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-assured. 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 massive Grand Canal

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 Canal. He raised his eyes towards the

exquisite ceiling that ran along the canal'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 canal 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 circumnavigated 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 massive that for the firstfew 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 canal 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 canal in

the four cardinal directions. The roads that emerged from these bridges led into the city

through four massive 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 canal itself.

Even so, to consider this Grand Canal a mere defensive structure was to do it a

disservice. The Ayodhyans also looked upon the canal as a religious symbol. To them,

the massive canal, 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 Gods, the One God, 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 Gods. These Gods among men had been immortalised in great

temples across Ayodhya. Small islands had been constructed within the Grand Canal as

well, on which temples had been built in honour of these Gods.

Vashishta, however, knew that despite all the symbolism and romance, the canal 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 canals radiated out of the Grand Canal 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 massive 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: massive temples, palaces,

public baths, theatres and market places were built. Sheer poetry in stone, thesebuildings 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 Canal. 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 Gods such as Indra, and the ancestors of kings who ruled Ayodhya, all

the way up to the first, the noble Ikshvaku. The ceiling was divided into separate

sections and, at the centre of each was a massive 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 God, 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 canal. 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 title

accorded to the greatest of leaders, idolised as the Propagators of Good. The Vishnus

were worshipped like Gods. 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 title

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 outersurface 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 Canal 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 canal 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 canal 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 passes the

final judgement.

Vashishta scooped some mud from the canal 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 Gods 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, individualdharma, 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.

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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!