Within the ashram, the princes of Ayodhya lived not as nobility, but as children of working-class parents; their royal background, in fact, was not public knowledge at the gurukul. In keeping with tradition, the princes had been accorded gurukul names: Ram was called Sudas, Bharat became Vasu, Lakshman was Paurav, and Shatrughan, Nalatardak. All reminders of their royal lineage were proscribed. Over and above their academic pursuits, they cleaned the gurukul, cooked food and served the guru. Scholastic mastery would help them achieve their life goals; the other activities would ingrain humility, with which they’d choose the right life goals.
‘Looks like you’re warmed up, Sudas,’ Vashishta addressed Ram, one of his two star pupils. The guru then turned to the chief of the tribe, who sat beside him. ‘Chief Varun, time to see some combat?’
The local people, besides being good hosts, were also brilliant warriors. Vashishta had hired their services to help train his wards in the fine art of warfare. They also served as combat opponents during examination, like right now.
Varun addressed the tribal warrior who had been practising with Ram. ‘Matsya…’
Matsya and Ram immediately turned to the spectator stand and bowed to Vashishta and Varun. They walked over to the edge of the platform, picked up a paintbrush broom each, dipped it in a paint can filled with red dye, and painted the sides and tips of their wooden practice swords. It would leave marks on the body when struck, thus indicating how lethal the strike was.
Ram stepped on the platform and moved to the centre, followed by Matsya. Face-to-face, they bowed low with respect for their opponent.
‘Truth. Duty. Honour,’ said Ram, repeating a slogan he’d heard from his guru, Vashishta, which had made a deep impact on him.
Matsya, almost a foot taller than the boy, smiled. ‘Victory at all costs.’
Ram took position: his back erect, his body turned sideways, his eyes looking over his right shoulder, just as Guru Vashishta had trained him to do. This position exposed the least amount of his body surface to his opponent. His breathing was steady and relaxed, just as he had been taught. His left hand held firmly by his side, extended a little away from the body to maintain balance. His sword hand was extended out, a few degrees above the horizontal position, bended slightly at the elbow. He adjusted his arm position till the weight of the sword was borne by his trapezius and triceps muscles. His knees were bent and his weight was on the ball of his feet, affording quick movement in any direction. Matsya was impressed. This young boy followed every rule to perfection.
The remarkable feature in the young boy was his eyes. With steely focus, they were fixed on those of his opponent, Matsya. Guru Vashishta has taught the boy well. The eye moves before the hand does.
Matsya’s eyes fractionally widened. Ram knew an attack was imminent. Matsya lunged forward and thrust his sword at Ram’s chest, using his superior reach. It could have been a kill-wound, but Ram shifted swiftly to his right, avoiding the blow as he flicked his right hand forward, nicking Matsya’s neck.
Matsya stepped back immediately.
‘Why didn’t you slash hard, Dada!’ screamed Lakshman. ‘That should have been a kill-wound!’
Matsya smiled appreciatively. He understood what Lakshman hadn’t. Ram was probing him. Being a cautious fighter, he would move into kill strikes only after he knew his opponent’s psyche. Ram didn’t respond to Matsya’s smile of approval. His eyes remained focused, his breathing normal. He had to discern his opponent’s weaknesses. Waiting for the kill.
Matsya charged at him aggressively, bringing in his sword with force from the right. Ram stepped back and fended off the blow with as much strength as his smaller frame could muster. Matsya bent towards the right and brought in his sword from Ram’s left now, belligerently swinging in close to the boy’s head. Ram stepped back again, raising his sword up to block. Matsya kept moving forward, striking repeatedly, hoping to pin Ram against the wall and then deliver a kill-wound. Ram kept retreating as he fended off the blows. Suddenly he jumped to the right, avoiding Matsya’s slash and in the same smooth movement, swung hard, hitting Matsya on the arm, leaving a splash of red paint. It was a ‘wound’ again, but not the one that would finally stop the duel.
Matsya stepped back without losing eye contact with Ram. Perhaps he’s too cautious.
‘Don’t you have the guts to charge?’
Ram didn’t respond. He took position once again, bending his knees a little, keeping his left hand lightly on his hips with the right hand extended out, his sword held steady.
‘You cannot win the game if you don’t play the game,’ teased Matsya. ‘Are you simply trying to avoid losing or do you actually want to win?’
Ram remained calm, focused and steady. Silent. He was conserving his energy.
This kid is unflappable, Matsya mused. He charged once again, repeatedly striking from above, using his height to try and knock Ram down. Ram bent sideways as he parried, stepping backwards steadily.
Vashishta smiled for he knew what Ram was attempting.
Matsya did not notice the small rocky outcrop that Ram smoothly sidestepped as he slowly moved backwards. Within moments, Matsya stumbled and lost his balance. Not wasting a moment, Ram went down on one knee and struck hard, right across the groin of the tribal warrior. A kill-wound!
Matsya looked down at the red paint smeared across his groin. The wooden sword had not drawn blood but had caused tremendous pain; he was too proud to let it show.
Impressed by the young student, Matsya stepped forward and patted Ram on his shoulder. ‘One must check the layout of the battlefield before a fight; know every nook and cranny. You remembered this basic rule. I didn’t. Well done, my boy.’
Ram put the sword down, clasped his right elbow with his left hand and touched his forehead with the clenched right fist, in the traditional salute typical of the tribe of Matsya, showing respect to the noble forest-dweller. ‘It was an honour to battle with you, great Arya.’
Matsya smiled and folded his hands into a namaste. ‘No, young man, the honour was mine. I look forward to seeing what you do with your life.’
Varun turned to Vashishta. ‘You have a good student here, Guruji. Not only is he a fine swordsman, he is also noble in his conduct. Who is he?’
Vashishta smiled. ‘You know I’m not going to reveal that, Chief.’
Meanwhile, Matsya and Ram had walked to the edge of the platform. They chucked their swords into a water tank, allowing the paint to wash off. The swords would then be dried, oiled and hammered, ready to be used again.
Varun turned to another warrior of his tribe. ‘Gouda, you are next.’
Vashishta signalled Bharat, addressing him by his gurukul name. ‘Vasu!’
Gouda touched the ground with reverence, seeking its blessings before stepping onto the platform. Bharat did no such thing. He simply sprang up and sprinted towards the box that contained the swords. He’d marked a sword for himself already; the longest. It negated the advantage of reach that his opponent, a fully grown man, had.
Gouda smiled indulgently; his opponent was a child after all. The warrior picked up a wooden sword and marched to the centre, surprised to not find Bharat there. The intrepid child was already at the far end of the platform where the red dye and paintbrush brooms were stored. He was painting the edges and point of his sword.
‘No practice?’ asked a surprised Gouda.
Bharat turned around. ‘Let’s not waste time.’
Gouda raised his eyebrows in amusement; he walked up and painted his sword edges as well.
The combatants walked to the centre of the platform. Keeping with tradition, they bowed to each other. Gouda waited for Bharat to state his personal credo, expecting a repeat of that of his elder brother’s.
‘Live free or die,’ said Bharat, thumping his chest with gusto.
Gouda couldn’t contain himself now, and burst into laughter. ‘Live free or die? That is your slogan?’
Bharat glared at him with unvarnish
ed hostility. Still smiling broadly, the tribal warrior bowed his head and announced his credo. ‘Victory at all costs.’
Gouda was again taken aback, now by Bharat’s stance. Unlike his brother, he faced his enemy boldly, offering his entire body as target. His sword arm remained casually by his side, his weapon held loose. He wore a look of utter defiance.
‘Aren’t you going to take position?’ asked Gouda, worried now that he might actually injure this reckless boy.
‘I am always battle ready,’ whispered Bharat, smiling with nonchalance.
Gouda shrugged and got into position.
Bharat waited for Gouda to make the first move as he observed the tribal warrior lazily.
Gouda suddenly lunged forward and thrust his sword into Bharat’s abdomen. Bharat smoothly twirled around and brought his sword in from a height, landing a sharp blow at Gouda’s right shoulder. Gouda smiled and retreated, careful not to reveal any pain.
‘I could have disembowelled you,’ said Gouda, drawing the boy’s attention to the red mark smeared across his abdomen.
‘Your arm would be lying on the floor before that,’ said Bharat, pointing at the red mark his wooden sword had made on Gouda’s shoulder.
Gouda laughed and charged in again. To his surprise, Bharat suddenly leapt high to his right, bringing his sword down from a height once again. It was an exquisite manoeuvre. Gouda could not have parried that strike from such height, especially since the attack was not on the side of the sword-arm. It could only have been blocked by a shield. However, Bharat was not tall enough to successfully pull off this ingenious manoeuvre. Gouda leaned back and struck hard, using his superior reach.
Gouda’s sword brutally hit the airborne Bharat’s chest, throwing him backwards. Bharat fell on his back, a kill-wound clearly marking his chest, right where his heart lay encased within.
Bharat immediately got back on his feet. The blood capillaries below the skin had burst, forming a red blotch on his bare chest. Even with a wooden sword, the blow must have hurt. To Gouda’s admiration, Bharat disregarded the pain. He stood his ground, staring defiantly at his opponent.
‘That was a good move,’ said Gouda. ‘I haven’t seen it before. But you need to be taller to pull it off.’
Bharat glared at Gouda, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘I will be taller one day. We will fight again.’
Gouda smiled. ‘We certainly will, boy. I look forward to it.’
Varun turned to Vashishta. ‘Guruji, both are talented. I can’t wait for them to grow up.’
Vashishta smiled with satisfaction. ‘Neither can I.’
Dusk had fallen as a contemplative Ram sat by the stream, which flowed a little away from the ashram. Spotting him from a distance as he set out for his evening walk, the guru walked up to his student.
Hearing the quick footsteps of his guru, Ram rose immediately with a namaste. ‘Guruji.’
‘Sit, sit,’ said Vashishta, and then lowered himself beside Ram. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘I was wondering why you did not reveal our identity to Chief Varun,’ said Ram. ‘He seems like a good man. Why do we withhold the truth from him? Why do we lie?’
‘Withholding the truth is different from lying!’ Vashishta remarked with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Not revealing the truth is lying, isn’t it, Guruji?’
‘No, it isn’t. Sometimes, truth causes pain and suffering. At such times, silence is preferred. In fact, there may be times when a white lie, or even an outright lie, could actually lead to a good outcome.’
‘But lying has consequences, Guruji. It’s bad karma.’
‘Sometimes, the truth may also have consequences that are bad. Lying may save someone’s life. Lying may bring one into a position of authority, which in turn may result in an opportunity to do good. Would you still advocate not lying? It may well be said that a true leader loves his people more than he loves his own soul. There would be no doubt in the mind of such a leader. He would lie for the good of his people.’
Ram frowned. ‘But Guruji, people who compel their leaders to lie aren’t worth fighting for…’
‘That’s simplistic, Ram. You lied for Lakshman once, didn’t you?’
‘It was instinct. I felt I had to protect him. But I’ve always felt uneasy about it. That’s the reason why I needed to talk to you about it, Guruji.’
‘And, I am repeating what I said then. You needn’t feel guilty. Wisdom lies in moderation, in balance. If you lie to save an innocent person from some bandits, is that wrong?’
‘One odd example, out of context, doesn’t justify lying, Guruji,’ Ram wouldn’t give up. ‘Mother lied once to save me from Father’s anger; Father soon discovered the truth. There was a time when he would visit my mother regularly. But after that incident, he stopped seeing her completely. He cut her off.’
The guru observed his student with sadness. Truth be told, Emperor Dashrath blamed Ram for his defeat at the hands of Raavan. He would have found some excuse or the other to stop visiting Kaushalya, regardless of the incident.
Vashishta measured his words carefully. ‘I am not suggesting that lying is good. But sometimes, just like a tiny dose of a poison can prove medicinal, a small lie may actually help. Your habit of speaking the truth is good. But what is your reason for it? Is it because you believe it’s the lawful thing to do? Or, is it because this incident has made you fear lying?’
Ram remained silent, almost thoughtful.
‘Now, I am sure you are wondering what this has to do with Chief Varun.’
‘Yes, Guruji.’
‘Do you remember our visit to the chief’s village?’
‘Of course, I do.’
The boys had once accompanied their guru to Varun’s village. With a population of fifty thousand, it was practically a small town. The princes were enchanted by what they saw. Streets were laid out in a semi-urban, well-organised living area in the form of a square grid. The houses were made of bamboo, but were strong and sturdy; they were exactly the same, from the chief’s to the ordinary villager’s. Houses were without doors, each with an open entrance, simply because there was no crime. The children were raised communally by the elders, not just by their own parents.
During their visit, the princes had had a most interesting conversation with an assistant to the chief. They had wanted to know who the houses belonged to: the individual living in that unit, or to the chief, or to the community as a whole. The assistant had answered with the most quizzical response: ‘How can the land belong to any of us? We belong to the land!’
‘What did you think about the village?’ asked Vashishta, bringing Ram back to the present.
‘What a wonderful way to live. They lead a more civilised life than we city-dwellers do. We could learn so much from them.’
‘Hmm, and what do you think is the foundation of their way of life? Why is Chief Varun’s village so idyllic? Why have they not changed for centuries?’
‘They live selflessly for each other, Guruji. They don’t have a grain of selfishness in them.’
Vashishta shook his head. ‘No, Sudas, it is because at the heart of their society are simple laws. These laws can never be broken, and must be followed, come what may.’
Ram’s eyes opened wide, like he had discovered the secret to life. ‘Laws…’
‘Yes, Ram. Laws! Laws are the foundation on which a fulfilling life is built for a community. Laws are the answer.’
‘Laws…’
‘One might believe that there’s no harm in occasionally breaking a minor law, right? Especially if it’s for the Greater Good? Truth be told, I too have occasionally broken some rules for a laudable purpose. But Chief Varun thinks differently. Their commitment to the law is not based on traditions alone. Or the conviction that it is the right thing to do. It’s based on one of the most powerful impressions in a human being: the childhood memory of guilt. The first time a child breaks a law in their society, however minor and inconsequential it may b
e, he’s made to suffer; every child. Any recurrent breach of the law results in further shaming. Just like you find it difficult to lie even when it benefits someone because of what your mother suffered, Varun finds it impossible to do the same.’
‘So, not revealing our identity is in some way linked to their laws? Will knowing who we are mean that they’re breaking their laws?’
‘Yes!’
‘What law?’
‘Their law prevents them from coming to the aid of the Ayodhya royalty. I don’t know why. I’m not sure if even they know why. But this law has held for centuries. It serves no purpose now but they follow it strictly. They don’t know where I’m from; I sometimes think they do not want to know. All they know is that my name is Vashishta.’
Ram seemed troubled. ‘Are we safe here?’
‘They are duty-bound to protect those who are accepted into this gurukul. That is also their law. Now that they’ve accepted us, they cannot harm us. However, they might expel us if they discover who the four of you are. We’re safe here, though, from other more powerful enemies who are a threat to our cause.’
Ram fell into deep contemplation.
‘So, I haven’t lied, Sudas. I’ve just not revealed the truth. There’s a difference.’
FlyLeaf.ORG
Chapter 6
FlyLeaf.ORG
Dawn broke over the gurukul at the fifth hour of the first prahar, to the chirping of birds. Even as the nocturnal forest creatures returned to their daytime shelters, others emerged to face the rigours of another day. The four Ayodhyan princes though, had been up and about for a while. Having swept the gurukul, they had bathed, cooked and completed their morning prayers. Hands folded in respect, they sat composed and cross-legged in a semi-circle around Guru Vashishta. The teacher himself sat in padmaasan, the lotus position, on a raised platform under a large banyan tree.