That names guided destiny was an ancient belief. Parents chose the names of their children with care. A name, in a sense, became an aspiration, swadharma, individual dharma, for the child. Having been named after the sixth Vishnu himself, the aspirations for this child could not have been set higher!
There was another name that Vashishta had placed his hopes on: Bharat, Ram’s brother, younger to him by seven months. His mother, Kaikeyi, did not know at the time of the great battle with Raavan that she was carrying Dashrath’s child in her womb. Vashishta was aware that Kaikeyi was a passionate, wilful woman. She was ambitious for herself and those she viewed as her own. She had not settled for the eldest queen, Kaushalya, being one up on her by choosing a great name for her son. Her son, then, was the namesake of the legendary Chandravanshi emperor, Bharat, who had ruled millennia ago.
The ancient Emperor Bharat had united the warring Suryavanshis and Chandravanshis under one banner. Notwithstanding the occasional skirmishes, they had learnt to live in relative peace; a peace that held. It was exemplified today by the Emperor Dashrath, a Suryavanshi, having two queens who traced their lineage to Chandravanshi royalty, Kaushalya and Kaikeyi. Ashwapati, the father of Kaikeyi and the Chandravanshi king of Kekaya, was in fact the emperor’s closest advisor.
One of the two names will surely serve my purpose.
He looked at Lord Parshu Ram again, drawing strength from the image.
I know they will think I’m wrong. They may even curse my soul. But you were the one who had said, My Lord, that a leader must love his country more than he loves his own soul.
Vashishta reached for his scabbard, hidden within the folds of his angvastram. He pulled out the knife and beheld the name that had been inscribed on the hilt in an ancient script: Parshu Ram.
Inhaling deeply, he shifted the knife to his left hand and pricked his forefinger, puncturing deep to draw out blood. He pressed the finger with his thumb, just under the drop of blood, and let some droplets drip into the canal.
By this blood oath, I swear on all my knowledge, I will make my rebellion succeed, or I will die trying.
Vashishta took one last look at Lord Parshu Ram, bowed his head as he brought his hands together in a respectful namaste, and softly whispered the cry of the followers of the great Vishnu. ‘Jai Parshu Ram!’
Glory to Parshu Ram!
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Chapter 5
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Kaushalya, the queen, was happy; Kaushalya, the mother, was not. She understood that Ram should leave the Ayodhya palace. Emperor Dashrath had blamed him for the horrific defeat he’d suffered at the hands of Raavan, on the day that Ram was born. Till that fateful day, he had never lost a battle; in fact, he’d been the only unbeaten ruler in all of India. Dashrath was convinced that Ram was born with bad karma and his birth was the undoing of the noble lineage of Raghu. There was little the powerless Kaushalya could do to change this.
Kaikeyi had always been the favourite wife, and saving the emperor’s life in the Battle of Karachapa had only made her hold over Dashrath absolute. Kaikeyi and her coterie had speedily let it be known that Dashrath believed Ram’s birth was inauspicious. Soon the city of Ayodhya shared its emperor’s belief. It was widely held that all the good deeds of Ram’s life would not succeed in washing away the ‘taint of 7,032’, the year that, according to the calendar of Lord Manu, Dashrath was defeated and Ram was born.
It would be best if Ram left the palace with Raj Guru Vashishta, Kaushalya knew. He would be away from the Ayodhya nobility, which had never accepted him anyway. Furthermore, he would stand to gain from the education he’d receive at Vashishta’s gurukul. Gurukul meant the guru’s family, but in practice it was the residential school of gurus. He would learn philosophy, science, mathematics, ethics, warfare and the arts. He would return, years later, a man in charge of his destiny.
The queen understood this, but the doting mother was unable to let go. She held on to her child and wept. Ram stood stoic as he held his mother, who hugged and smothered him with kisses; even at this tender age, he was an unusually calm boy.
Bharat, unlike Ram, was crying hysterically, refusing to let his mother go. Kaikeyi glared at her son with exasperation. ‘You are my son! Don’t be such a sissy! Behave like the king you will be one day! Go, make your mother proud!’
Vashishta watched the proceedings and smiled.
Passionate children have strong emotions that insist on finding expression. They laugh loudly. They cry even more loudly.
He observed the brothers as he wondered whether his goal would be met through stoic duty or passionate feeling. The twins, Lakshman and Shatrughan, the youngest of the four sons of Dashrath, stood at the back with their mother, Sumitra. The poor three-year-olds seemed lost, not quite understanding what was going on. Vashishta knew it was too soon for them, but he couldn’t leave them behind. Ram and Bharat’s training would take a long time, maybe even a decade, if not more. He could not risk the twins being in the palace during this period, for the political intrigue among the nobility would lead to the younger princes being co-opted into camps. This malicious nobility was already bleeding Ayodhya dry with its scheming and plotting to enrich itself; the emperor was weak and distracted.
The princes would return home for two nine-day holidays, twice a year, during the summer and winter solstices. The ancient navratra festival, which commemorated the six-monthly change in the direction of the Sun God’s north-south journey across the horizon, was celebrated with great vigour. Vashishta believed those eighteen days would suffice to console the bereft mothers and sons. The autumn and spring navratras, aligned with the two equinoxes, would be commemorated at the gurukul.
The raj guru turned his attention to Dashrath.
The last six years had taken their toll on the emperor. Parchment-like skin stretched thinly over a face that was worn out by grief, his eyes sunken, his hair grey. The grievous battle wound on his leg had long since turned into a permanent deformity, depriving him of the hunting and exercising that he so loved. Seeking refuge in drink, his bent body gave little indication of the strong and handsome warrior he’d once been. Raavan had not just defeated him on that terrible day. He continued to defeat him every single day.
‘Your Highness,’ said Vashishta, loudly. ‘With your permission.’
A distracted Dashrath waved his hand, confirming his order.
It was a day after the winter solstice and the princes were in Ayodhya on their half-yearly holiday. It had been three years since they first left for the gurukul. Uttaraayan, the northward movement of the sun across the horizon, had begun. Six months later, in peak summer, Lord Surya would reverse his direction and Dakshinaayan, the southward movement of the sun, would begin.
Ram spent most of his time, even on holiday, with Guru Vashishta, who had moved back to the palace with the boys; Kaushalya could not do much besides complain. Bharat, on the other hand, was strictly confined to Kaikeyi’s chambers, subjected to incessant tutoring and interrogation by his forceful mother. Lakshman had already started riding small ponies, and he loved it. Shatrughan … just read books!
Lakshman was rushing to his mother Sumitra after one such riding lesson when he stopped short, hearing voices outside her chamber. He peeped in from behind the curtains.
‘You must understand, Shatrughan, that your brother Bharat may make fun of you, but he loves you the most. You should always stay by his side.’
Shatrughan was holding a palm-leaf booklet in his hand, desperately trying to read as he pretended to pay attention to his mother.
‘Are you listening to me, Shatrughan?’ asked Sumitra, sharply.
‘Yes Mother,’ Shatrughan said, looking up, sincerity dripping from his voice.
‘I don’t think so.’
Shatrughan repeated his mother’s last sentence. His diction was remarkably clear and crisp for his age. Sumitra knew that her son hadn’t been paying attention, and yet she couldn’t do anything about the fact that he’
d not been genuinely listening to her at all!
Lakshman smiled as he ran up to his mother, yelping with delight as he leapt onto her lap.
‘I will lithen to you, Maa!’ he said with his childish lisp.
Sumitra smiled as she wrapped her arms around Lakshman. ‘Yes, I know you will always listen to me. You are my good son!’
Shatrughan glanced briefly at his mother before going back to his palm-leaf booklet.
‘I will do whatever you tell me to do,’ said Lakshman, his earnest eyes filled with love. ‘Alwayth.’
‘Then listen to me,’ said Sumitra, leaning in with a clownish, conspiratorial expression, the kind she knew Lakshman loved. ‘Your elder brother Ram needs you.’ Her expression changed to compassionate wistfulness as she continued. ‘He is a simple and innocent soul. He needs someone who can be his eyes and ears. No one really likes him.’ She focused on Lakshman once again and murmured, ‘You have to protect him from harm. People always say mean things about him behind his back, but he sees the best in them. He has too many enemies. His life may depend on you…’
‘Really?’ asked Lakshman, his eyes widening with barely-understood dread.
‘Yes! And believe me, I can only count on you to protect him. Ram has a good heart, but he’s too trusting of others.’
‘Don’t worry, Maa,’ said Lakshman, stiffening his back and pursing his lips, his eyes gleaming like a soldier honoured with a most important undertaking. ‘I will alwayth take care of Ram Dada.’
Sumitra hugged Lakshman again and smiled fondly. ‘I know you will.’
‘Dada!’ shouted Lakshman, banging his little heels against the pony’s sides, willing it to run faster. But the pony, specially trained for children, refused to oblige.
Nine-year-old Ram rode ahead of Lakshman on a taller, faster pony. True to his training, he rose gracefully in his saddle at every alternate step of the canter, in perfect unison with the animal. On this vacant afternoon, they’d decided to practise by themselves the art of horsemanship, at the royal Ayodhya riding grounds.
‘Dada! Thop!’ screamed Lakshman desperately, having abandoned by now any pretence at following vaguely-learnt instructions. He kicked and whipped his pony to the best of his ability.
Ram looked back at the enthusiastic Lakshman and smiled as he cautioned his little brother, ‘Lakshman, slow down. Ride properly.’
‘Thop!’ yelled Lakshman.
Ram immediately understood Lakshman’s frantic cry and pulled his reins as Lakshman caught up and dismounted rapidly. ‘Dada, get off!’
‘What?’
‘Get off!’ shouted an agitated Lakshman as he grabbed Ram’s hand, trying to drag him down.
Ram frowned as he got off the horse. ‘What is it, Lakshman?’
‘Look!’ Lakshman exclaimed, as he pointed at the billet strap that went through the buckle on the girth strap; the girth, in turn, kept the saddle in place. The buckle had almost come undone.
‘By the great Lord Rudra!’ whispered Ram. Had the buckle released while he was riding, he would have been thrown off the dislodged saddle, resulting in serious injury. Lakshman had saved him from a terrible accident.
Lakshman looked around furtively, his mother’s words echoing in his brain. ‘Thomeone tried to kill you, Dada.’
Ram carefully examined the girth strap and the attached buckle. It simply looked worn out; there were no signs of tampering. Lakshman had certainly saved him from an injury, though, and possibly even death.
Ram embraced Lakshman gently. ‘Thank you, my brother.’
‘Don’t worry about any conthpirathieth,’ said Lakshman, wearing a solemn expression. He was now certain about his mother’s warnings. ‘I will protect you, Dada. Alwayth.’
Ram tried hard to prevent himself from smiling. ‘Conspiracies, huh? Who taught you such a big word?’
‘Thatrughan,’ said Lakshman, looking around again, scanning the area for threats.
‘Shatrughan, hmm?’
‘Yeth. Don’t worry, Dada. Lakhthman will protect you.’
Ram kissed his brother’s forehead and reassured his little protector. ‘I feel safe already.’
The brothers were all set to go back to the gurukul two days after the horse saddle incident. Ram visited the royal stable the night before their departure to groom his horse; both of them had a long day ahead. There were stable hands, of course, but Ram enjoyed this work; it soothed him. The animals were among the handful in Ayodhya who did not judge him. He liked to spend time with them occasionally. He looked back at the sound of the clip-clop of hooves.
‘Lakshman!’ cried Ram in alarm, as little Lakshman trooped in atop his pony, obviously injured. Ram rushed forward and helped him dismount. Lakshman’s chin had split open, deep enough to urgently need stitches. His face was covered with blood, but with typical bravado, he did not flinch at all when Ram examined his wound.
‘You are not supposed to go horseback riding in the night, you know that, don’t you?’ Ram admonished him gently.
Lakshman shrugged. ‘Thorry… The horthe thuddenly…’
‘Don’t talk,’ interrupted Ram, as the blood flow increased. ‘Come with me.’
Ram hastily sped towards Nilanjana’s chambers along with his injured brother. En route, they were accosted by Sumitra and her maids who had been frantically searching for her missing son.
‘What happened?’ shouted Sumitra, as her eyes fell upon the profusely bleeding Lakshman.
Lakshman stood stoic and tight-lipped. He knew he was in for trouble as his dada never lied; there was no scope for creative storytelling. He would have to confess, and then come up with strategies to escape the inevitable punishment.
‘It’s nothing serious, Chhoti Maa,’ said Ram to his younger stepmother, Sumitra. ‘But we should get him to Nilanjanaji immediately.’
‘What happened?’ Sumitra persisted.
Ram instinctively felt compelled to protect Lakshman from his mother’s wrath. After all, Lakshman had saved his life just the other day. He did what his conscience demanded at the time; shift the blame on himself. ‘Chhoti Maa, it’s my fault. I’d gone to the stable with Lakshman to groom my horse. It’s a little high-spirited and suddenly reared and kicked Lakshman. I should have ensured that Lakshman stood behind me.’
Sumitra immediately stepped aside. ‘Quickly, take him to Nilanjana.’
She knows Ram Dada never lies, Lakshman thought, filled with guilt.
Ram and Lakshman rushed off, as a maid attempted to follow them. Sumitra raised her hand to stop her as she watched the boys moving down the corridor. Ram held his brother’s hand firmly. She smiled with satisfaction.
Lakshman brought Ram’s hand to his heart, and whispered, ‘Together alwayth, Dada. Alwayth.’
‘Don’t talk, Lakshman. The blood will…’
The Ayodhyan princes had been in the gurukul for five years now. Vashishta watched with pride as the eleven-year-old Ram practised with his full-grown opponent. Combat training had commenced for Ram and Bharat this year; Lakshman and Shatrughan would have to wait for two more years. For now, they had to remain content with lessons in philosophy, mathematics and science.
‘Come on, Dada!’ shouted Lakshman. ‘Move in and hit him!’
Vashishta observed Lakshman with an indulgent smile. He sometimes missed the cute lisp that Lakshman had now lost; but the eight-year-old had not lost his headstrong spirit. He also remained immensely loyal to Ram, whom he loved dearly. Perhaps Ram would eventually be able to channel Lakshman’s wild streak.
The soft-spoken and intellect-oriented Shatrughan sat beside Lakshman, reading a palm-leaf manuscript of the Isha Vasya Upanishad. He read a Sanskrit verse.
‘Pushannekarshe yama surya praajaapatya vyuha rashmeen samuha tejah;
Yatte roopam kalyaanatamam tatte pashyaami yo’saavasau purushah so’hamasmi.’
O Lord Surya, nurturing Son of Prajapati, solitary Traveller, celestial Controller; Diffuse Your rays, Diminish your light;
> Let me see your gracious Self beyond the luminosity; And realise that the God in You is Me.
Shatrughan smiled to himself, lost in the philosophical beauty of the words. Bharat, who sat behind him, bent over and tapped Shatrughan on his head, then pointed at Ram. Shatrughan looked at Bharat, protest writ large in his eyes. Bharat glared at his younger brother. Shatrughan put his manuscript aside and looked at Ram.
The opposing swordsman Vashishta had selected for Ram belonged to the forest people who lived close to Vashishta’s gurukul. It had been built deep in the untamed forests far south of the river Ganga, close to the western-most point of the course of the river Shon. The river took a sharp eastward turn thereafter, and flowed north-east to merge with the Ganga. This area had been used by many gurus for thousands of years. The forest people maintained the premises and gave it on rent to gurus.
The solitary approach to the gurukul was camouflaged first by dense foliage and then by the overhanging roots of a giant banyan. A small glade lay beyond, at the centre of which descending steps had been carved out of the earth, leading to a long, deep trench covered by vegetation. The trench then became a tunnel as it made its way under a steep hill. Light flooded the other end of this tunnel as it emerged at the banks of a stream which was spanned by a wooden bridge. Across lay the gurukul, a simple monolithic structure hewn into a rocky hillside.
The hill face had been neatly cut as though a huge, cube-shaped block of stone had been removed. Twenty small temples carved into the surface faced the entrance to the structure, some with deities in them, others empty. Six of these were adorned with an idol each of the previous Vishnus, one housed Lord Rudra, the previous Mahadev, and in yet another sat Lord Brahma, the brilliant scientist. The king of the Devas, the Gods, Lord Indra, who was also the God of Thunder and the Sky, occupied his rightful place in the central temple, surrounded by the other Gods. Of the two rock surfaces that faced each other, one had been cut to comprise the kitchen and store rooms, and the other, alcove-like sleeping quarters for the guru and his students.