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

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

She held her breath as she noticed the time.

Lord Rudra, be merciful!

It was exactly midday.

What does this mean?' asked Nilanjana.

The astrologer sat still.

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

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

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

Of course I'm sure! Exactly at noon.'

The astrologer inhaled deeply and became contemplative once again.

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

I don't know.'

What do you mean you don't know?'

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

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

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

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

Of course.'

Chapter 4.

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

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

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

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

Yet, Vashishta was brooding as he walked slowly towards the ma.s.sive Grand Ca.n.a.l that encircled the ramparts of Ayodhya, the impregnable city. His thoughts were consumed by what he knew he must do.

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

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

with gold!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To its right was the statue of Lord Parshu Ram, worshipped as the sixth Vishnu. Periodically, when a way of life became inefficient, corrupt or fanatical, a new leader emerged, who guided his people to an improved social order. Vishnu was an ancient t.i.tle accorded to the greatest of leaders, idolised as the Propagators of Good. The Vishnus were worshipped like G.o.ds. Lord Parshu Ram, the previous Vishnu, had many centuries ago guided India out of its Age of Kshatriya, which had degenerated into vicious violence. He'd ushered in the Age of Brahmin, an age of knowledge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ram, Ram, Ram bolo; Ram, Ram, Ram. Ram, Ram, Ram bolo; Ram, Ram, Ram.'

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

Vashishta smiled; to him, this was a sign.

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

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

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 pa.s.sionate, 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 ca.n.a.l.

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!

Chapter 5.

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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.bility, 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.

Pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sionate 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 n.o.bility would lead to the younger princes being co-opted into camps. This malicious n.o.bility 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 G.o.d'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.'