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Kashi had gone mad with rage, demolishing the area where he sat with his bare hands, accusing Janaka of witchcraft, foul play, and every trickery possible to man. Kashi and the kings he had rallied now held Mithila under siege, intent on stealing the bow and the princess.
“I dreamt of this,” Rama said.
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His recurring dream was a small scene of what had occurred. Rama returned the letter to his father and told them the gist of his dream.
“What will you do, Father?”
“Let us discuss,” Father said, motioning for Rama and Lakshmana to sit.
Dasharatha turned to the ministers, giving them an opportunity to speak.
“Great King,” Sumantra said, folding his hands at his chest, “this news proves yet again that mankind is impossible to please. First they were enraged that no one could lift the bow.
Then they were enraged that Princess Sita could lift it.”
“Sumantra speaks rightly,” Siddhartha said, his long beard moving with every word.
“We, who have been observing the ways of man all our lives, know that one can never fully satiate the desire of the shifting crowds.”
Rama was about to ask how the princess had been able to lift the bow, when Father handed the missive to a servant and summoned the army general.
“Give this to Senapati and bid him come here,” the king said. “This uprising is something a small section of our army can easily quell.”
As they waited for the commanding general, Dasharatha dictated his response to Janaka, while Rama acted as scribe. The letter assumed that the siege had been quelled and peace restored; it would be handed to Janaka once victory was achieved.
When the letter was done, Rama said, “Sita must be a very special princess if all these kings are fighting for her hand.”
Father gave Rama a secretive look. “Princess Sita is the most unusual princess on Earth.
She mystically appeared from the Earth, and when she was a small child, she was inexora-bly linked to the Great Mother. Indeed, her father was mightily puzzled by her powers. He said that when she cried, it would rain. When she was angry, fires would blaze. When she screamed, the Earth would shake under his feet.”
Rama looked at the various expressions of the ministers: some were amused, others skeptical. “But then she is not a princess at all,” he said, “but a goddess!”
“Janaka’s concern was such,” Father replied, “that I consulted Vasishta, and we sent one of his trusted pupils, the esteemed Shatananda, to observe the princess. We had to first of all corroborate the existence of this extraordinary phenomenon.”
Dasharatha paused, and Rama held his breath.
“Shatananda discovered nothing unusual.”
Rama exhaled and frowned, the mystery shattered.
“His reports came back to Ayodhya full of anecdotes about a princess who was highly intelligent and charming beyond words. Even Janaka told me personally that once the princess mastered language, all supernatural occurrences around her completely stopped.”
“It is possible,” Siddhartha said, “that the girl was guarded by the Great Mother in the first years of her life.”
“Yes, that is one possibility,” Dasharatha answered. “And so to your question, Rama.
No doubt Princess Sita is beautiful and worthy of this fight, but the hearts of men are strange. Now they fight less for her hand and more to restore the honor they lost when they 289
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failed to lift the bow. Frankly, I would not send any of you to that contest, though she is an eligible princess. That bow belonged to Shiva, the lord of transformation. No man has ever been known to lift it.”
“Then why did King Janaka,” Rama asked, “set the bride-price so high?”
“If you were my daughter,” Dasharatha said, “I would have picked a very, very difficult task too.” Father’s smile was wry. “I would want to ensure that only the most worthy could win your hand.”
“I see. It’s because he loves his daughter so much.”
“Yes. Sometimes we can love someone so much that we become blind to reality. In this case, I fear that Janaka may have set his price too high.”
“What happens if no one ever lifts the bow?”
“Sita will never marry,” Dasharatha said.
The melancholy song from Rama’s dream drifted into his mind. “What happens if Kashi conquers the bow and becomes invincible?”
“Idle threats,” Father said, clenching his jaw. “You were only seven when he made that claim, too young to realize how empty those words were. Kashi has already tried lifting the bow once now and failed.”
The commanding general arrived and was dispatched with his orders and the letter.
The very thought that Kashi was so close to the bow made Rama’s skin crawl. Rama wanted to be the one facing Kashi, shooting down his taunts and threats. Rama could see that Lakshmana was thinking the same thing, Manthara’s nastiness turning trivial by comparison. Rama’s mind dwelled on the battle and its outcome. Rama learned that politics meant to hold back and wait. Rama wished he was in the front lines of the battle but also knew it was a young man’s folly.
Eight days later, the army returned victorious with a letter of thanks from King Janaka.
The bow was safe. The princess who would never marry was safe. Kashi had been thwarted but had escaped. Like the conniving king he was, he had doubled his annual tribute to Ayodhya. Kashi had not, strictly speaking, acted outside acceptable parameters. Even princesses could be stolen against their will, so who could fault Kashi for trying?
This was another lesson for Rama; the contours of righteousness had many shapes.
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chapter 32
The Warrior-Turned-Sage
When Rama was summoned to the King’s Court, his curiosity was piqued.
He had not attended his father’s court in a long while. At sixteen, he was astute in the matters of state, and his schooling had proceeded into other fields. In the past months, the learning had centered around the language of animals. To master it required spending excruciating amounts of time in stillness and observation.
It drove Lakshmana crazy. Rama had proved especially fluent in the tongues of the five-clawed beasts. Lakshmana could summon crows. Shatrugna had seldom found anything more amusing. As usual, when Rama was summoned, Lakshmana automatically followed. Bharata and Shatrugna continued their language studies. As the brothers made their way to the court, crows and tigers prowled the halls, if only in sound.
All such boisterous behavior was subdued as they approached Father’s Great Court. Here, they were no longer boys but young men in training. As soon as Rama stepped into Father’s court, his eyes were drawn to the newcomer, a sage who had the fierce look of a warrior. His shoulders were broad and his arms strong with muscle. His matted hair hung like thick ropes down his back, and the only thing obscur-ing vivid battle scars across his chest was a wiry black beard that tapered off at his navel. He wore a piece of bark cloth around his hips and one slung across his
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shoulder. His forehead and arms were decorated with lines of sacred ash, and a necklace of large rudraksha beads encircled his throat. He was clearly a sage, but the first one Rama had met who had not always been one.
Rama could feel the power surging between the three great men in the court: Father, who looked stricken; Vasishta, who was ever calm; and the guest, who looked at Rama with the uncompromising eyes of Destiny. There was a battle of wills between the warrior-sage and Father. This is about me, Rama intuited.
Rama approached the throne and touched his father’s feet.
He folded his hands at his chest and greeted the warrior-sage.
“Rama, my son,” Father said, “our esteemed guest, the renowned Vishvamitra, has blessed Ayodhya by seeking our assistance. For the past six years, two blood-drinkers have consistently desecrated the fire sacrifice he is conducting.”
“One hundred eligible sages await enlightenment,” Vishvamitra said, “while these blood-drinkers play foolish games.”
Vishvamitra’s voice was authoritative. Rama immediately felt the urgency of the injustice being done to the sages. The harassment had been ongoing for six years, which probably felt shorter to the long-lived holy ones. Still, six years prior, Marichi had escaped from Ayodhya’s most fortified prison cell. The escape had been possible only with the help of an accomplice, the one who had impersonated Vasishta so perfectly. Was it a mere coincidence that two blood-drinkers had then start accosting Vishvamitra’s sacrifice?
Rama longed to ask this question, but Father and Vishvamitra were intent on each other, while they continued informing Rama of the situation.
“Vishvamitra’s own hands are bound,” Father said. “Although he is among the most powerful of the holy, he cannot use his powers while the sacred fires are burning.”
“Such an act would refute the purpose of the sacrifice,” Vishvamitra said. “For how can we surrender to the almighty while displaying our autonomy? No, I require assistance.”
Father’s countenance tightened. Rama felt it in his belly.
“The best fighters in my army will accompany you,” Father promised. “Take as many of them as you require.”
Vishvamitra did not even look at Father as he said, “King, I have already made my wish clear.”
“But Rama has no experience,” Father said, and all the pieces fell into place.
Rama’s eyes darted back and forth between the two elders. Vishvamitra wanted him!
“He won the archery competition when he was seven years old,” Vishvamitra argued.
Rama’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t know the holy ones kept pace with such things.
“But he has never been in combat! He has never faced a blood-drinker!”
“Isn’t it time, then?” Vishvamitra demanded, the tendons in his neck visible.
Vishvamitra’s temper was burning white hot, and he began to openly accuse the king.
“You are being sentimental. It does not befit you, a son of the Sun dynasty. If you keep going down this path, you will break your word, for as I entered this faultless court, you offered me unconditional assistance!”
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Father stood up. “I will personally assist you. I will lead the army, and we will not rest until we have destroyed the threat to your sacrifice.”
“I want Rama!” Vishvamitra roared.
The court was silent. No one moved. They scarcely breathed. The tension coiled in Rama’s system like a frenzied snakes. He did not like to see his father like this. There were pearls of sweat on Dasharatha’s forehead, and his eyes were unsteady. His spirit was spiraling down into something dark and terrible. Rama wanted to speak but had not received leave to do so.
Vasishta intervened. “It would be wise for Prince Rama to know who Vishvamitra is.
Once my rival, now a dear friend. Will the court listen to the tale of his transformation?”
Vasishta’s gentle voice had a calming effect. Father’s downward spiral stopped. Vishvamitra’s rage calmed. Rama and Lakshmana took their seats, and the court’s storyteller was called on. He stood in the center of the hall, and his eyes swept across them all, taking stock of his audience. He was Ayodhya’s best storyteller, emerging from an unbroken lineage.
“Even if I were a lion,” he began, “my tail would hang limp by my feet. My heart trembles as it realizes what I’m about to do. How can I presume to speak of Vishvamitra’s life, when the great one himself is present? And yet this story was told to me by my grandfather and his before him. I beseech your blessings, great sage. Please forgive any flaws this tale may contain. They are all mine, and I’m but a caged animal with a wilted tail.”
Rama and Lakshmana exchanged a smile. They loved this storyteller. Vishvamitra’s temper had cooled for the time being, and he lifted his palm in blessing. In a sonorous, engaging voice, the storyteller spoke and the tale unfolded, taking them all on a journey.
Vishvamitra’s transformation from king to sage was well known and took place in a time long gone, when he was known as King Kaushika. The king had reason to be proud; he had far excelled his peers in both intellectual and physical strength. But he was intoxicated by his power. His fierce temper and clear self-confidence gave him the upper hand in battle, as he never hesitated to strike. Without any substantial rivals, his pride flourished unhindered.
He became arrogant and prone to a violent temper. His one hundred sons were of the same temperament, a pack of barking dogs.
When King Kaushika went on a hunting expedition one day, he had no premonition that his life was about to change. Accompanied by his army and his one hundred sons, they trampled through the forest, destroying its serenity. The forest was crushed by their passing, and they left many dead animals in their wake, slaughtering them only to prove their marksmanship.
Suddenly they came upon a haven, a place that felt like a temple, and even the most bra-zen soldier grew silent. In the center of this sacred place, Kaushika found a luminous sage, peacefully applying oil to his limbs. The effulgent sage was none other than Vasishta, and Kaushika fell to his knees with reverence, for Vasishta’s name alone was enough to inspire awe. Son of the creator, Brahma, and counselor to Earth’s kings, Vasishta was a name all knew. Standing before the sage, Kaushika felt like a chastened child at the mercy of his 294
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father. Perhaps this was a warning, for he did not like the feeling. He was used to being worshipped, not giving worship. What was so special about this old man, who had to massage his own limbs, having no willing servant to do such a task?
Vasishta invited the king and his men for a feast, and Kaushika reluctantly agreed, knowing the stark fare that sages subsisted on. He was astounded, however, by the luxurious and rich feast that mystically appeared before them. Every man was served the richest food of his imagination, and the soldiers had never before been so pleased or well fed. At this junc-ture, Ayodhya’s storyteller described each dish in mouthwatering detail; some were entirely new creations imagined by Kaushika’s hungry army.
Kaushika fell at Vasishta’s feet, acknowledging his mystical prowess. Vasishta attributed the source of this richness to Shabala, his prized companion, a wish-fulfilling cow. She was the very same cow that had emerged from the legendary churning of the oceans, which had produced the nectar of immortality. Kaushika was stunned by the beautiful cow with her peacock tail and her ability to grant any wish. His arrogance reached its peak as he forcefully tried to abduct her. With Vasishta’s permission, Shabala produced an army of protective demons from her udders, and Kaushika’s entire army was demolished within minutes.
Enraged, Kaushika’s hundred sons turned on Vasishta; they were instantly turned into ashes by the holy one.
The sole survivor, Kaushika, was crushed. He had nothing left in this world. His sons were dead, and his sense of superiority had proved a complete illusion. Vasishta was far more powerful than he was. His ego recognized this and wanted nothing more than revenge. Like others before him, he began to perform immense austerities to achieve power, forsaking all comfort. He hoped to gain the attention of the gods. After many, many years, Shiva appeared before him and granted him knowledge of all the weapons that had ever existed. Kaushika thus became the most powerful warrior on the planet.
The years of austerity had not tempered Kaushika’s ego; he returned immediately to Vasishta’s serene dwelling. An immense battle ensued between the holy one and the powerful warrior. Kaushika summoned the full force of his prowess, while Vasishta merely used his wooden staff to deflect Kaushika’s assault. Kaushika’s venom grew more explosive when he saw how relaxed Vasishta was. The holy one remained seated while Kaushika ran about in a mad frenzy. Finally, Kaushika launched his most formidable weapon into the air. Vasishta’s eyes remained fixed on Kaushika and he simply pointed his wooden staff at the weapon. The missile froze in the air and fell to the ground, causing no harm.
Kaushika had to accept defeat once again. He dragged himself back into the jungle and commenced his austerities. Being the most powerful warrior was not enough; he had to become a holy one himself.
Kaushika now prayed to Brahma, the creator, for that boon. A thousand years passed before Brahma appeared and assured Kaushika that he had proved himself worthy of being a rishi, a mind-controlled sage. Brahma’s words only disappointed Kaushika, for he wanted to become a brahma-rishi, like Vasishta. Thus he had to continue his austerities to attain the next level, maha-rishi, and then persist until he attained the top status of brahma-rishi.
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After many trials and failures, Kaushika took an unparalleled vow: to neither eat nor breathe for countless days. The gods were shaken by his display of control and appeared alongside Brahma to award him what he was striving for. In that moment, Kaushika became a brahma-rishi and could count himself among the holy ones.
Vasishta was summoned and gracefully acknowledged that Kaushika had become his equal. Because the determined king had learned to control both his pride and his temper, he became known as Vishvamitra, “Friend to All.” Since then, Vishvamitra’s fame steadily grew, for he was a fierce protector of the downtrodden and would do everything in his power to reverse injustice. Vishvamitra did not hesitate to curse even a king if that man’s actions were not aligned with righteousness. Thus he became a holy one to be feared. Once he even created an entire new universe, but that was, of course, an entirely different story for an entirely different time.
As the tale ended, there was a collective sigh, the pleasure at having heard a great tale with a satisfying ending. The storyteller looked at Vishvamitra and received his approval.
