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Though Rama had often sensed his innate powers, the summit put his prowess into the open for all to see. He understood and accepted that he had the makings of a true king. Lakshmana smiled from the sidelines, as though he’d always known this.
On the last day of the summit, Kashi attacked. The final feast and the celebration of champions were well under way, with the royal musicians and the voices of hundreds of people laughing and conversing creating a din. Kashi’s first blast of soldiers was subdued by the archers along the walls, and the warnings stormed into the arena. Rama and every other king set down their cups and stood at once. Entire tables overturned and cups and platters crashed to the floor. The musicians paused, hands in the air. A split second of silence confirmed that an army was approaching. The noise in the hall doubled and tripled.
Oaths and calls of outrage filled the arena, and Rama roared his first order: “Send word to Ayodhya! Bring forth the troops!”
He pointed to Shatrugna, who bowed and ran out. Next, he turned to the kings and proclaimed, “In the name of my father, King Dasharatha, emperor of the world, I command you to fight with me or retreat with Shatrugna into the safety of Ayodhya’s walls. The choice is yours. The time is now.”
All but two elderly kings bowed their heads, placing their hands on their swords.
“We will bring you to safety within Ayodhya,” Rama promised, looking at the two who abstained. “Bharata, you and Shatrugna will lead Ayodhya’s troops. Those who will fight with me, arm yourself and your men. We meet in the courtyard as soon as you are armed.
Lakshmana, come with me.”
The kings and their men left in a hurry. Although they all carried arms at all times, a battle required armor and an arsenal of weapons. Even in a crisis like this, it would take several long minutes to don the necessary gear.
Rama and Lakshmana threw on their chain mail, arm guards, finger guards, and helmets emblazoned with the Sun dynasty crest. Their attendants gathered their swords, shields, quivers, bows, and assortment of other weapons, carrying them to the awaiting chariot.
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Horses and chariots were made ready, and Rama beheld the men at his disposal. They were far outnumbered. The dust storm in the distance warned of a very large army advancing.
Kashi was putting all his resources into this attack. Rama placed his hand on the ground and listened, as his father had taught him to do. Kashi’s troops numbered in the thousands and would be upon them in less than an hour’s time.
The summit was not prepared for a battle of this magnitude. Though Ayodhya’s troops were close at hand, Rama knew that it would take at least two hours for them to mobilize and reach the summit. Rama took some solace in the presence of the mantra missiles Vishvamitra had imparted to him.
Rama quickly formed a plan. He could take on the army by himself, launching his arsenal of magical missiles, all of them lethal. But the strategist in him could not forsake the opportunity to rally the kings together under one umbrella. They could not, however, take a stance against the oncoming army at the summit. In quick words, he consulted Prince Yuddhajit and King Janaka, his closest relatives at the summit. They agreed with Rama’s plan. Standing on his chariot, Rama called out his orders to the forty-seven remaining kings, splitting them into four divisions.
Rama took the reins of his chariot and led the way, heading out from the summit. As they reached the riverbanks of the Sarayu, Rama invoked Manu’s missile and unleashed it on the Sarayu. Meekly, the river parted.
“Go!” Rama cried to his small army of kings. He did not know how long Manu’s missile could uphold its feat. “I will cross last,” he said, urging the others to proceed.
Prince Yuddhajit galloped across, and every man followed. Finally Guha crossed.
The wind greeted Rama as the chariot flew across the river bottom. Sprays of water splashed his face. On either side of him the water flowed ferociously.
Reaching the other shore, Rama recalled Manu’s missile, and the path disappeared, as if it had never been. As the kings took their stance, they saw Kashi’s troops surrounding the summit, discovering quickly that it was empty. Kashi’s soldiers lined up on the banks of Sarayu, hurling insults across the water. Rama waited. Kashi’s troops parted, letting their king through. Kashi rode an elephant and appeared gigantic next to the foot soldiers. Kashi gave his command, and his troops surged forward, headlong into the Sarayu. The current carried them away at once. Even the strongest swimmer would come to shore far downriver.
Rama smiled. His army patiently waited.
The horses began to nicker and paw at the ground with impatience. Still, Rama commanded them to wait. It was not pleasant to watch soldiers drown by the hundreds, but Rama would not have commanded his own troops to cross a swiftly flowing river. He had counted on Kashi’s bloodthirst and impulsive thinking. Eventually Kashi, along with a score of warriors, emerged on the shore, drenched to the bone, hair plastered to their skulls. Now their numbers were more evenly matched. Ayodhya’s troops on the other side would demolish the rest of Kashi’s army.
Kashi had abandoned his elephant midstream and was mounting a horse while calling out orders to his soldiers. They organized into a protective formation around him, working 382
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as a human shield. The kings around Rama cursed Kashi. It was understood that if Kashi won this battle, every single person present would have to bow their heads at his feet.
Rama did not have to issue further commands to the veteran warriors. Weapons were launched and the two forces charged at each other. Kashi was as eager to kill Rama as Rama was to kill him. The two immediately found each other and began the dance of death. Kashi ignored Rama’s body and shot Rama’s bow out of his hands. Rama’s shield caught the next volley of arrows as he reached for his other bow. Rama shot off Kashi’s crown and his armor, and smashed all his weapons. Kashi did the same to Rama.
When Rama summoned one of his divine missiles, Kashi counteracted it with spells of his own. The air crackled with dark magic. Rama sent the missile of Agni, fire shooting from the tip of his arrow. Kashi’s arrow released a dark shadow that swallowed and suffocated the fire. Divine missiles were subdued by demoniac ones, light swallowed by darkness. Eventually the battle was reduced to Rama and Kashi circling each other, swords in hand, as it should have been from the start. The surviving kings formed a circle around the two, witnessing the battle.
When Rama struck his death blow, Kashi did not fall to the ground like a common man.
He exploded, spraying Rama with blood from head to toe. The form of Kashi’s spirit body became visible, a dark mass that should have been invisible to the mortal eye. Whispering threats in a language not human, the spirit swept across them before slowly dissipating.
Had they harbored a demon in their midst?
“Victory,” one of the kings called in a subdued voice.
Rama raised his sword in the air and repeated, “Victory!”
When he smiled, the dead man’s blood seeped into his mouth. Rama spit it out and mounted his horse, picking up Kashi’s crown. The battle on the other side of the bank was still going on. Rama could hear his brothers’ voices across the Sarayu. Rama rode like a demon, invoking Manu’s missile again, and galloped onto the other side, the dead king’s crown held high.
Without their king, Kashi’s troops had no reason to fight. The battle was over. Lakshmana herded together the defeated troops. The surviving kings rode behind Rama. Together the victorious entered Ayodhya, emitting cries of victory. King Dasharatha rode to meet them.
Flowers rained down on them, bugles and conch shells blew, and drums resounded. Rama had led them to victory!
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chapter 45
Sita’s Premonition
he celebration of Rama’s victory extended over three days. Ayodhya reveled in This glory; the story was told and retold. Dancers enacted the scene; singers composed songs; actors created elaborate enactments. The queens and princesses were given lavish silks; the priests were given milk cows, and every citizen in Ayodhya received a gift suited to his or her needs. King Dasharatha spared no cost in celebrating Rama’s success. Throughout this, Sita stood at Rama’s side, thanking citizens, smiling, and receiving gifts on his behalf. She longed to be alone with Rama. Only he could thaw the ice that had been around her heart since she read that passage in Ayodhya’s history. Rani’s heartfelt sharing had only fueled Sita’s anger.
Finally, finally, the hour came. On the third day of celebration, Sita and Rama retreated to their palace. The crowds of friends thinned from their quarters. Rama, eager to be with Sita, excused himself from his duties and social obligations.
The doors to their chamber closed. After the servants assisted them in untying and removing their luxurious silks and jewels, Sita dismissed them. The murmur of voices receded.
Sita asked Rama to sit and rubbed healing oil into his neck and shoulders. She enjoyed the feel of his smooth skin and strong muscles. For a few minutes, a sweet silence held them as Rama sighed and relaxed under her hands.
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Then he asked, “What is it, my love?”
“How did you know, Rama?”
Sita looked at the curve of his ear and the curls of his black hair. Even from behind, he was alluring. She continued to massage his shoulders, but marveled that he knew her heart.
She did not want to be anything but gracious and forthcoming to their friends and well-wishers. She had been careful to keep her private turmoil to herself.
“I know everything,” Rama said in a light voice.
“I hoped you would say that.”
Even though part of her simply wanted to revel in his company, she dried her hands of oil and brought forth the book that had chilled her so. Without words, she opened the pages and placed the book in Rama’s lap.
“Ayodhya’s history,” Rama said, immediately recognizing the text. “My father’s great deeds.”
Sita was silent. She could see Rama’s eyes quickly scanning the open pages. When he was done, he closed the book and looked up at her.
“I will never let that happen to you,” he said, as if swearing a solemn promise.
Sita sank onto her knees and sought refuge in Rama’s lap. Instead, she made contact with the book that had haunted her. She wanted to fling the book away or burn it. But that would not change the past or the feelings that exploded in Sita’s heart.
“It’s not what happened that scares me,” she said. “The men on Earth had no power to stop Ravana. Your father says so clearly, in the passage. I can understand how helpless he felt from his words. Ravana is the king of the blood-drinkers. No one can stop him.”
Rama clenched his jaw.
“It was this which really chilled my heart.” She quickly flipped the pages to find what she was looking for. “Here.”
Her finger rested on a letter from one of the citizens, a man named Lochana. She didn’t look at the record. She had already memorized it. “‘My wife is dead,’ he writes. How could he say that! How could he swear before the fire to protect her and then dismiss her as dead!”
“Perhaps she was dead,” Rama said, in a neutral voice.
“Perhaps she had been tortured and mistreated and needed nothing but her home and her husband’s love!” Sita countered. “Did you know that Rani, our powerful little Rani, who knows how to do everything, was one of the victims? Her family shunned her, without even listening to her side of the story. She was only ten years old! I made her tell me everything.
Every single detail. It’s impossible to exonerate Ravana, ever. He must be held accountable.
And Rani must be fully embraced.”
Sita was so angry. She had been angry for days.
“You are angry,” Rama stated.
“Yes! It is not fair! All these women were abducted. They were innocent. They did not ask Ravana to take them. They did not go of their own free will. The women were terrified and praying for their lives.”
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“Sita, Father and his ministers took all of this into account. It was a difficult time for everyone on Earth. Families were destroyed.”
“King Dasharatha and Queen Kausalya did what they could to counteract the damage. But those families destroyed themselves the moment they closed the doors on their innocent wives!”
Rama lifted his hands, shielding himself from her accusations. She took a deep breath.
“Come here,” he said, taking the book from her and pulling her into his lap.
She was enveloped by the comforting scent of Rama, with its intoxicating fragrance. She leaned her cheek against his, bringing forth the question that really haunted her. “Rama . . .”
she hesitated.
“I told you,” he said. “I will never allow this to happen to you.”
“You cannot protect me from everything. I’m sure these women had valiant husbands too.”
“I can and I will,” he said stubbornly.
“But Rama, when I read this, I was overwhelmed by a strange feeling, as if I was one of these women in my last life. It was like looking into the future or the past. The feeling was so strong.”
She turned to look into Rama’s eyes. He shook his head. He didn’t want to believe her premonition.
“What would you do, Rama, if I was taken by someone like Ravana and then escaped and came back to you?”
Rama’s answer shocked Sita more than anything else.
“I don’t know,” he said—the first time Sita had heard him say those words. Rama always knew. He knew everything. He was a treasure house of knowledge, always knowing what to say and what to do. He made it his business to know the right words to say and the right questions to ask.
“You—you don’t know?” Sita stammered, her eyes growing wide like never before.
For a long time silence wrapped itself around them, speaking to each of them privately.
They both rose silently and moved to the alcove, with its night-blooming jasmine. The book was in Rama’s hands still, the topic all but closed. Crickets chirped, and the stars twinkled in the night sky. Sita began to think Rama simply had no more to say on the topic, when his deep voice filled the emptiness.
“The night before our wedding, I could not sleep,” he said. “I paced up and down in Videha’s royal garden, below the rooms where my brothers slept soundly. The next day I would be married. The moon illuminated the starry sky. The stars twinkled, just like tonight. I had known you for only five days, but I knew more about myself already. I knew that I had become whole in a way that I had not been before. Every good quality I had was illuminated and highlighted in your presence. I wanted to be the best man on Earth for you. I had no misgivings, no apprehensions, no doubts about this union with you.
“When I saw all those kings ready to claim your hand, I was ready to battle every single 387
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king on Earth for you. I didn’t even remember Father in those moments when I approached Shiva’s bow. There was only me, the bow, and my unstoppable desire to protect you from the unwanted eyes that were on you. It was an irresistible urge.”
Sita looked at Rama without smiling. The words were too life giving. She wanted to close her eyes and wrap herself in his words forever.
“Thinking of you,” he said, “I was so content on that night before our wedding. Yet there was something that kept me awake. It evaded me at first, as far off as a star in the sky. I couldn’t simply pluck it from its place and examine it. It was a puzzle, and every time I completed a round in the gardens, I had found another piece.”
Rama took a deep breath. “The first piece was my mother’s sadness, though she hid it from me, and still does, behind her kind demeanor. She has never spoken of it to me. But I have seen how Mother looks at Father, how she becomes nervous in his presence, how she always tries to stay in his company as long as she can. She would always look at the doorway after he was gone, as though she hoped he would return. If Kausalya was my only mother, I might have simply thought mothers were like this, having their secret sorrows. But I had seen Kaikeyi’s zest for life, the way she enjoys everything she does. It did not escape my notice that Father favors Kaikeyi, that he seeks out only her company. I have never seen Kaikeyi sad. Father makes sure she never is. I had always thought that when I was a grown man, I would understand more. But now that day was here, and after several rounds in the garden I knew this: Mother was unhappy because Father did not love her the way he loved Kaikeyi.
Kaikeyi was happy because Father loved her. Father felt torn about his own actions. Finally, I held the star in my hand. Standing there in your gardens, Sita, I held the final piece to the clarity I sought.”
His luminous eyes settled on her. “Remember the vow I made on our wedding day before the sacred fires?”
“That you would love and marry only me?” she whispered.
He nodded. “That was the star I held in my hand. The knowing I received from deep within. I never want to subject you to torment, Sita. I never want to divide my affection between you and another woman. I never want any wife but you. My brothers might choose differently. They might, like Father and most other kings, marry several wives, for personal or political reasons. But I will not. And so I made that vow, then and there to the sky, the Earth, and the universe. I held the words close to my heart, and I longed for the opportunity to say the words to you. When we stood with the fire as a witness and I declared my intention, I was bound by my love and my vow. You will be my one and only love. If anything happened to you . . . if anything like this”—he swept his hand across the page—“happened to you . . .”
