muttering the Shri Devi stotra, an invocation to the One Godess. But the real shock for Kausalya was that Kaikeyi was wide awake! Her body might be moving involuntarily, but her mind was quite in her control. She was visibly fighting the seizure, trying to control her twitching and slithering. Her eyes followed Kausalya as she moved about the room, and through the inch thick leather shoved into her mouth, she was trying to say something. Kausalya racked her brains, what was it that she heard at first? Dasa. Yes, that’s what she heard first. And the look in her eyes, Kausalya would never forget. Kaikeyi was pleading. But what? Forgiveness? Freedom? And from whom? The only person who could have forgiven her was dead.

Devi, when will it all end? She sighed. Having returned from a rather hectic tour of the nearby villages, she had been looking forward to a good night’s sleep. The rains had arrived, and with them, the sowing season. There had been a dispute over allotment of water to the fields in a few villages, and she had been called to settle the matter. The proceedings had taxed her mentally and the last thing she needed was another seizure from Kaikeyi. Her third, she recalled, in about the same months. Her eyes sought the face of the sleeping queen. It was after Dasa’s shraddha. His second. The memory came rushing up like bile in her throat. They had returned from the ghats after Guru Vashishtha had performed the rites. As was customary, a hundred Brahmins had been invited for lunch, and the queens and their palace staff was busy arranging for the same. Kaikeyi was her usual quiet self. Kausalya was serving ladoos to the assembled Brahmins, when a clatter of utensils, followed by a commotion near the kitchens drew her attention.

Thinking it to be some clumsy serving girl who had accidently spilt hot milk onto herself, she excused herself and went to enquire with Susama-daaima, who was handling the kitchens. Her curiosity turned to surprise, and then to shock, as she realized that the figure on the ground was not a serving girl, but Kaikeyi herself. It had taken four able bodied girls to hold her down, and then as many men to carry her to her chambers. Kausalya had blamed it on over exertion and dismissed the incident, but when the seizures started occurring more frequently, she had expressed her apprehension to the Guru.

“Ravana is dead, and with the protection to the kingdom doubled, I doubt it that some enemy spy might have been able to poison the queen. Her ailment seems to be from her mind, and not from her body.”

Though Guruji’s explanation had soothed her fears, she had ordered her spies to be more vigilant. She received reports from all outposts daily, and sometimes twice a day. Apart from a few skirmishes from the west, there had been nothing out of place.

The dust soon became unbearable for her and she walked out into the balcony adjoining the bedchambers. Stretched below her, for miles, Ayodhya glittered with countless specks of light, mirroring the moonless sky above. She looked up to the stars, hoping to find a glimpse of her beloved.

The night slept, and so did Ayodhya.

3

He woke up into a nightmare of milky whiteness. The world was a blur and for a moment he thought he was dead. Would this be Swarga, if he was dead? He tried to turn his head but a mere lift was an effort in the present situation - which was? He tried to remember the last thing he could, but strangely, could not recollect anything at all. His body felt heavy and lifeless, as if encased in lead and suspended in oils for embalmment. There, a pillow on his right, above his ears. Maybe if he could raise his head to the pillow, he could get a clue as to where he was. Slowly, an inch at a time. The first inches had him out of breath, and he decided to rest for a while before reattempting the effort.

After what seemed like an eternity, he lifted his head on the pillow. By the time his head rested in the right position, he was breathing deeply, clearly exhausted from this simple act. A few deep breaths, the Praanayama, and he gathered his wits to look around. If this was heaven, then he was disappointed. He had imagined heaven to be a place where the austere and the righteous come to claim their pleasures. Pleasures they had forsaken on the mortal and nether realms to please the Devas. He had expected Apsaras, the sensuous nymphs serving Indra; the Garden of Golden Trees, which bore silver leaves and the soma-fruit, a vital ingredient of somaras, celestial wine.
The room he was in was bare, with walls so white, that he felt blinded. It had no windows, or rather did not need any windows for the walls seemed self illuminating. He could not recollect any section of Lanka that was so white, so pristine and stark in its appearance. The bed that he lay on was white too, clean and smelling of fresh flowers. Someone had also taken the liberty of changing his clothes, the observation suddenly making him conscious of his near nakedness. The pain at the back of his head throbbed without pause, gradually grinding his brains into a mass of unidentifiable pulp. He moved his gaze in an arc, from left to right. All above him, about him, below him hung a mist, lifelike - swirling and evolving. Creating shapes that were at once mysterious and hauntingly familiar.

He felt some life in his hands and moved them, as the blood rushed into his veins, painfully, for the first time in what felt a lifetime. He lifted his hands to his eyes, shielding them from the surrounding whiteness. The darkness was comforting, welcome. He felt it envelope him in its warmth. It seemed familiar, and he could soon discern shapes from the shadows, and then give them names.

He saw a giant lie sleeping in the ocean of Time, still, lifeless and oblivious to the flow of Time around him. He strained to recognize the lifeless figure, but before he could do so, it morphed into a huge tower, extending from the depths of the Pataal to the heights of the Swarga, piercing the belly of the sky in a swift, painful thrust. The grey stone of the tower was cool to his touch. Several giant vultures circled the tower, and one of them swooped low enough for him to grab its talons. The bird – he guessed it was a bird – picked him up and began a near vertical ascent. The abrupt change of altitude made him dizzy, and he avoided the temptation to look below. Higher and higher the bird carried him, as if it knew exactly where he wanted to go. The wind roughed his exquisite features, and holding on to the creature’s talons in an awkward position, his arms ached, all eight of them. He wished this ride would end sooner. The creature, as if sensing his discomfiture, slowed its ascent to prepare for the final landing. By now they were well above the clouds, with a spotless blue sky above, and a sea of white mist below. With a piercing cry, the creature accelerated one last time, and they were over the top of the tower.

The bird placed him on the top after circling the perimeter twice, confirming the position to land. He let go of the bird and fell to the ground, on soft green grass. The vulture landed a few feet behind him, with a violent ruffle of feathers. It stood there, head bowed as if in the presence of his master. His eyes turned in the direction of the creature’s gaze, and he saw the lord of the tower.

The Rakshasa – he was sure it was one – stood with his back to them. It was hard to believe that this was the lord of such magnificent tower. It was woefully short, dark and ugly. As it turned to face them, one could not miss the pockmarks lining his face. It took a step in their direction, and then leaned on a spear, which stood at least a man's length over him. The tip of the spear, he noticed, was smeared with blood. Fresh blood, he noticed, as a thin trickle ran down the hands of the rakshasa. The rakshasa studied him for a moment or two. Its forehead, smeared with three lines of gray ash, creased into a network of ridges as he thought furiously. After a while, it nodded, obviously pleased to have solved a particularly difficult conundrum. To the creature, then, it simply said – “Kill him!”

At once he felt the creature lift him up and throw him over the side of the tower. His eight arms spun madly, trying to clutch the sides of the tower, but in vain. When the clouds cleared and he could see the earth rushing up to embrace him, he screamed.

The scream jolted him to alertness, and his hands left his face, leaving him unguarded against the bright light. He sat up and touched his arms. They were dark and stubby, unlike the exquisitely carved pair of fours he had possessed few moments ago. Also, he noticed with some disappointment, six were missing.

He sensed a movement to his left, and turned to face the visitor. The visitor walked, nay glided, towards him. She wore white robes and her hair, the color of the rain clouds, flowed around her. Like the Chandrama with her retinue of sakhis, the Meghas. There was something about her that was at once familiar, as if he had known her in his previous births. But her eyes - steely, smoldering orbs of fury – seemed a universe away.

She bent forward, her breath hot on his face, before mouthing a single sentence. “That was a very foolish thing you did, dear brother-in-law, VERY foolish!”

With that, she turned her back on him and left the room.

4

In the beginning, there was the Cosmic Egg, the Hiranyagarbha, bearing the Universal Flame of Agni in its womb. From it was born the Purusha, the first being, with the heavens and stars as his arms; Varuna the cosmic ocean, its body, into which were immersed the heavenly bodies. From the dust of his breath came Life, the ever present yearning of the nameless, the formless, to create yet another day, yet another world, before the Night came forth to consume it …

He saw the dance of creation and destruction, as he had on countless occasions before. His eyes, though, were closed. They had been so for the past thirteen days, from the Bhadrapada Amaavasyaa, or the first moonless night of the month of Bhadrapada, when he began his annual meditation to Varuna, the water-bearer. He sat, rather floated, on a tigerskin. He had fought and killed the man-eater himself. But this was eons ago.

Whence come the mighty Maruts, the Immortals? They ride with Indra, the slayer of Vritra. The Maruts ride the winged beasts, resplendent in their wealth, which is Infinite, born of the Infinite Himself. They praise the Lord of the Devas, who accepts the token sacrifices in His name, befriending the carriers of Vayu, the Wind!! Glory to the Maruts, glory to Indra!!

The hymns swept past like the rain around him. His saw the hymns that he had composed, the hymns that he was composing in his meditative state and the hymns that he would compose in the eons to come. Time and space lost their significance as he traveled through realms like Aditya, the Lord of Light.

Mitra-Varuni, the Voice spoke. He stopped, suspended in the Space-Time fabric like a feather on the still waters of a lake. It was his birth-name, the name he had long left behind, the name of his father, Mitra-Varuna. The source of the voice seemed to be a great banyan tree, which lay inside the heart of a sun, the color of Usha, the dawn.
Who speaks thus? Who uses my birth name, the name forgotten by all but myself?
He moved towards the tree. He stood at its base, the orange flames of the sun lapping gently at his feet. He looked up and saw gigantic bats hanging from a branch above his head.
What do you seek, creatures of the Night? Why do you hang thus, as if in repentance of some crime?
Move closer, son. Alas, our eyes are not what they were before…
He willed, and was soon abreast the great branch. It was then that he realized that the creatures were not bats, but humans. Horribly disfigured, rotting to their bones, they hung from the branches by their feet. They had extended their arms above/below their heads joined in the posture of the Namaskara, and around their ankles was bound the noose of Yama, the god of Death.
The one nearest to him spoke, in the voice that he instantly recognized. We are your forefathers, my son. I am your father, the one whose linage now ends due to your austerities. Without your offspring, we are condemned to the lowest regions of the Put, the land of the dead.
Father, how can I undo this fate? How can I stop you from being condemned to Put?
Beget an offspring, my son. That is the only way.
So be it father. Your linage shall continue with a son equal to thousands.

This too, was eons ago. He had found a suitable bride, a princess who chose to wear the garb of ascetics and marry him, and their son was indeed equal to a thousand men in knowledge and in strength. His task done, he had been approached by Shiva himself for a mission of greatest importance.

Kumbha-sambhava, the balance of the worlds lies on the tip of a needle. The Vindhya, in its arrogance, seeks to dwarf the Himalayas. We need a force to counter its rise. The Vindhya gives power to the Asuras from the south, and without a balance, Prithvi might be lost to us forever.

He had stopped the Vindhyas from growing. It had bowed to him in deference and he had requested the mountain to remain so till he returned back north. Of course, he never did. The mountain stood bowed, to this day, fulfilling its part of the bargain. He had built an ashram on the banks of the Godavari, to spend the rest of his life away from his people, a solitary guard in a remote outpost on the southern tip of the Arya domain.
As he lay in the state of Yogic nidra, he reached out to the periphery of the Godavari, gently caressing the water with his consciousness. With his yogic drishti, he saw six humans about to cross the river at a shallow crossing point. He had anticipated their arrival. He face relaxed into a beatific smile. Soon, a burden would be lifted from his shoulders. A burden he had carried for eons, waiting for a suitable successor to hand over. The moment was close now. A couple of days, at most. The humans had almost crossed over. They crossed one by one, a careful step at a time. Taking care to not allow their crossing be read through the changes in the leisurely current, by suspicious eyes downstream. They appeared to him not as flesh, but anthropomorphic fires of bluish flames. In one, he saw, the flame burnt brighter than the rest. He would be the ideal receptor. In another, he sensed, the brightness suppressed by an unseen hand. Not for long, he knew.
He tensed, sensing a disturbance in the otherwise peaceful scene. His dristhi scanned the horizon, seeking the cause of this disturbance. He would have missed it, had it not been, that at that same moment, the figure came up the hill the humans had stood two ghatikas ago. It crouched low on its limbs, four of them. It moved with the grace of a jungle cat, noiselessly. It was in heat, he guessed from the way it twitched every so often, sending a ripple down its jet black flanks. But of course, what he could not see was the color of its silken coat, now dry and prickly after three days of travel. He could not see its eyes, steely gray and fixed upon one of the humans. All he could see was a swirl of green and black, the definitive signature of a Rakshasa.

5
They rested after crossing the river, gathering their belongings and letting their clothes dry. Lakshman laid out his possessions, a couple of steel knives forged from the finest Kosalan steel and equipped with fine ivory handles from the eastern provinces, a crude shortbow in place of the usual longbow (a longbow was visible even from a distance), his sword (that he insisted on taking along), a few pieces of flint (to strike fire when needed), a handful of arrows, all spread out on a thick cloak, which served the dual purpose of concealing the weapons and guarding him from the rains. He hung his dhoti on a shrub nearby, wearing only a loincloth and the sacred thread across his torso. The rest of the party had more or less similar collection of personal belongings that they had laid out in their vicinity. He made a cursory observation of their surroundings, hoping to find Ratnakar. They had hardly spoken since their stop on the top of the hill before crossing the river. He could barely make out human features in the dark, but he guessed it was indeed Ratnakar, in a deep conversation with the latest addition to their group - the tribal called Shirpa.

They had met Shirpa on their descent towards the Godavari, and he had readily accepted to be their guide on the rest of the journey. Of everyone in their group, only Ratnakar seemed to understand the particular dialect that he spoke, and after numerous verbal exchanges, all Ratanakar had said was - “He says he will take us to our destination.”

Lakshman had been wary of trusting the newcomer, and he followed the pair closely, for the sake of Ratnakar’s safety. But Ratnakar seemed oblivious to this fact, and even if he noticed Lakshman’s discomfort, he did not publicly acknowledge it. Even now, he noticed, they were engaged in some serious conversation, with Shirpa doing the most of the talking and Ratnakar playing a patient audience, interjecting only to clarify a doubt or to ask something new from the tribal.

Shirpa was not the first non-Aryan that Lakshman had met, but the man’s demeanor had puzzled him from the onset. His thoughts automatically went to the chief Guha, and the differences between the two amused him. While Guha and his tribesmen were hunters and well built, Shirpa was thin, almost scrawny, a living testament to the region’s scarce natural resources. He had not welcomed them instantly, he recalled, and only after learning that Ratnakar could speak his dialect had he opened up the conversation. He had then led them to a shallow stretch in the riverbed, and the six had crossed the river silently, one man at a time. He did not carry any weapons on him, and had never heard of the Rakshasas in the east, or their long conflict with Rama’s band.

A loud rumble from his belly brought home the stark reality of the journey. Food had been an irregular commodity, the land offering a meagre handful to the travelers. He saw a couple of his companions leave their resting positions and join Ratnakar. He gave them quick instructions and they left with Shirpa, melting into the darkness before he realized that they were gone. Ratnakar looked at Lakshman and beckoned him over.

By the time Lakshman joined him, Ratnakar had made a small fire with the some branches and a solid piece that smelled very similar to horse dung.

“No Rakshasa would dare to cross the Godavari, my prince. We are quite safe here. A little fire would help roast the meat.” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he said this. As if on cue, Lakshman let out another rumble from his stomach, this time quite audible. Ratnakar and Lakshman looked at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“But where’s the meat, my dear friend?”

“That’s what Nilkanth, Srinath and the Abhir have gone to fetch. He said there is a nest of rabbits nearby. If we are lucky, they may catch a couple or more.”

“The … Abhir …?”

“Hmm” Ratnakar warmed his hands at the flames, “yes, that is the name of his tribe. The Abhirs are nomadic shepherds, never learnt to settle and farm. Some, like those on the western coast, are traders who trade with the lands beyond the ocean.” Ratnakar made a quick gesture of touching his cheeks by the palm of his right hand. It was a popular superstition amongst the Arya societies that crossing the ocean brought bad luck to the people. The act of touching the cheeks was supposed to ward off the ill luck brought about by even speaking about the same. Strange, Lakshman thought, he shuns the norms of the very same people whose blind faith he embraces. Ratnakar continued, “this one, Shirpa, he works for a trader too. He was returning with a trading party from the north, from the lands of the Jats. He decided to hunt a few rabbits along the way. Take some fur for his wife,” Ratnakar’s smile broadened.

Lakshman stoked the fire with his sword and sat down beside Ratnakar. Ratnakar’s eyes glinted in the firelight, and Lakshman was sure he caught a brief glimpse of some deep sorrow in them as he spoke.

“The Abhirs are old, very old. They have been living on these plains for hundreds of years, and they have had brief contacts with the Aryans. They live off the land, hunting and gathering what they can find. Their village lies on the path to the ashram. Shirpa said it would take us another couple of days to get there. His party went ahead by the same route.”

“They are truly ancient peoples, my prince. They do not possess the science and magic of the sages, but they honor the Prithvi in their own way.”

“You said that the Aryans have met them before. Did they not try to teach them farming? Did they not try to teach them the Vedas? Did no one try to build a bridge between our societies?”

Ratnakar spent some time in silence before answering Lakshman’s question.

“It has been tried before. But as you can see, it has failed, though not completely.”

Lakshman did not understand what Ratnakar meant by that, and would have wanted to carry this interesting conversation further, had it not been that the trio returned, almost jumping out from the darkness and into their view.

The Abhir held out a couple of fairly large rabbits and another animal that Lakshman did not recognize. He was so hungry that it would not have mattered to know anyways. The party got to work quickly, skinning their prey and gathering more wood for fires. Lakshman seized this opportunity to return back to his position and wrap his dhoti around him. By the time he had returned, four pieces of meat were sizzling on the makeshift fire, which was now half a man high.

As they sat down to eat, Lakshman noticed the Abhir staring at him. He managed a weak smile, pointed to the meat and said “Accha hain!” Its good!

Shirpa tried to say something, but stammered, trying to find the best way to phrase his thoughts.

“Tom … Lakh-mann ??”

Lakshman could not make the head or tail of what he said. He looked towards Ratnakar for a possible interpretation, but Ratnakar was busy tearing the flesh of a rabbit leg, seemingly unaware of the conversation, but thoroughly enjoying himself. Shirpa repeated himself twice.

“Tom”, he pointed towards Lakshman, “Lakh-mann?”

It took several moments for Lakshman to realize what Ratnakar had meant by saying that not all attempts to build bridges had failed. The Abhirs had indeed assimilated some high Sanskrit into their language, though not giving up their dialects altogether. Shirpa was addressing him as “tom”, a derivation most likely of “twam”, the second person pronoun from Sanskrit. His vocal chords had not been trained for the complex mixed consonants of the Arya tongue, and he approximated Lakshman’s name to the best that he could.

He smiled back at the Abhir, nodding and acknowledging the salutation. Shirpa raised his hands, with the piece of meat that he was holding, to his forehead, his way of greeting them.

They finished the dinner and drank some water from the river. Shirpa and Lakshman had managed to convey some basic information through broken sentences, and Lakshman observed surprisingly, that he was able to understand most of what the Abhir had said towards the end.

He lay down on the cloak, and would have slept, had the silence of the night not been broken by a loud voice. Lakshman looked towards the fire.

Shirpa was seated in front of the fire, and he was singing a song in his loud, yet sonorous voice. Lakshman was not sure if he could understand the words, but the notes that flowed into the night seemed to touch a chord of melancholy. They seemed to speak of his separation from his beloved, and his return back to her.

Lakshman went to sleep, as the notes from the shepherd’s song washed over his senses like a deep lullaby.

6

Kausalya stood on the balcony, the wind beating on her face like a crazed banshee. Far away, from the west, it carried the smell of the first rains on a thirsty land. Devi, she sent a prayer to her guardian deity, Sri. The rains have come late this year, she thought. The farmers had already petitioned for some aid from the royal treasury, and that would indeed be the first thing she would instruct Sumantra to do in the morning. She looked back into the room, the chill of the night now punctuated by the dull heavy breathing of the sleeping queen.

“Queen”, ah yes !! The painful realization that there was some unfinished business in this whole affair. Three years had passed since Dasa’s death, an year of official mourning for the kingdom and two extra years of mourning for the kin. The laws recommended holding off important familial events till the three years had passed. Posthumous distribution of property and rights amongst the survivors of the dead was not an easy task, and the three years served as a window of transition for the next generation to stabilize the family before taking any major step, financial or otherwise. It also served to weed out the ‘black sheep’, who were not interested in the welfare of the family, but only in the monetary benefits of the whole affair. The state appointed impartial officers of law who would make the proceedings as easy for the family as possible. As the regent of Ayodhya, she had the personal responsibility of looking after the surviving members of the Suryavansha clan. And what a fine job I am doing, she sighed.

In her attempt to bring back Rama, she had also lost her other two sons. The entire Suryavansha clan was dissipated, torn apart from within. She thought of the Second Queen, whose foolish ambitions and power games had finally taken a serious turn.

From somewhere in the city, from some dark alley far away, she heard the faint cry of a watchman making his late night rounds - “jaagtey raho-ooooo!!” Be alert, be aware. It was getting late, she must really go to sleep now. That thought brought on the final wave of fatigue, the last assault whose pressure she could not stall any longer. It was Bhadrapada Amavasya, the new moon night of the month of Bhadrapada. Tomorrow, the judgement shall pass. Tomorrow!!!

The council of ministers had held off the discussion on Kaikeyi’s official status as the queen for the past three years. Kausalya had dreaded the day when she would face Kaikeyi in the Royal Hall. Their last encounter had been near fatal to both of them, thanks to the machinations of Manthara. Even the faint memory of that encounter disturbed her mental health.

She tiptoed out of the chamber, her sudden arrival catching the napping maid servant unawares. She left the maid servant with instructions to report any unusual occurrence to her immediately, and started the long walk back to her own palace.

Kausalya’s palace was a good half a mile away from Kaikeyi’s, with splendid gardens in between. The king had obviously wanted the relationship between his queens to bloom like the flowers planted in their midst. How ironic, she observed, that it was his death which finally brought them together.

She halted on the front steps of the palace, remembering the last time she had stood here. It had been a grand welcome for the king, returning with his newly wedded bride. The entire city of Ayodhya had turned out to receive their hero. She remembered the shy and demure bride, who was at once afraid and also curious about the man she had been wedded to. She had been received on the steps by Guru Vashishtha, with Sumantra and the rest of the ministers close behind. Kaikeyi had not come out to receive her, and she understood that perfectly. One does not accept another woman into ones life with a smile on the face. More so a warrior-queen like Kaikeyi. If half of the stories she had heard about the queen were true, then Kausalya was looking towards a relationship of lifelong strife with the queen. Fear not, she had thought. The Banglars were famous for their sweet words and friendly manner, no doubt a direct result of the amount of rosgullas and misti-doi they consumed. She smiled involuntarily. This had been her childhood joke with her friends, her sakhis. She had been sure that she would win the heart of the queen whom her husband had wedded right off the battlefield.

Her confidence had ebbed the following morning, when she went to meet the queen herself, on Dasa’s recommendation. To her surprise, she had not even been allowed into the queen chambers, stopped at the gates by an old hunchback. Manthara, the word hissed on her warm breath as the encounter replayed in her mind. Her head ached from lack of sleep, and she decided it was time for her to actually get the sleep that she had wanted.

As she walked the gardens, the guards on the night shift bowed as she passed, a couple of them began to walk behind her, keeping sufficient distance to allow her the privacy of her thoughts, but enough to protect her should the need be.

The stars were twinkling above her, the wind reminding her of that last night she had spent with her husband, looking up at the same stars. She brushed aside a tear, and began to walk faster, if only to spare the guards another bit of palace gossip.

She stopped suddenly, as she came face to face with a broken down, ruined structure at the boundary of the extent of Kaikeyi’s palace grounds. It was a contrast to the surrounding flora, a dying relic of a forgotten past. This had been Manthara’s quarters, and they had been ordered to be demolished after the witch had committed suicide. The image of the spattered remains, blood and guts mixed with her feces (she had certainly soiled herself as she fell) almost made her feel sick. Manthara had bound the walls together by some magic, and no amount of human effort had seemed to make a crack in them. It had finally been up to the preceptor himself to use his Brahman shakti to move the walls. They had been successful in demolishing half of the structure so far. Most of the work had been done, and she could see the four supporting columns jutting out into the sky, as if raising their heads in a continual defiance. Manthara may be dead, she thought, but her shadow lives on. Even today, what remained of her quarters was a dark reminder, looming over their lives like an unspoken disaster waiting to happen.

Manthara !!!! It all came down to that old witch !! How cleverly had she duped even the likes of Guru Vashishtha, and carried out her inhuman activities right under the nose of a Brahmarishi! How deviously had she schemed to tear the Suryavansha clan apart from within, using her ward as a perfect cover in the process. Kausalya was by now pretty sure that most of the stories about Kaikeyi had most certainly been rumors planted by the witch herself. Was it Kaikeyi, whose wanton behavior had provided the best cover to the spy, or was it that the rumors had fueled the excesses, demanding Kaikeyi to behave accordingly? The Kaikeyi she had seen for the twenty years before Dasa’s death, and the Kaikeyi after, had been as different as night and day. Had Kaikeyi really changed to that degree? Or had her true nature merely blossomed after the veil of Manthara’s influence had been removed? This was one question she could not answer, and one that she desperately sought to, for on this one answer hinged her decision, both as a regent, and as a sister.

7

Lakshman woke up to the sound of a light flute. He rubbed his eyes and looked about. It was not yet sunrise, though the early colors of the dawn had encroached upon the still darkness of the eastern horizon. A quick scan of the area revealed that most of their party had been up well before he had woken. The mood was considerably lax today, unlike their previous mornings, where they would swiftly pack up and be on their way, away from prying Rakshasa eyes. The movements were unhurried, relaxed, as if the travel was already done and they had reached their destination. The change made Lakshman uneasy. He looked towards Ratnakar, and found that he had been staring at Lakshman himself, as if reading his thoughts. Ratnakar gave him a wide smile and nodded in the direction of the river.

Lakshman joined Ratnakar on the river bank, after having performed his ablutions. Ratnakar was smoking a tight roll of a strange smelling substance, wound up in leaves with the help of raw bark-strings.

“I never knew you smoked dhuni,” Lakshman made himself comfortable beside Ratnakar.

“Its not dhuni,” Ratnakar paused to let out some thick white smoke from his lungs. “It is the local tobacco grown in some parts of this land. Its much stronger than your run-of-the-mill dhuni powder from the cities. Not for the weak hearted, my prince!” he chuckled. “I do not smoke dhuni, but this”, he held up the thin roll “this is something I would not pass by.”

“Where is the Abhir?” Lakshman enquired in an almost casual tone, trying not to give much away.

“He has gone to fetch some fowl and fruit for breakfast. You do not trust him, do you?” Ratnakar inhaled deeply.

Lakshman was silent for some time, staring at the tip of Ratnakar’s roll, now burning brightly.

“I can understand your distrust, my prince. The last three years have not been kind on anyone amongst us. Why, before the first battle at Chitrakut, would you have trusted me and my men so readily? But I waste my words. If there is one thing I have learnt with Lord Rama, it is that the trust of a warrior is won by deeds, not words. Let Shirpa’s deeds win your trust for him. I shall not interfere anymore.” He rose to leave back to the camp.

“Ratnakar,” Lakshman called out after him. “Why do the Rakshasas not dare to cross the Godavari? Why are you so sure that we are safe here?”

Ratnakar flashed a big smile. “You will learn soon, my prince. In a couple of day at most!!”

Lakshman muttered something about not being fair, but the words were lost on Ratnakar, who caught sight of Shirpa returning back to the camp, his hands overflowing with two fowl and a bunch of bananas.

Ratnakar and Nilakanth went ahead to relieve the Abhir of some of his heavy baggage. Srinath and Lakshman went looking for firewood to cook the birds. It had not rained for the third consecutive day now, and already, the mood in the party was quite upbeat, unlike the wet nights spent huddling in their cloaks, waiting for the incessant hammering of Varuna to stop.

Having said their respective prayers, the Abhir included, Lakshman noted with amusement, they consumed the food and began their journey. They had enjoyed the bananas in particular. Unlike the green-yellow-skinned fruit in Ayodhya, these were relatively bite sized (and Ratnakar did indeed eat one whole fruit in a bite) with thick dark green skin. They were also sweeter and juicier. Lakshman soon forgot about his conversation with Ratnakar as he ate the ripe fruit with gusto.

He noted that they were making decent progress, covering a lot of ground following Shirpa. Having a guide with intimate knowledge of the terrain was certainly helping them, for a bulk of their own time had earlier been spent going in circles, or towards dead-ends, a result of being in unfamiliar surroundings.

The plains ended a couple of miles from the bank of the river, and they were now walking into a thinly spread forest with shrubs and trees which offered some shade in an otherwise sparse landscape. Shirpa knew where he was going, for the others had a hard time keeping up with him, and he paused every now and then, egging them on.

The forest grew denser as they proceeded onwards, and Lakshman had some difficulty gauging his bearings in the dim shadows of densely packed banyan trees. The trees were at least hundreds, if not thousand, years old. A great one reminded him of the tree under which Rama and Sita had tied a sacred thread and rested before entering the dark forest. If seemed as if that great one, in his longing to meet Ganga, had left his whole family behind, at the banks of the Godavari. So thick and stout were the branches from the trees that it was sometimes difficult to differentiate between the trunk and the branches themselves. A variety of birds seemed to make this place their home, their chirping and cooing filling the air with a strange sweetness. Lakshman took a deep breath to fill his lungs with the fresh air, while maintaining his pace with the Abhir.

The sun had reached the zenith of his journey, and the band stopped near a brook to eat. Fruits were plentiful, and their meal mainly included the small bananas that seemed ubiquitous in these parts, followed by some dark bittersweet berries that colored the tongue deep indigo.

“Mynaa … Dongarchi Mynaa” Shirpa explained. The name literally meant “The Mountain Mynaa”, a small blue bird found mostly on the hills, and famed for its bittersweet call. Lakshman recalled at least a dozen Sanskrit poets or playwrights who had sung odes to the bird, often using its call as a metaphor for separation between lovers. Shirpa held another handful in front of him, which he politely declined. The fruit left an aftertaste, as also a sticky coating on his tongue and palate. He washed it off with scoops of fresh water from the brook, and wiped his hands on his cloak, now folded and carried on his left shoulder, while on his right rested his bow.

Lakshman had gotten used to the shade and coolness of the forest, when a window of light burst open ahead unexpectedly. He had to squint his eyes to adjust to the change in light, and it was a moment or two before he realized that they were at the periphery of a large clearing.

The clearing was at least ten miles wide on either side, from where he stood. In a distance, he could see smoke from some huge fire, probably a yagna-kunda, he imagined. The clearing was populated in the center, with huts made of wood and vine, and plastered with mud. By now, he realized that this was indeed Shirpa’s village. The Abhir was visibly excited and led them eagerly into the village.

The first sign of life came in the form of little children, playing with abandon in front of a hut, when they noticed the strangers entering the settlement. They scampered away behind a door, some of the more bolder ones of the group peering back from the windows at the approaching party. Lakshman smiled at the one nearest to him, and the boy sunk back below the window, with only his eyes visible from outside. But even then, Lakshman could make out that he was smiling back at him.

A few inquisitive faces appeared in the doorways, and as some people recognized Shirpa, they came forward to receive him. Shirpa led them to the a hut in the center of the settlement - it was clearly the hut of someone important. He guessed it was their headman. The smoke, he also noticed, was not from a yagna-kunda, the sacrificial fire, but a huge bonfire that also served as the communal kitchen. Women and men were seen working together to cook the meal for the entire village.

Shirpa whispered something in Ratnakar’s ears, to which the latter gave a solemn nod. The Abhir scampered into the hut, and Lakshman could make out pieces of conversation. He came out almost as quickly as he went in, and stood bowed, waiting for the occupant of the hut to receive the guests. There was some shuffling of footsteps and the hut door opened to reveal the headman of the village. Lakshman noticed Ratnakar bowing, and he and the others of their party also bowed down their heads to receive their host. Lakshman was surprised to hear a soft voice call out Ratnakar’s name, and was then astonished when his own was spoken. He looked up to greet their host, but words failed to materialize as he sought hard to come to terms with the identity of their host.

The ‘headman’ of Shirpa’s village was a woman.

8

The black stone heaved and groaned, its cries filling the evening skies. The outer surface bubbled and frothed like a hideous replica of some deliquescent living tissue. It had fought a long way, from the bottom of the mountain to the very top where it had been forced upon a precipice. Birds of prey circled above, screeching and shrieking, anticipating the kill. The stone - it was no longer the hard, tough foundation of the lair of Rakshasas. It had turned into a viscous, frothy creature of darkness, reeking of the dead - the long forgotten; and the rancid orgies it had witnessed, and at times, been a part of. It groaned, as if being stabbed by some twisting dagger, reaching into its belly and twisting its guts. The pain, Oh the pain!! It stumbled upon itself, a cacophony of strange sounds. Guttural snarls and rasping shrieks, sighs of defeat and the rage of defiance. It twisted and turned, moving back as it was being pushed by some magical force. The stone was alive! Alive with the souls of hundreds and thousands who had died in its inescapable labyrinths. Rakshasas, Pisacas, Uragas, Yakshas, and yes, the occasional human. Their souls formed a shifting kaleidoscope on its exterior, and from afar it seemed like a thick jelly, boiling from inside. Death was near, the spirits of darkness within the stone could feel its onset at every step. A last fight against the impending doom, a futile gesture, it knew. But it would not give up so easily. With a deafening roar, the stone lifted up its mass like a huge serpent, standing at least a hundred feet like the legendary Vasuki himself. A mouth-like orifice appeared near its top end, followed by two pairs of sharp fangs, smoking with the most deadly toxin. The stone beast had no eyes, for it had no need of them right now. It could recognize its prey by odor alone. It had done this numerous times, and today would be no exception. A hundred steps … ninety … eighty … Now! It reared to strike out, when the next wave hit it with the force of a thousand hurricanes.

Straining under some unimaginable pressure, its insides bulged and burst at regular intervals, spurting forth lumps of blazing innards and more of the gooey viscous amalgam. Molten lava poured forth on the earth as the stone bled under the latest onslaught. The blood - dark, viscous and alive, wriggled into loops, spherical globules and elongated blobs, running in circles like blind reptilian larvae, seeking their progenitor. The rock raised its numerous heads in unison, braying and grunting under the pressure. It had lost ...

The rock shrunk away from the solitary figure standing atop a dazzling ivory platform, now walking towards it with deliberate, measured footsteps. The gait was unmistakably feminine, but it belied the wrath and power that lay in those fair, slender hands. Mandodari walked towards the shrinking mass of black stone with an icy resolve. Today it would end! Yes, today, the last remaining ruins of her husband’s dark regime would be sent back to Paataal, the Netherworld, and she would begin the rebuilding of Lanka. Her Lanka.

She wore long white robes, her black tresses loose on her shoulders. She carried a scepter in her hands, a long staff made of pristine crystal, upon which rested a milky white sphere studded with sparkling diamonds. The sphere emitted a milky glow enveloping about twenty paces in all directions. Only a closer observation would reveal that this was actually a shield, a force field around her. It was also the reason the black beast was fleeing away from her.

She had waited long enough for this day. From the day Vibhishana had brought home her comatose husband, Lanka had been thrown into a perpetual turmoil. The Asura tribes had risen in open revolt against the Pulastya clan, threatening to wrest the control of the island and thereby, the entrance to the Netherworld. The responsibility of the entire kingdom and the welfare of her clansfolk had fallen on her shoulders. Her sons had been of no help whatsoever, helpless babes in the absence of their powerful father, who was now lying under the very earth she stood upon.

The revolts had grown bloody, and she had watched from the sidelines as one pretentious contender after another fell prey to the political machinations of their opponents. The Rakshasas were known for their blood thirsty nature, and she knew that they would not disappoint her. She had been right. The inter clan rivalries had kept the generals busy, and more importantly, kept her off their calculations. A particularly audacious contender had tried to force his way into her chambers. The last she heard, they were still looking for his body.

When the bloodbath had almost ended, she decided to step in. Lanka, and its master, had always known her as the ever obedient wife, the pawn in the ring. It was time to change that. It was time to assert her birth identity. To put an end to the unending night that had enveloped the paradise that was Lanka. To rejuvenate the land, its flora and fauna, to purify the very air that had been infused by the spirit of the Lord of Lanka. Today, it would end ...

She raised the staff over her head and pointed the sphere at the retreating mass of stone. Closing her eyes, she began chanting the last portion of an arcane mantra she had learnt a long time ago.

A long time ago … She tried to shut out the shadows of the past. Her father, she remembered. She would need him soon. Soon …

As she recited the mantras, the sphere began to shine with an eerie glow. Swirls of blue and red streaks began to dance on its surface. The glow spread out from the staff to her hands and then around her body. Her eyes shone with the light of Brahman energy that was being tunneled from the ether, through her body, and to the apex of the crystal scepter that was now a fireball of all imaginable colors. The swirls increased in their pace as the mantras reached the final crescendo, and her voiced, magnified a hundredfold by the Brahman energy, poured forth with intensity to shatter the hardest diamonds.

She uttered the last syllable of the mantra, the cosmic Om, the breathing life-force of the Universe. A cold wind escaped her lips with the last syllable, drenching the black rock with the force of Brahman. The dark beast was now writhing and sliding upon the slope of the mountain where they stood, tar like ichor oozing from its body. Mandodari flicked the staff with her right hand, and a ball of fire shot out from its tip. It hit the rock with the impact of a thousand thunderbolts. The rock beast staggered under the blow, as its constituent rocks fell apart. The fire formed a magical ring around it, binding it in a mandala. Mandodari cast a scornful glance at the beast, and raised her finger in the direction of the summit above their heads.

The rock beast was lifted up from the ground, and it flew up a hundred feet. It hung at the zenith of its trajectory for a suspended moment, and the fire surrounding it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The beast floated midair for that moment, the spirits inside its body howling in desperation and unable to halt its death. And then, it fell headlong into the mouth of the volcano that was the gate to the Netherworld itself.

She stepped back and studied the terra-forma around her. The landscape around the mountain was bathed in bright sunlight, the hues of green and violets, reds and grays dancing on the wings of an evening zephyr. The colors brought to life the land as far as the eye could see, and there was not a single, barren black stone on the face of Lanka, not a single blemish on the face of Prithvi.

Her first task had been done. And now, she had the matter of her brother-in-law to deal with.

9
Lakshman looked up to face the woman on the doorstep. She was old, at least a hundred years, he guessed. Fair as the chandrama on a full moon night, her face reminded him of some other that he could not identify at the present. Her toothless smile filled his heart with warmth, and he had a sudden urge to lay his head on her lap, and sleep while she narrated the tales of long ago.

Ratnakar made a coughing sound which brought him back to the present. He looked around towards his mates, and they were all looking at him. As the leader of their group, he was expected to pay his respects to their host before anyone else.

Lakshman stepped ahead and touched her feet.

Paay lagu Maa. Salutations at your feet, O Revered Mother.

The head-woman touched his forehead with her withered hands, and a bolt of lightning passed from her fingers through Lakshman’s hair. He moved back a step and his hands flew to their familiar pockets where his weapons lay, on reflex, when Ratnakar held him by his sides to steady his rise.

“Its the cloak, my prince,” Ratnakar whispered, pointing to the cloak Lakshman was wearing. Lakshman realized with relief that the lightning sparks were probably a result of static charge build-up due to his woolen cloak. He also realized, to his embarrassment, that others had removed their cloaks and folded them while he had been staring at the old lady. He stepped away hastily, pushing the ivory handles of his favorite knives back into their sheath, flustered by his faux pas. There was something about the old woman that seemed very familiar to him, but he could not pinpoint it right away. Something which drew him to her, in an inexplicable way. He brushed aside the thoughts and backed away a couple of paces to his original position.

The head woman smiled at him and turned to her side, talking in hushed tones to a strikingly attractive woman who was cradling a baby in her hands. The woman nodded briskly and went inside.

The head woman motioned with her right hand for them to come and sit in the open space in front of the hut. Lakshman noticed that the aangan had been scrubbed and cleaned with cow dung. The eastern portion was a vegetable patch where he could see several common vegetable planted in neat rows. A neat patch of tulsi plants bordered the northern part of the courtyard. The tulsi (mint) was known for its medicinal properties, and was revered amongst the Aryan nations as a manifestation of Lakshmi herself. For as Vishnu preserved the balance in the Universe though the path of spiritual cleansing of the soul, Lakshmi maintained the physical balance by cleansing the body in the form of the juice in the tulsi leaves. Lakshman sent a silent prayer to the Goddess as he sat down on the cool earth.

The old lady had settled on a earthen seat, and Lakshman noticed that it took her considerable effort to do so. The Aryan etiquette called that the guest do not speak unless the host welcome them formally, which had not happened so far. Lakshman thought that it was natural for the non-Aryans to have different customs than the Aryans. He noticed that his companions were also waiting for her to speak. He looked around but could not see Shirpa. Maybe his eagerness to meet his wife, got the better of him. The thought amused Lakshman, and at the next instant, sent a pang of separation through his heart.

After what seemed an eternity, the woman finally spoke. It was not only the manner in which she spoke, but also her words, that caught Lakshman and everybody else off guard. Her voice was soft, but with a sharp edge. The voice of someone wont to giving orders, and seeing them executed. She had been a warrior once, he thought.

“Ratnakar,” she spoke the name as if she had known him for eons. Ratnakar bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Nilakanth, Srinath, Abhay,” she turned to each of them as she said their names, oblivious to their surprise. She turned at last to Lakshman and her face broke into a smile. A warm smile of a grandmother on seeing her grandchild, or a sly conspiratorial smile of a shared secret - Lakshman did not know. “Lakshman.”

His heart stopped for a moment as her eyes studied him with a measured gaze. What was happening to him? Why did this woman seem so terrifying, and at once so familiar? Who was she? He was sure he had seen her somewhere, but right now, he could hardly recall when or in what circumstance. As if to answer his query, she asked him the first question.

“How is my dear Janaki?”

The realization hit Lakshman like a honey-golden ray of the sun peeping through an overcast sky. He could see a likeness, now that he thought of it. The years may have withered the features, but the spark in the eyes remained. The word Janaki had been the clue, the key to the puzzle. In a flash, he was standing at the entrance of the great hall of Maharaja Janak, in the palace at Mithila. But it was not the great hall nor its architectural wonders that he was interested in. His eyes travelled above the arch and towards the ceiling, where a bright fresco depicted a scene from a time when they had first visited Mithila.

King Janaka was seated on a wooden seat in a simple garb of ochre dhoti and angavastra. Beside him, on an ornately carved aasan, sat his father, King Dasaratha of Kosala, in his most festive garb, wearing his wealth with an easy detachment of the ascetic. Around them, the hall was packed with the citizens of Mithila, and from the lands near and far. Multi colored pataakaas, triangular pieces of cloth tied on a string, adorned the ceiling of the hall in the fresco. A peep from the entrance and Lakshman would have seen their remnants still hanging from the dome, colored patches of varying shades on the white limestone of the ceiling - fistfuls of color against the puffs of cottony clouds. Hundreds of sadhus sat cross-legged in the lotus position on the floor. Higher ranked rishis sat in a perfect circle around the floor on wooden seats. Lakshman could almost hear the rhythmic chanting of shlokas coming from the assembly, and it involuntarily brought a shiver up his spine. He scanned the faces of the sadhus, the rishis, the multitude, his father, and finally King Janak himself. They were all focussed on a solitary figure standing in the middle of the great hall.

His eyes travelled the entire breadth of the fresco to rest upon the only standing figure in the whole picture. It was a woman. She was clad in the clothes of an ascetic, homespun white robes and a shawl draped over her shoulders. A Vidushi, or ‘woman of knowledge.’ Her eyes blazed with the same spark that Lakshman could see even now. Her hair was tied into a bun, and the artist, in a telling testament of his artistic license, had painted a rather hastily drawn halo around her head. Lakshman remembered Shatrughan (and later, the princesses) had found it amusing that the lady had tied her hair in two buns, one black and the other pearly white (he was only eight then, right?). She was standing before the assembly, and it seemed that the entire assembly was hanging on to every word that she spoke. He knew she was the only one who had challenged, and then defeated his uncle in a philosophical duel. Her name was a legend amongst the Gurukuls of the North. A name which evoked respect and mystique, at the same time.

The realization that he had indeed spent a few nights on her lap, listening to stories from long ago, brought a faint smile on his face. The corners of his lips curved a bit more, and then widened into a beaming grin as he put together the last piece of the puzzle.

“Sulabha-Maa,” he whispered, matching the twinkle in her eyes as she sat there, watching him solve the riddle that she had posed ever so subtly.

10

Kausalya paused for moment before entering the public hall. Already, she could feel the waves of curious murmuring and anxious breaths crashing on the tall walls of the great hall. The hall had filled up well before the day’s proceedings were about to begin. There were rumors that people had come from all the parts of the land, some even from the far west, from Kekeya itself, to witness the trial. She knew that the Kekeyan ambassador had arrived, he had paid her a visit in the early hours of the morning, interrupting her puja, she recalled with annoyance. But then, the Kekeyan’s were a rowdy lot. Growing up in the harsh landscape did have its downfalls.

Her feet had stopped a few paces from the entrance to the hall. All through the sleepless hours of the night, after she had returned from Kaikeyi’s palace, she had thought about the proceedings that lay ahead. She knew that the fate of Ayodhya hinged on her decision. She would decide for the entire state, for all of its populace, the fate of its Second, or soon to be ex-, Queen Kaikeyi.

She stepped into the hall as the herald brought the assembly to order. Every eye followed her as she walked to the Sunwood throne, bent forward in a respectful namaskar, and then turned around and bowed to the court, before taking her place on a wooden seat to the right of the throne.

Mahamantri Sumantra then stepped forward and addressed the court. “We now start the proceedings of the day”, he opened a scroll and read aloud. “Today, on the Krishnapaksha Amavasya of Bhadrapada, in the third year from the day of Aja-putra Dasaratha’s passing into the Brahman, the court convenes to hear the trial of Kaikeyi,” his voice faltered for an instant, “the Kekeya Princess, and” he was struggling with the last part, “Second Queen of Late Maharaj Aja-putra Dasaratha. The defendant may now be produced before the court.”

An anxious silence followed his words, broken only by the footsteps of guards now approaching the court. Kaikeyi entered the court, escorted by two guards on either side. Her head hung low, her gaze never lifting beyond her next step. Her entrance was greeted by jeers and boos, the former from the Kosalans, and the latter by the strong Kekayan contingent who had arrived to watch the trial - for they believed that their princess was innocent and framed. An agitated member of the audience broke though the crowds and threw a shoe at Kaikeyi. He was quickly nabbed by the palace guards and taken away from the hall. A commotion broke out, and the guards moved to place themselves between the Kekeyan and others, to prevent further unruly incidents.

It was a while before the court was brought to order once again, and an uneasy silence loomed over the entire multitude, as the trial began.

The representative of the court stood up and bowed to the council and Kausalya. “Your Majesty, we have gathered here to deliberate and pronounce judgment on the defendant, who has been introduced to the court by our Mahamantri.” He bowed in the direction of Sumantra.

Oh no, the minister thought, this could take a long time! He recognized the representative. He was an old-school practitioner of Law, often known for his draconian demands of punishment for the accused.

“The court charges the accused of treason against the state of Kosala, instrumenting the demise of our late Maharaja Dasaratha, and conspiring to break the royal family -- first by sending Princes Rama and Lakshman to exile, and then driving Bharat and Shatrughan out of Ayodhya.”

“How does the defendant plead?”

All eyes were on Kaikeyi as they waited for her reply. But she stood motionless, like a granite statue of a beautiful maiden, chained at hands, her hair falling freely over her face, her gaze never wavering from the spot two feet in front of her feet.

The representative repeated the question, twice, and failing to get any response, declared that the accused would plead guilty. The crowd drew a collective breath, and Kausalya felt her own heart skip a beat. Kaikeyi was as immobile as ever.

“With the permission of the council, I would now like to present the evidence against the defendant.”

Sumantra nodded in the direction of the prosecutor, and the first witness was called forward to testify.

Witnesses from Kaikeyi’s palace were called out first. Kausalya saw how the prosecutor was shrewdly building up his case, in the order of increasingly important testimonies. The last witness was the maid that had impersonated Kaikeyi, under the influence of Manthara’s sorcery. By the end of this session, the entire council was at the edge of their seats, listening intently to every word being spoken.

As the representative went through the events of that fateful morning, Kausalya clearly heard more than a few muffled sobs from the audience. She steeled her heart and let his words escape around her. She had no intention of reliving that morning again. When he had reached the part where Dasaratha had issued the divorce, his voiced found an edge, as if they were his own spiteful feelings towards Kaikeyi.

“And hence, respected members of the council, I appeal to you that the accused be dealt with as harshly as possible. To serve as an example for those who would dare to succumb to the dark side again, and thereby threaten the security of Aryavarta. I ask for the penalty of death - to be crushed under the feet of a mad elephant!” The prosecutor finished with a flourish and returned to his seat.

Kausalya was taken aback by the concluding statement from the prosecutor. She looked around and saw that even minister Jabali seemed to be astonished by the concluding remarks. The crowd was buzzing in anticipation of what they would hear next, and the entire Kekeyan contingent was on their feet, shouting derogatory slogans against Kosala and the royal family itself.

Mahamantri Sumantra rose from his seat and walked slowly towards the edge of the podium. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past days. This was not a task he wanted to perform, but it was his Dharma as the presiding official to perform his duties, unpleasant though they may be. He unrolled the official scroll and began to read, his voice betraying his stoic features.

“The court now gives the defendant, Kaikeyi, a chance to defend the accusations of the state. By the laws of our land, we will give the defendant a fair listening.” He sat down and looked towards Kausalya for a moment.

Kaikeyi seemed not to have heard him at all. She stood as she had for the past half a day.

“Will the defendant say nothing in her defense?” Sumantra's voice had a ring of desparation when he spoke now.

Sumantra repeated his question, but Kaikeyi did not even look up, much less reply back to him. He shook his head and began to read the next part of the official scroll.

“In accordance with the laws laid down by Aja-putra Maharaj Dasaratha, we now come to the final part of the day’s proceedings. The representative of the council has spoken and laid evidence before all. The defendant has neither challenged the evidence, nor spoken for herself. The court takes her silence as tacit agreement with the council’s decision what-so-ever-it-may-be. However, if someone present in this hall who has not yet spoken wants to speak on this matter, be it to support or object to the trial, now is the chance to make your voice heard. Speak up, citizens of Ayodhya. By the law laid down by our late Maharaj, the council is bound to hear anyone who wishes to make their thoughts known.

Is here anyone here who objects to the statements made by the council’s representative? Is there anyone who wishes to speak for the defendant? Is there anyone?”

The silence that greeted his statement was deafening. Even the contingent from Kekeya was silent this moment. Kaikeyi had not yet raised her head to face either the council or the throne.

“So be it,” he said aloud, and turned towards Kausalya, his head nodding slightly to signify the conclusion of the proceedings. This was the moment, she thought, the moment of truth, the purpose of her life for the past three years, without Dasa, without her children, and sometimes, even without herself. She stood up from her seat. The crowd moved to the edge of their seats, a heavy silence enveloping the hall as every heart missed a beat to hear her speak next.

Kausalya stepped forward, the regal scepter in right hand, raised it above her head for everyone to see, and then turned around.

The hall watched with bated breath as she moved towards Guru Vashishtha. She bent to touch his feet, asking for his blessings.

“Guruji aashish dey. Aagey marga kathin hain.” Bless me Guruji, for the road ahead is difficult.

Vashishtha smiled and put his hand lovingly on her head. She heard him encourage her in her thoughts. She looked up to see a strange light in his eyes, as if he already knew the decision that she was about to make.

“Vijayi bhava Kausalya.” May you be victorious Kausalya!!

With the blessings of her Guru on her side, she seemed to have gained a new level of confidence as she rose up to perform the difficult task that lay ahead.

She walked towards the throne and placed the scepter in Mahamantri Sumantra’s hands. She then removed her shawl and jewels and any other royal insignia that she wore and kept them near Rama’s sandals on the Sunwood throne. Striding down the steps in front of a stunned audience, she took her place beside Kaikeyi, who was still oblivious to all happening around her.

Kausalya placed a hand on her shoulders, and in a voice that would have shattered the resolve of her staunchest foes, looked up to the council and said - “I object!!”

11

The day dawned to the welcome song of the mynaa and a host of other birds that Lakshman did not recognize. Their journey had taken them through the forests which were at once dark and frightening, and also, the keepers of untold beauty. He was reminded of the Darkwoods near Kosala, where sunlight fought valiantly against a never ending army of leaves to make its way to the earth, and often lost its way in between. The shade had been welcoming at first, but after walking almost two days in the same damp, cold surroundings, he was not so sure about the ‘welcoming’ part anymore. He glanced at Ratnakar, walking a few feet on his right -- they were no longer walking in the single file formation. Ratnakar seemed to be oblivious to the dampness, the cold that sent a chill up Lakshman’s spine in spite of the cloak that he carried. Too proud to show that he is weary, he thought. Ratnakar was walking, nay striding, forward with the confident gait. With the manner of someone who has been there before, and knows every blade of grass and every leaf and vine along the way. Lakshman played with the thought for a while and then dismissed it. Ratnakar’s previous life was a mystery best left to Time to solve.

Here and there, a ray of light bounced off a leaf shining with fresh morning dew, the bright spots dancing for an instant as they grasped the window of opportunity that had opened for the briefest instant. The trees swayed and shimmered to the morning breeze, and countless such windows opened and closed, as if playing out a dance from one of the romantic plays that he had seen. Nilkanth, Abhay, Srinath, Shirpa - he looked around - and Sulabha-Maa, being carried on the Abhir’s shoulders. She had insisted on accompanying them to their destination. Lakshman recalled that she had said something about being required at the appointed time. Another riddle for him to solve -- True to her nature, and very much against her name , he thought.

He had not had enough time to talk to her after their first meeting. By the time he had returned from the hearty meal that the villagers had prepared for them, she had already retired to her hut. However, she had spoken to Ratnakar for a ghatika or so, and he had returned from her hut with a grim expression on his already solemn face. The riddles just never ended.

The forest seemed to thin out around him, but the darkness made it hard for him to gauge why. The trees seemed to be placed apart in some geometrical pattern, as if planted by human hands. After walking for an hour or so, he could discern that the trees were indeed planted in some combinations of rows, seemingly random to the casual observer, but apparent to one trained to think like a warrior.

Ratnakar and Shirpa now took the lead, taking the group this way and then that, turning left or right in the most unlikeliest locations, walking through the forest as if following some invisible signs. Lakshman stepped a feet or two behind the group to observe. The trees had thinned considerably to allow brief streaks of sunlight through, and they weaved an exquisite pattern of shadow and light on the forest around them.

There, he finally grasped something. The trees they were walking through were as apart to let a two-man row of humans pass easily. As he saw the shadows of his companions fall onto the next row of trees, their shadows seemed to lick the bottom of the trees on the opposite side. Lakshman did some quick calculations in his head. The trees on the others rows were planted closer than the rows they were walking through!! If one knew what to look for, then one could find the correct way through this invisible labyrinth. His eyes widened with wonder at this ingenuity. But what lay in the rows where they did not walk? He was now burning with curiosity to know what lay in those mysterious pockets between the trees. Was this the reason why Ratnakar had been so confident that the Asuras could not trouble them here? And what lay at their destination, that needed such intricate devices for its protection?

Scarcely had he finished the sentence when a glimmer of light hit him straight in the eyes. He covered his eyes on reflex, but not before he saw the ground where they had stood moments ago rise up just a notch and then subside, as if some invisible wave had passed over it, nay, passed through it. I must be seeing things, he thought. What was that … ? He could not even find a word to describe the phenomena that he had just witnessed. Or imagined. With one last look behind him, he turned back to catch up with his friends.

He smelled, rather than heard, the ashram. The smell of pure ghee burning on the sacrificial pyre, made of dried cow dung cakes. The odor was refreshing. It meant that there was a yagna in progress in the ashram. It also brought back the memories of his Gurukul. He had never liked sitting at the altar, offering ghee to the fire as his Guru and his acolytes offered their mantras. The smoke and the fumes stung his eyes and made them water heavily. It was strange, he mused, when the inhalation of the fumes, sanctified by mantras, was considered to cleanse the human system of the various parasites and microorganisms which were responsible for causing a multitude of diseases. But Rama, he never wavered from his position, no matter how much the smoke stung his eyes. Lakshman recalled the proud look on his Guru’s face as he saw the little boy of no more than twelve years, fighting hard to keep his eyes open and not allowing the fire to ever go out. Rama had shown his steadfastness even as a boy.

He stiffened suddenly, and spun around in a fraction of an instant. The hair on the back of his neck stood up like the antennae of a spider. That feeling of being pursued surfaced again. The last time he felt like this had been when they had crossed the river with Shirpa. Lakshman had dismissed the feeling earlier, attributing it to the cautious Abhir, who was probably following their movements before making contact. As the feeling had died after they met with him, Lakshman had almost forgotten about it. Till now.

Lakshman made a quick scan of the terrain they had covered in the past few minutes. The fact was that Ratnakar had led them on such a zigzag path that he was not even sure which direction they had come from. This would make the tracking of whoever was following them doubly difficult. But the pursuer had to be within visible range to follow them and not be swallowed by the labyrinth. Lakshman’s eyes could not find anything in the forest that looked like it did not belong here. A few birds twittered on the trees as they returned back to their nests after a busy day. Not a twig broke, nor a leaf rustled. If some Asura had been able to cross the Godavari, and also avoid being trapped in the labyrinth, then it was some powerful Asura indeed. The warrior’s instinct within him told him that he was not wrong, that it was not a play of shadows. He trusted his own instincts to know that he had to be on full alert henceforth. He also decided to keep the news to himself. No point in worrying others about an invisible enemy until the enemy showed itself.

Lakshman moved ahead, following others into the narrow path that lead them to their destination. It was the day before the Bhadrapada Amavasya.

12

It was almost dark when she reached the foot of the mountain. She was alone, dressed in the simplest of garbs, unaccompanied by her usual retinue of guards and sakhis. She brought Meghdoot, her horse to a stop near the dark corner where the surrounding forest tried to claw its way up the stark, barren slopes of the mountain.

She walked up a broken path, littered with the bones and rotting carcasses, tossed away by the vultures who had made the mountain their home. She hurried on, casting a scornful glance on the rotting remains. Fools, laying waste the beautiful, bountiful land of Lanka!! They will pay, they will all pay for it.

The path curved and twisted along the treacherous cliffs, but she had come here often to know the way. She walked with a purpose, and never looked back to the way she had come, which is why she never noticed how the mountain swallowed the path after she had walked on it. When she reached the cave on the top, she would have found it impossible to guess how she had come up. But then, so would anyone who dared to follow her.

The cave was lit by a few mashaals, and in the center lay a tiger-skin, which looked as if it was only used occasionally. She sat down on the skin in the lotus-position, and began whispering a soft mantra. Her face glowed as the mantra progressed, and when she was done, there appeared a faint oval of golden light a few feet from where she sat.

The oval of light shimmered like a flame in the wind, and through the portal stepped out a child. The child wore ochre robes on his body, and was hardly twelve years of age. In his right hand, he carried a short walking staff, and in his left, a wooden begging bowl. He stepped forward and extended the bowl towards her. Mandodari was quite surprised to see the young acolyte, and quite perplexed as to the next course of action that was expected of her. She had travelled incognito, and hence had no jewels or gold to offer. She looked helplessly at the acolyte, who just stood there, smiling and expecting something to fall into the bowl.

It was a while before she realized what was happening. This was probably a test, or a trick. Just like him, she thought. She knew now, that to reach her destination, she had to pass through the young acolyte. Just as she realized this, she found a solution to the problem.

She walked up to the acolyte and placed her right hand in the bowl, and the left hand on her heart. She closed her eyes and said “Since I have no gold, nor grains, I offer you my heart, my devotion, and my abode to rest. Young brahmin, please accept my hospitality and bless my land with your presence.” She then bowed low to touch the feet of the child who seemed happy to hear her reply. As she rose up, the child disappeared and in his place stood a man.

He was naked to the waist and only had a few tattered rags around his body. Thin and bony, he carried the weight of million lives since the birth of Time. He carried a wooden staff, towards the top of which was attached a small drum, the dumroo, with beads strung on leather chords. Every step he took, the beads beat against the drumskin in a faint rhythm, much like the tinkling of the anklets of a belle. But his was not the physique of a belle. His body was the witness to the millennia that he had seen. Smeared with mud and ash, the rudraksha beads around his neck stood a testament to his yogic talents, some of which Mandodari had just witnessed. His matted hair rested on his shoulders, giving his disheveled persona an eerie touch. But his face, his face was unlike anything one would have seen, not just on Lanka, but across all the three realms of Swarga, Prithvi and Patal. His face was painted chalk-white, barring a bushy black moustache. His eyebrows were dotted with yellow ochre, and his eyes still shone with the same childlike expression. His smile aptly reciprocated that innocence, but the truth could not be any farther. He looked every inch a jester, a clown -- and in some ways, he was. The innocent clown prancing on the cosmic playground, life and death, both paltry practical jokes to him.

“Father!! What have you done to yourself?” In spite of the situation, she allowed herself some laughter.

His smile was a smile of slightly amused indulgence. “Do you find anything funny, my child?”

Mandodari had composed herself by now. Though her father had brought her up as his son, there were limits to her demeanor, especially in his presence.

“This,” she indicated his face with her eyebrows, “was most unexpected.” And as an afterthought, in a low voice, “and yes, funny!”

His smile grew broader as he placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed at his loving daughter after a gap of centuries, certainly turbulent centuries.

“And pray what is NOT funny, my child? Life and death, life and death …” he spun the staff so that the beads beat on the drum with his words. “So the cycle goes!” he smiled. Suddenly, he turned away from her, walking a few steps as he spoke. “And isn’t ‘Maya’ the ultimate joke of the Creator himself?” She was about to answer when she realized that he did not expect her to answer at all. It was not as if he was asking her a question, he was merely proving his point. Just like the good old days.

“And if that is so,” he turned back to her and spread out his arms, like an ace thespian at the culmination of his master act. “And if that is so” he paused. “Isn’t Mayasura, the Supreme Illusionist, also the Greatest Jester in all of Cosmos?” His face lit up with a paternal smile, and he walked towards his daughter, now the wife of the most dreaded Rakshasa in the whole Universe.

“Is there a particular reason that you have called me here?”

“I need your help, father. I need your help in redefining Lanka, in changing her from the barren desolate haven of Darkness, to the rich, sumptuous land that it once was.”

“Sujalaam, Sufalaam, Malayaja Sheetalam.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Something I have heard the Aryans describe their land as -- The land of bountiful resources, the land where the soft breeze glides unendingly…” he stopped mid-sentence. It did not escape his attention that the mention of the northerly neighbors caused her some discomfort.

“I had hoped that when you referred to the Darkness surrounding Lanka, you also included the one in your heart.”

Mandodari bowed her head at the reproach from her father.

“Your heart is pure, my child, but a pure heart is often tainted with imperfect actions. Such is the influence of Maya, that Dharma and Karma are often at odds with each other. Only one with a perfect control of mind and matter can achieve this delicate balance, as you will no doubt learn in the future.” he paused. “But I am digressing from the purpose of this meeting. Wait, this should help you.”

He whispered a mantra into the staff, and at once it changed from a weathered, beaten stick to a shining white scepter, the dumroo on the top replaced by a crystal sphere.

“Use this, my child,” he presented the scepter to her. “Though I am no match for Lanka-naresh, this should help you in your cause. Use it wisely. Once your task is done, it will return back to me.”

Mandodari accepted the scepter with both hands and touched it reverently to her forehead. “Father, bless me that I can make Lanka into a land that you will be proud of. Bless me that I can wash away the sins of yesteryears, and make Lanka a shining beacon of the Asuras.”

“Tathaastu!” Mayasura blessed his daughter. So be it.

Mandodari bowed low and touched her father’s feet. When she looked up, he was already gone, disappearing into the darkness that was Him. She felt a dose of renewed confidence in her task, now that her father had pledged his support to the rebuilding, nay, the birth of Lanka - for she was sure that in the millennia to come, it was her Lanka that would be remembered as the only mental image of the island kingdom. The Emerald Isle. She had also coined a term for it.

She closed her eyes and began her ritual of meditation. Om Namah Shivay. The words filled the expanse of the cavern and their reverberations set off an eerie sequence of echoes, reiterating the sacred chant over and over again.

Her meditation was broken by a disturbance, a shock wave that she felt pass by with tremendous force. The entire mountain trembled as if witnessing the taandav of the three-eyed-one. She picked up the ivory staff and held it aloft. The staff seemed to be attuned with her thoughts themselves. It formed a translucent shield around her. Rocks and splinters broke off from the roof, only to be deflected by the force shield surrounding her.

Ravana, her first thoughts were confusion ... and fear. Had her almost dead husband found a way to cheat Yama himself? She was certain that it was something not beyond his powers, even in his present state. Mandodari had recently looked up some old and arcane texts herself, and she was pretty sure that the only substance that could restore Ravana to his former self was something that could not be found in Lanka. The custodian of the documents, her loyal servant, had informed her that Vibhishana had also taken a look the very same documents almost after she had ordered them to be destroyed. It could only mean one thing -- Vibhishana, her foolish brother-in-law, had managed to break her security spell and had reached the cavern where her comatose husband slept.

13

Kaikeyi was meditating in her chambers when she sensed the footsteps of her maid come to a halt outside the door. The maid was obviously hesitating to come in while Kaikeyi was performing her daily exercises, but the hurried shuffling of her feet suggested that she might be carrying an important message.

“Andar aa jaao,” she called the maid inside.

The door opened softly and the maid tiptoed inside the room. It was a maid from Kausalya’s palace. Kaikeyi sat with her back to the door, but she could readily sense that the maid had not only stepped over the physical threshold, but also a mental barrier, to enter the room. She stood up and faced the maid, who was visibly nervous to be in the room.

“Maharani Kaikeyi, aap … aap ke liye … Maharani … Kausalya … ka sandes hain.” Queen Kaikeyi, Queen Kausalya sends this message to you. The maid stood with her eyes lowered.

Kaikeyi nodded, giving the maid her permission to deliver the message.

“Maharani Kausalya requests your presence in the Suraksha Kaksha.”

Suraksha Kaksha, the defense council room. Kaikeyi could not believe what she was hearing, and so she asked the maid to repeat the message, twice. The frightened maid repeated the same exact words, stammering a bit more each time.

This was strange, she thought. The defense council had never once been convened in the past three years. Or maybe more, since the time of the Last Asura War. The recollection brought a bitter-sweet pang of memories, for the war had brought her closer to Dasa, and the two boons she had extracted then, had turned the whole Arya kingdom upside down. Devi, what is this new calamity on us now?

She sent the maid back with the message that she would be there as soon as possible.

She pulled up a white shawl around her bare shoulders, and picked up her sword as she followed the maid to the inner chambers of the palace. The familiar grip of the sheath in her left hand gave her a step a spring of confidence as she walked barefoot along the avenue canopied with huge mango and banyan trees from both sides. She must have made a very odd sight, a sadhavi, in a completely white apparel, striding forward with a sword in her hand. People who passed her on the streets bowed and whispered greetings, for her status as the Second Queen of the Kosala, had been reestablished just the day before. Kaikeyi was however, unaware of anyone passing by. Her heart was filled with an unknown apprehension, a fear that her nightmare was not yet over. That this was just a brief respite, a lull before the storm gathered its forces and fell upon them with all its force.

They had not spoken since the court meeting yesterday, she recalled. She had barely had time to thank Kausalya for putting up a spirited defense which swayed the decision in her favor. The debate had taken almost the entire day, and in the end, Kausalya was thoroughly exhausted. Kaikeyi had been escorted to her quarters when the decision was declared, amidst cheerful whooping from the Kekayan crowd (she allowed a small smile), and a stunned silence from the rest of the assembly. Kausalya had kept the guards to her quarters, anticipating some trouble from some disgruntled citizens, but Kaikeyi had sent them back. She would talk to Kausalya, preferably in private, later. But first, the meeting to which she had been called.

Maharani! Maharani Kaikeyi! Someone called out her name. Stopping on the steps, she turned back to face a crowd moving towards her. They had been standing under the shade of a couple of trees, and hence she had not noticed hem earlier. Her grip on the sword tightened for an instance, but relaxed after observing that none of the group was armed. They did not look the city bred Kosalans of Ayodhya. Their appearance put them on the eastern frontier, on the border with Mithila.

The group stopped at the bottom of the steps, and a couple of men from the group came forward.

Maharani ki jay ho. She recognized the speaker as a magistrate in one of the civil courts. Hamari ek kathin samasya suljhaao! Please solve this difficulty for us.

Pranaam Munshi-ji, kya samasya hain? She addressed him by his title and asked what the problem was.

“Maharani, we are from the eastern villages of Kosala,” his companion spoke, in the heavy accent of the Easterners. “We have a woman who must be brought to justice. Our magistrate thinks this matter is beyond his knowledge, and hence we have come to Ayodhya. But we have not been able to contact any higher level ministers today. The only answer we receive is that they are all busy, and do not have time to look into trivial disputes.”

Busy? Kaikeyi’s sense of foreboding reached its peak. If all the ministers of the council were busy, she guessed they were in the defense meeting that she was going to right now. So this must be something quite serious.

She hesitated. One one hand, she wanted to reach the meeting as soon as possible. On the other, she had her responsibilities towards the citizens. Hopefully this should not take much of my time, she thought.

Kaho, kya samasya hain? What is the problem? she asked.

The crowd parted to reveal a young woman, her hands tied together with a thick rope. A stout man held the other end of the rope in his hands. Kaikeyi was visibly shocked to see traces of dried blood on her cheeks, and noticed that her hands were also blood stained.

She asked the stout man to remove the ropes bounding the girl. The girl fell down as soon as the knots were opened, exhausted from the long journey. She probably has had nothing to eat too. She surmised that the woman had been treated quite badly on the journey.

“Maharani, the woman’s name is Charulata. She is accused of being instrumental in the death of a woman and orphaning a child. The father of the child, Devadutta, was a captain in the Rakshak clans.” The magistrate began to explain the situation. “Devadutta had two wives, Suchitra and Charulata. Both were childless for a long time. A couple of months ago, Suchitra gave birth to a boy.” Kaikeyi noticed a woman from the group holding an infant in her arms.

“That is when the trouble started,” the magistrate sighed. “Charulata grew envious of Suchitra’s joy and poisoned her husband’s ears, saying that the child was not his at all. Poor Suchitra had a hard time convincing her husband otherwise. Things grew to such an extent that Devadutta, in a fit of anger, killed Suchitra. After learning the truth from Charulata, the remorse-filled Devadutta committed suicide by jumping into the Gomati.” He paused. “Clearly, the woman must be punished for her deeds. But if she goes to prison, there is no one to take care of the child. The Panchayat was unable to solve this problem, and hence we have come to Ayodhya, to seek higher counsel. Please help us Maharani.”

Kaikeyi could not help but notice the irony of the situation. A mere twenty four hours ago, it was she who was standing trial, being accused of the very same crimes of breaking apart the Suryavansha clan and causing the death of Dasaratha.

She looked at the fallen woman. Her hair had fallen on her face as she fell down, and she had made no attempt to move them aside. Kaikeyi noticed the red lines on her wrists, where the thick rope had cut through her skin.

“Charulata,” she went near the woman and spoke to her.

The woman looked up to her, and Kaikeyi saw her face for the first time. She must have been hardly a day older then twenty, though she had aged to forty in the past few days. Kaikeyi saw the tears streaking on her face, some trials dry and salty. Devi knew how long the woman had been crying.

“She has been like this from the day Suchitra died. She has hardly spoken to anybody, nor has she eaten her food. Sometimes it takes three women to hold her down and feed her some milk. Even after that, she throws up most of it. She even tried to kill herself once, so we tied her hands.”

Kaikeyi bent down and looked at the woman in face. Her eyes had a look of desperation. Kill me, they seemed to scream to Kaikeyi. Kill me and let me be at peace.

“No,” Kaikeyi whispered to the woman. “You will not get away so easily.”

She gently lifted the child from the arms of the woman holding him and placed it in the blood soaked hands of the woman.

“Yehi tumhari sazaa hain,” she told the stunned woman. "This is your punishment. I expect he would grow up to be as fearless as his father, the man you loved."

She then turned around and continued on the stairs, only looking back to see the woman clutch the infant to her breast, as a mother would.

14

“Om Gan Ganapataye Namah
Eka-dantaay Vighnahey, Vakratundaaya Dhimahi
Tanno Danti’h Prachodayaat ||”

Lakshman recognised the Ganesh Gayatri mantra as they entered the ashram. It took him some time to believe what he was seeing. After the days of barren landscape and harsh living conditions, he was beginning to accept that this region was indeed uninhabitable for the humans. The sight that met his eyes was a sweet surprise.

The land under his feet was no longer the rocky, barren land of Khandesh that they had been walking on for the past ten days. Instead, for as far as his eyes could see, the land was covered with soft, green grass, neatly mowed and leveled. The path stretched before him for hundred feet or so, with moist soil smelling of cow dung and punctuated at regular intervals by the banana trees that he had become so familiar with. The path was decorated with colorful rangolis, weaving delicate patterns of symmetry and mythic figures on the freshly plastered surface. The odor of ghee was quite overwhelming now, and Lakshman turned his neck to seek the origin of the hyms, and the yagna. They had entered the ashram from the east, and hence, he deduced that the yagna-kunda would be in the northeast, towards his right.

Their party had hardly taken a few steps, when their arrival was noticed by the young acolytes, and suddenly, the quiet, rhythmic chanting was supplemented by hurried whispers and scurrying of tiny feet, all getting ready to welcome their guests.

“Saumitra! Welcome to Trimbakeshwar Ashram” The man who spoke these words was a short, and stout brahmin. He moved quite slowly, due to his enormous belly, which hung in his fore in neat folds. His eyes seemed to sparkle with happiness on seeing them, and his voice was brimming with the energy and vitality of a youngster. But all was of course, not true. Maharishi Agastya was in fact, more than ten thousand years old, even elder than Guru Vashishtha.

Lakshman bowed low and touched the feet of the Rishi before he could object. He stood up, and removed the bow from his right shoulder. He unstrung the bowstring, and then joined his palms together in the gesture of respect, and goodwill.

“It would seem that the prince does not respect the traditions of the Aryans! Or else, has he forgotten the very basics of Aryan hospitality?” Agastya’s statement shocked everybody, including Lakshman.

“Gurudev, as is the custom, it is proper for the host to welcome the athithi by washing his feet and seeking his blessings. But I come here before you not as a guest, but as a snaatak, a seeker of knowledge. Under such circumstances, it would have been incorrect for you to wash my feet and treat me like an honored guest. Such honor truly belongs to Sulabha-Ma and my companions, but not to me. I ask for your forgiveness if my behavior offended you.”

“Well done, Saumitra!” Agastya seemed pleased. “It does look like the old crane, Vashishtha, has taught you well.” Lakshman was taken aback by by such a direct response to his Guru, and stood with his head bowed.

A young acolyte brought the basin of water. While Agastya was engaged in welcoming the rest of their group (he also washed the feet of the Abhir, much to Shirpa’s discomfort), Lakshman did a quick scan of the group standing behind the great Rishi.

It was a group unlike he had seen anywhere before. Most of the acolytes were Aryans, bearing familiar features that he could recognize which part of Aryavarta they came from. There were a few of Shirpa’s clan brothers, and sisters too. But they were but a handful. The rest of the crowd, Lakshman was looking upon their kind for the first time in his life. Some were fair, with blue eyes and jet black hair -- especially the women, he noticed. Some were darker than Rama himself, with the lone patch of hair which bundled up into tight curls. Some were short, with razor thin eyes that penetrated the depths of your soul, while one or two did not even look human to him.

He was almost done, when he noticed that Agastya was washing Sulabha-Maa’s feet. He was surprised when he saw her actually put her hand on his head to bless him. It stayed there for the briefest of instants, and then Agastya moved on to the next guest. Strange, he thought, I always thought her to be much younger than the rest of the Rishis.

When Agastya came to Ratnakar, the last of the guests, he paused to look into his eyes and spoke softly, “I have been expecting you. Rama will have what he seeks. I also believe your journey does not end here. I will make the necessary arrangements today itself, so that you can continue ahead.” Ratnakar merely nodded.

Lakshman was surprised, and angry, when he heard these words. He had been patient while Ratnakar and Sulabha-Ma had traded secrets, but to think that even Agastya knew something that Rama did not deem him worthy of knowing, incensed him.

He controlled his emotions, taking care not to reveal his inner turmoil to anyone else.

By now, the formalities of welcome had been done, and the Rishi led them into the ashram. Lakshman was noted that the ashram was well kept and clean, like all the other ashrams around Aryavarta. The walkway was lined with colored stones, each a different color than the rest. Some sparkled like uncut diamonds, while some were the dull slate color found everywhere in Kosala. The stones ended abruptly, midway through the path. Maybe they were still building the path, he thought.

“Saumitra, it is not what you think,” Agastya’s voice surprised him. Did the sage also read minds? “No, I have no need for reading minds, my dear prince. Your face is, fortunately, or otherwise, the perfect mirror for your mind.” He paused and gestured along the path that they had walked. “Each new disciple to the ashram brings with him, or her, a piece of the land that they are leaving behind. The stones are then lined up against the pathway in the order of the arrival of the disciples. They remind us all of the varied parts of the Mother Earth which nourishes us, provides us with warmth and shelter, and yes, the occasional predator,” Agastya chuckled. “The path reminds us that though we walk on the same path, each brings to it, a stone which is unlike any other, that none of them are better or worse. That the diamond and the charcoal both meet the same fate -- both end up lining the path on which the inhabitants of this ashram pursue their journey. As you can see, some of these have travelled a long long way, even crossed seas and snow-capped mountains to reach here. This is the only Guru Dakshina I ever ask from my students.”

Aah-ha, so that’s what daai-ma meant, Lakshman thought. He had heard tales about Agastya in his childhood. Daai-ma spoke of how Agastya had once drank the entire ocean to help the Devas track the Asuras who were hiding in them. She probably meant that he had crossed the oceans to foreign lands and returned back alive. He had a flash of insight. Now the diversity of the students became more clearer.

I better not ask him if he actually ate, and digested, an Asura - as another story goes, Lakshman smiled.

“Gurudev,” one of Agastya’s acolytes stepped forward. “Maa says that lunch for the guests has been served.”

The talk of lunch made Lakshman painfully aware of how empty his stomach had been from the morning. They must have walked at least ten yojanas, and had barely eaten anything since daybreak. As the smell of fresh ghee on piping hot rice reached his nostrils, he soon forgot everything about the mysteries troubling him for the past few days, and joined everybody as they moved towards the kitchen of the ashram.

15

The birds twittered overhead as Lakshman and Sulabha-Maa, carried on Shirpa’s shoulders, made their way through the woods on the north western part of the ashram. He pushed the chirpy chattering, by now a familiar acquaintance, to the back of his mind. How strange, he thought. To think that a few days ago, we were hiding in the bowels of the Prithvi, with not a cheerful soul in sight.

He looked around to gauge their distance from the river. The trees were sufficiently dense to discourage any brash calf from straying far into the lair of predators, but allowed humans to walk, rather, pick their way to reach the river which flowed towards the east, and formed the northern boundary of the ashram.

We walk towards the ‘Go-Mukh,’ Sulabha-Maa had said. The Go-Mukh, literally, ‘the cow’s mouth’ was a rock formation which resembled its namesake when viewed from a certain angle, and whence the powerful Godavari sprung forth from her underground source. It was a sacred place for all the Vedic clans, and the ashram hosted an annual festival in the month of Shravan, honoring Lord Shiva, who had brought the Ganga down south as a boon to the Sage Agastya. I know the story well, he recollected. When Agastya came to the south, he was unable to attend Shiva’s wedding with Parvati. Since it was at the behest of the three-eyed one that Agastya had left the Aryavarta mainland, Shiva and Parvati arranged a second wedding (and subsequent honeymoon, it was rumored) on the Rishi’s ashram, so that he could participate in the proceedings. They also brought the Ganga as a gift for the Brahmarishi, and named it the Godavari.

Hmmm, if the Kama’s Grove was any indication, then it must have been a very noisy honeymoon. Lakshman smiled to himself. The thought of Shiva’s honeymoon brought home memories of Urmila, and a sweet pain cut through his heart.

“Aah, and so the elusive moon, from the darkest cloud, does peep
Oh chaataka, the lovelorn bird! Welcome it, why do you weep?”

Lakshman turned around and faced Sulabha-Maa, who had recited the verse just as he had smiled, and thought about Urmila. How did she know?

“I was beginning to think that my dear Lakshman had been silently cursed by the Rishi, and turned into a mute,” Sulabha-Maa’s voice had an edge of mischief. “You have hardly spoken since we left the ashram.”

“…”

“You worry in vain, Rajkumar. My Urmi is as strong as the strength of her poems. This is as much her test as it is yours. You would do well and support her, for she would certainly not like it if she found out that you regret leaving her behind. Aah, here we are. Shirpa, put me down, my dear boy. I will walk to the stone myself.” Shirpa placed her gently on the ground. Lakshman turned around and saw that they had arrived on the banks of the Godavari, if you could call it that. They were standing on the shores of a huge pond, which was being fed by a continuous fountain of fresh water, gushing forth from an orifice in the mountain. Sulabha-Maa settled on a broad rock, and Shirpa sat down at her feet. Lakshman walked to the banks of pond and scooped up a handful of water in his hands. Facing east, he recited the Gayatri mantra and offered the handful of holy water to the Surya. He then proceeded to drink a scoopful of water, and returned back with a couple, for Sulabha-Maa and Shirpa.

“I do not worry, Maa. Nor do I, or will I, ever regret following Rama into the forest. I am his shadow. How can a shadow be separate from the body? But it seems,” he sighed, “that the dark night can indeed swallow the shadow and leave the body alone.”

Sulabha-Maa understood what ailed him. “My prince,” she paused, “you dwell on that-which-is, what you see. But that is a mere speck. That-which-is-not, that which cannot be seen or measured, but only observed as a cycle of cause-and-effect, which is beyond the sensory realms, and also beyond any measuring instrument invented by Man, ever -- that escapes your attention. The night does not swallow that-which-exists, it only shows that there is much that you do not know. A diyaa does not dispel the darkness. It only strengthens the extent of the unknown, revealing the limits of human perception. The rishis know this. But take heart, there is a purpose for everything, that is the way of the Universe. Your preoccupation with riddles and mysteries could prove a fatal flaw. How else,” she added nonchalantly, “would you fail to notice the Rakshashi who has followed you from the depths of Dandakaranya, right upto the banks of the Godavari?”

The last sentence jolted Lakshman, and he made a quick scan of the path that they had taken. Not a leaf rustled, nor a bush swayed to reveal the hideout of the rakshashi who had been tailing them for such a long time. He crouched into the dragon-stance, his warrior-bred instincts taking over. His breathing was barely perceptible as he swung around twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of their pursuer. How could I have been so careless? I trusted Ratnakar’s words that no Asura could penetrate the shores of Godavari. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, as his eyes darted from one direction to another, returning empty each time. To have come this far, and go unnoticed, this must be a very powerful Rakshashi indeed! His hands went to the familiar place on his waistband where he kept his daggers, but he realized that they had all removed their weapons when they entered the ashram. Breathe deeply, concentrate! Guru Vashishta’s voice boomed in his head.

It was only after he had made a dozen scans that he was satisfied that there was nobody here but them. He looked down and saw the markings made by his feet. Perfectly circular, with two orbits, like the Chandrama that revolved around the Prithvi as she went around the Surya. He noticed that throughout this exercise, Sulabha-Maa and Shirpa had remained on their position. Sulabha-Maa had observed him with an almost bemused expression on her face. When Lakshman finally stood up to face her, she merely gestured upwards with her eyes, and her face broke into a smile that was at once, the riddle and its solution.

The birds, Lakshman observed, a shapeshifter? No wonder she escaped the enchanted woods. She simply flew behind us, not daring to set foot upon the sanctified soil !! The prickling on his neck, the constant chirping of birds who knew the truth - it all made sense now. He looked up to spot a flock of birds hovering around a bird which was almost twice their size. The bird was resting on a high branch, staring at the human party below. For a brief instant, their eyes met, and the bird/rakshasi knew it had been discovered. In a flash, it was airborne, heading as straight as an arrow, towards the eyes which had espied it.

Supanakha flew straight towards Lakshman, changing into her feline form midway through the jump. How many days had she waited for this moment, when she would find Lakshman unarmed and vulnerable. Her spies had told her about the destination that the humans were headed towards, and she had changed into a bird once they had crossed the river. She knew very well that if she set foot on the soil sanctified by the waters of Pancha-nadi, the five rivers - Ganga, Yamuna, Sarayu, Sindhu and Brahmaputra, she would turn to ashes at once. The jump, and the element of surprise, were her only chances to succeed in dealing at least a fatal blow to the one who had brought her such humiliation. She had been robbed of the latter, but she would make the most of her jump.

Lakshman stood transfixed on the ground, seemingly oblivious to the instrument of certain death that was hurtling towards him at great speed. The sight of the feline rakshasi making a near impossible jump from over thirty feet above him, brought out but one word from his immobile lips. Ati-sundar, very beautiful!

Supanakha was four feet away from Lakshman when she swung back her left forearm to deal the final blow. And missed him.

She fell on the ground, expecting to burn in an instant. But the ground was hard and she felt her forepaws and ribs crack under the fall. She could no longer stand up. Spitting mouthful of blood, she looked up at Lakshman, who seemed to be in a trance, staring at her with glazed eyes. She felt her eyes grow heavy, but refused to look down till the very last breath.

A thunderous growl brought them back to reality. Lakshman was the first to react. He picked up a huge rock lying nearby, and came towards her, intending to crush her head under its weight.

Lakshman lifted the rock on the top of his head, when he heard a voice speak inside his mind.

Sheshaa.

The voice was cold, filling his bones with a chill that was not of this world. Lakshman looked towards the direction of the voice. Sulabha-Maa. But the woman standing in her place was not Sulabha-Maa at all. She had jet black eyes, her body was smeared with ash, and she wore but a garland of skulls around her neck. Her tongue was bright red and gave of the odor of fresh blood. But the unmistakable odor lingering around her was fear. Supanakha too was looking at her, and he saw that the rakshasi was as frightened as he was.

Sheshaa, it is not your time yet. Nor is it hers. Your purpose is incomplete. The Brahman cannot allow you to die, nor to kill each other. Save your hatred for another day.

Why was she calling me Sheshaa? Lakshman wondered. He never realized that the heavy stone had been lifted off his hands and kept on the ground by some unseen force. A low growl on his right brought his attention towards the fallen rakshasi.

He could not believe what he saw. Supanakha was being lifted by a huge beast, a lion bigger than an elephant. So this was what caused her to fall away from me! He looked around to search his third companion, when the lion turned towards him and let out another growl. Shirpa!! His heart skipped a beat. What had this demoness turned him into?

She let out a small laugh, as if reading his thoughts. Lakshman felt a surge of energy through his mind as he was being assailed by countless images. Images he had seen before, images that had been his companions during his nightmares. They twirled and twisted inside his mind, drinking his consciousness away. He fell down, clutching his head in both hands, unable to stand against the invisible force of Brahman sorcery. Through the tons of images and countless recollections of his nightmares, he could barely make out one thread before he passed out. Siddha-ashram.

* * *

They found him in the bough of a banyan tree, stone cold and hardly breathing, curled up in fetal position.

End of Kaand I