Tmp, p.31
tmp, page 31
239
ch a p ter 27
Dasharatha was incredibly pleased that even at fifty-seven, he could match strengths with subordinate subjects.
When Dasharatha was interrupted amid a wrestling match, he knew something important was afoot. He stood up, panting, realizing how exerted he was only in the reprieve of action. He was loathe to admit it, but the injury from the javelin wound on his chest ached terribly.
“Rama is outdoing everyone at the archery ring,” the messenger said.
Dasharatha took the linen cloth that was handed to him and stepped away from his opponent.
“Sumantra thought you would want to witness his feat,” the servant said. “When I left, he was facing the champion of Uttar-kashi. If we make haste, you will be there to see how Rama fares against such formidable opposition. All of the world’s best archers are lining up to match forces with him.”
While Dasharatha listened, he wiped his body clean, sprinkled himself with rose-scented water, and donned his crown and the golden bands around his upper arms and wrists. With practiced swiftness, he reached for his bow, quiver, and sword.
He bid his opponent farewell, promising a rematch soon. Sumantra knew him well. He couldn’t stand to miss any of his sons’ milestones. Especially not Rama’s. The messenger struggled to keep up with his stride, although his four guards trailed behind him like an impressive cape.
The proceedings in the archery ring did not stop when the king entered. The usual customs were suspended here in favor of total concentration on the warriors who competed.
Arrows flew so swiftly, no one had time even to blink.
Sumantra softly hailed Dasharatha, immediately coming to his side with folded palms.
He pointed to where Rama stood. Rama was but a small figure, armed with an even smaller bow, suited perfectly to his height and strength, but one that was surely not a match for a grown man’s bow. Dasharatha and Sumantra discussed this as Dasharatha took in the scene.
There was a long line of archers eager to try their luck against the seven-year-old prince. The line dwindled before the king’s eyes, for lesser archers dropped out when they saw one of their superiors defeated.
Dasharatha remained standing, though his legs were strained from the many challenges he had accepted. He crossed his arms over his chest, all his attention on Rama. The boy seemed to notice nothing but his targets and the task at hand. Unlike Lakshmana, Rama did not jest in between actions or lighten the mood with smiles and words. Dasharatha knew this. Still, he sensed an unusually formidable determination emanating from Rama.
“I don’t know if I would dare challenge Rama now,” Dasharatha said. “He’s on a winning streak.”
Sumantra smiled at this and did not disagree. There was something in the air.
Lakshmana stood near his brother, offering him a cloth to wipe his sweat when his hands grew slippery. There were ten targets, one farther away than the other. The last three were the most difficult. For the eighth, one had to look at the target through a mirror. Ninth, 240
ch a p ter 27
blindfolded. Tenth, blindfolded and hit a moving target, relying on the other senses alone.
The archers were now demonstrating increasingly difficult tasks that Rama had to match.
Rama’s opponent shot an arrow into the air, then launched another arrow against it, splitting his previous arrow in half. One needed the eyes of a hawk for such precision. Rama repeated the act effortlessly. Everyone applauded. There was a joyous mood in the air, the archers seceding gracefully to the boy, accepting his talent.
But Dasharatha noted instantly what Rama’s weakness was, an unavoidable result of his young age and the bow he was wielding: his arrows flew in lower arches and did not have the range that the grown men’s arrows had. Therefore he applauded heartily, knowing that his son’s victory spree would end the moment the men switched to long bows, which shot arrows traveling far distances. Rama’s arms were not long enough or strong enough to wield a long bow yet.
When Rama was declared the victor of the short bow contest, Dasharatha applauded the loudest. No child archer had ever held this title. Dasharatha was very proud and did not hide it.
He walked forward into the ring, his guards moving around him protectively. When Rama saw his father, his face burst into a smile.
“Father, did you see!”
“Certainly. You are the youngest victor in the history of the Sun dynasty. All hail, Prince Rama, the youngest champion of the short bow!”
All hailed and cheered. Rama looked around with a shy smile.
“Now come with me, my son. Let the competition continue with the long bows. I will let you crown the victor when he is announced.”
“But I want to continue,” Rama said.
“That’s not possible, Rama. You have not yet learned to wield the long bow.”
“Can’t I try with this bow?” He held forth his wooden bow with its delicate carvings.
Dasharatha looked at the weapon. A masterful bow made by the best, yes, but still only a boy’s bow.
“I’m afraid not, Rama. You would only come to fail. It is not done.”
Sumantra agreed from the stands. All the archers inclined their heads in agreement.
Rama did not. He looked as stubborn as Kaikeyi, and said, “I want to continue.”
Dasharatha felt the pressure of the questions around him: How would he respond to the defiance of his son? He pushed those questions away and beheld Rama, considering what would be right for the young prince.
“I will allow you to face one competitor. No more. This will teach you to understand your limitations.”
Dasharatha had been a foolhardy child too. He had thought himself capable of anything.
Then came the slow shattering of the spirit, the acceptance of defeat. A good warrior had to know his limits.
“Who wants to compete against me in the long bow competition?” Rama called out, his high, clear voice ringing through the arena.
242
the sum mit of fif t y k ings
To Dasharatha’s horror, Kashi of Kashi stood up. He looked delighted to have the opportunity to utterly squash the boy. “I do,” he said, before Dasharatha could protest.
“I must forbid this, Rama,” he said, only for his son to hear.
“Trust me, Father,” Rama whispered back.
“I trust you, Rama. But not your bow. Or your age. Indeed, it’s impossible. They may not laugh at your defeat since you are a boy, but it will besmirch the sweet taste of victory you’ve had today.”
Meanwhile, Kashi had armed himself and was approaching. “Worried about your pet son, Respected King?”
Dasharatha did not bother with the insolent words, for he truly was worried for Rama.
Kashi was not a kind or generous opponent. But Rama would not be dissuaded.
Custom demanded that Dasharatha and the other competitors leave the two opponents on the ring. Surreptitiously, Dasharatha raised his hand and made the signs to the guards to raise their bows and stand in active protection of the prince. Under other circumstances, he would have openly declared the threat Kashi was under. He doubted that anyone had missed the synchronous act of the guards as they stood, arrows drawn. One false move and Ayodhyan arrows would be fired at Kashi. Thus, Dasharatha left Kashi to the fate he would choose. He had never been a true ally, always the first to cause conflicts. Dasharatha forced himself to keep walking away from his son and the ruthless king.
“Your father has granted you only one opponent,” Kashi said, in that bellowing voice he had. “Aren’t you glad I volunteered? Or didn’t you know? I was the undefeated champion of the last summit. Oh, that’s right, you were not yet born then. You were not even a suckling babe at your mother’s breast. Even now you are hardly past that stage. Cried when you said farewell from your mother, didn’t you? You look like a soft one.”
Sumantra put a calming hand on Dasharatha’s shoulder. Challenging talk was often part of combat, depending on the temperament of the warriors. But Kashi was base enough to descend to goading a little boy. It was not surprising but nevertheless galling.
Rama took Kashi’s words calmly. “Your bow will speak truly,” he said. “As will mine.”
Scattered applause erupted.
“You first,” Kashi said. “Show me your best.”
Rama, who knew the theory of the long bow, if not the praxis, turned toward the targets.
Dasharatha’s heart sank. It just wasn’t done, even with a grown man’s short bow. He wanted to stand up and argue that for the competition to be truly fair, Kashi had to wield a boy’s bow too. But Rama had insisted on participating in the long bow contest. The rules could not be changed to suit the whims of a young prince.
As Rama launched his arrow, it sang through the sky. But when it was halfway to the target, it began losing momentum, as any grown archer would have known it would. Kashi laughed loudly. That’s when Rama surprised them by nocking another arrow, which hit his first arrow and propelled it forward. With a sharp thud, it reached the target.
“At the navel,” the scorekeeper declared.
Dasharatha’s eyes widened. Rama’s arrow had made it, though by way of his son’s 243
ch a p ter 27
unconventional method. The arrow had reached the target at the navel area. The customary place was the heart. But cheers still erupted.
“Pah!” Kashi said, and spat as though Rama had done nothing unusual.
He walked over to the tenth target, which was farthest away, farther than most long bows could even reach. He meant to show all of his brute strength at once. With quick movements he dispatched his arrows, one by one. To increase the difficulty, he looked away as he shot each arrow. Before the arrows even reached their destination, he bowed and walked away, pumping his bow in the air, congratulating himself. Camp Kashi alone cheered. There was a smattering of noise as his targets landed.
Ten, Dasharatha heard.
“Ten in a perfect line,” the scorekeeper declared. His voice was barely discernible, the perfect line invisible to all but him.
There was a loud murmur across the crowd. It really wasn’t glorious, outdoing a seven-year-old. Dasharatha was glad he wasn’t alone in thinking so. Nevertheless, Kashi was undeniably skilled. Dasharatha was angry, having allowed it to go this far and began ascending toward his son to escort him from the arena. But Rama walked to where Kashi had stood. He faced the faraway target, his fingers curling and uncurling around his little bow.
What could the young prince hope to accomplish? Every grown man knew that Kashi had again established himself as champion. And yet there was an intrigue to Rama’s insistence. The young prince had, after all, won the short bow title, the youngest to ever do so.
Rama, a small figure in the distance, put an arrow to his bow.
Dasharatha leaned forward, straining to see what his son was up to.
Rama jumped straight up into the air, releasing his first arrow. He repeated this movement, shooting one arrow after the other, as Kashi had done.
Each time, he jumped high and released his missile. Instead of ten arrows, Rama kept going.
Did he mean to exhaust the arrows in his quiver? And thereby prove that he had done everything in his power? Dasharatha watched intently, seeing his son jump and shoot, jump and shoot.
Suddenly Rama was done, his bow at his side. He stood unmoving, facing the faraway target. Silence descended. A pleasant wind blew over the arena. Rama’s hair and silk cloth billowed up around him. Murmurs rose.
“Ten in a perfect line!” the scorekeeper shouted in the distance.
Dasharatha lifted his arms to the sky. Impossible!
“Ten in a perfect line!” the scorekeeper shouted again, having heard no response.
A collective roar roused them all to action. Dasharatha was one among many when he ran forward to see how his little son had accomplished this.
Rama himself was nearly forgotten as they ran past him to see for themselves. Quickly, Dasharatha understood that Rama had employed the same technique he had first demonstrated against Kashi. Every arrow had been nudged forward by the other. When the foremost arrow had lost momentum, the one behind it propelled it forward, in a long succession.
244
the sum mit of fif t y k ings
The arrows lay on the ground, several paces from each other. Finally, at the target, there it was: the perfect line of ten arrows. Two perfect lines of ten arrows.
Rama had really done it. Dasharatha could hardly believe that his little son had just broken all known records of archery.
As they returned from the target, Dasharatha was congratulated endless times, as though Rama’s feat was his due. In truth, he was as astounded as anyone.
The chatter around him ceased, and Dasharatha’s eyes fell on Rama.
He stood face to face with Kashi once again. Dasharatha’s blood froze. There was no mistaking the threatening look on Kashi’s face. His hand was on Rama’s shoulder, a gripping claw. Lakshmana was unsuccessfully trying to pry Kashi’s hand off. The king was going too far.
Dasharatha sensed the tension in the guards surrounding the ring.
“Step away from the prince at once,” Dasharatha said.
Kashi looked up. “Oh, I’m only congratulating him on his victory.” He murmured something between clenched teeth.
Lakshmana paled.
Dasharatha quickened his steps, raising his hand high. “I warn you, Kashi.
My hand is set to give the signal. Ayodhya’s arrows are trained on you. Step away now, or lose your life.”
“You wouldn’t dare, with your pet son so near,” Kashi said with a sneer. Yet he took several steps away. Loudly, he declared, “All hail to Prince Rama, youngest-ever champion of the long bow, winning by fair means alone.”
The final phrase was not customary, but the people in attendance were reminded of the great feat they had witnessed. Kashi successfully turned the attention toward the young victor.
“All hail Prince Rama!” they shouted.
“All hail the youngest champion!”
Rama’s chest was heaving, as though he was angry or frightened, and Lakshmana was still pale. Regardless, both princes rose to the occasion, smiling and receiving the heartfelt congratulations of the people around them.
Kashi left without a backward glance, followed by his lot of disgruntled followers. They were not even half cheering. It was ill done. Dasharatha knew something amiss had taken place in his absence. He had never reckoned that Kashi would approach Rama before examining the results for himself.
He put a hand on Rama’s shoulder, the other on Lakshmana’s. Together they played the role of joyful victors. In some measure, it was true. Dasharatha’s praise was heartfelt. In the morrow, Rama would be hailed and crowned in the morning assembly, as all victors were.
As soon as Dasharatha could, he excused himself, saying the young princes were tired.
Along with Sumantra, he escorted the boys back to their quarters. He signaled 245
ch a p ter 27
to Sumantra to stay close and listen. In their rooms, the boys went straight to their rescued fawn, which eagerly licked their fingers in turn. Dasharatha gave them a few moments with the fawn, seeing it soothed the boys. Then he could no longer wait.
“What did Kashi say to you, Rama?”
Rama turned to Dasharatha, the fawn in his lap. “He said if I tell you, he will send blood-drinkers to kill me in my dreams.”
“He is a liar, Rama. His threat is empty.”
“Kings can lie?” Rama’s utter surprise was almost endearing. “Don’t liars and oath breakers lose their soul connection to the Lord as they are flung into the deepest loneliness in hell?”
Lakshmana nodded vigorously.
“Very good, Rama,” Dasharatha was forced to say, praising Rama’s elegant knowing of the laws. “You are right. I fear Kashi has less reverence for the laws than we do. Your knowledge protects you, Rama. Now tell me, what was his true threat?”
Rama shivered. “He said he could see I had made a pact with evil forces to get power. He vowed that when he gets Shiva’s bow, he will be more powerful than me, for Shiva is the lord of all spirits, and with that bow he plans to kill us all and become the most powerful king on Earth.”
Dasharatha took a deep breath. That was no minor threat—and directed to a little boy.
If that wasn’t a coward’s act, Dasharatha had never known one. He felt his temper arise and didn’t trust his voice to immediately reply to Rama.
Sumantra said, “Dismissing the children as harmless or inconsequential, he has laid out his master plan before us.”
Dasharatha nodded, clenching his jaw. He would have to set extra eyes on Kashi, even if reports were consistently innocuous. Kashi was too busy wreaking havoc in Kashi to be a serious threat. Still . . .
“What is Shiva’s bow?” Lakshmana asked.
“Shiva’s bow is in the care of King Janaka of Videha,” Dasharatha answered. This neutral topic restored his calm. “It is an ancient heirloom, protected vigilantly by him in the heart of Mithila, their capital city. No mortal man has been known to lift the bow ever. As the name implies, it belonged to Shiva, the destroyer of the worlds. Only he has wielded the bow, before he gave it to Janaka’s ancestors. It takes three hundred of the strongest men to lift it. Kashi’s aspirations are beyond him. And we thank the lords for that. For with that bow in hand, he might be able to carry out his threat. At present, Rama, you must know that he is nothing but a coward and a bully, despite his physical strength and weaponry. You must take care not to accept any challenges by him again. That goes for you too, Lakshmana, and your brothers.”
The princes nodded seriously. Just then, the brothers in question came bursting in, calling, “You won, Rama? You won, you won!”
