PRINCE IN EXILE by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

all attempts to militarise and remained as spiritually pious and morally liberated as ever. 

    FIVE  
    Dawn. The day after the wedding. They stood by the north gate, lit by the soft early light. A gentle breeze ruffled their hair and clothes. Sita’s wedding bangles clinked melodiously, her silk garments shirring in musical counterpoint to the rustling of Rama’s silk loincloth. Lakshman’s saffron-coloured dhoti flapped lazily. Both sages were clad in saffron as well, although even now Vishwamitra was tying the mouth of a large grey shawl at the nape of his neck, sobering the effect of the saffron dhoti he had worn at the wedding. Enveloped now in grey, he stood with his cloak flapping, flowing beard and tied hair rippling in the wind. 
    Rama and Sita paused, exchanging an unspoken thought, then bent as one and touched the feet of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, asking the seer-mage for the ritual blessing. ‘Ashirwaad, guru-dev.’ 
    The brahmarishi spoke a Sanskrit sloka conferring long life and blessed union upon the just-wed pair. 
    As Rama rose, Vishwamitra reached out and caught hold of the young man’s hands in his own. Rama could feel the gnarled roughness of Vishwamitra’s palm, worn coarse from millennia wielding first swords and lances and now staffs and rods. 
    ‘Rama,’ the sage said in a voice that for once revealed his inner emotions. ‘I have not words to tell you how deeply I desire to be at your side tomorrow. Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to see you crowned Prince of Ayodhya. Nay, I err in saying that, for one other thing would give me that satisfaction–to tarry in Ayodhya even after your ceremonial ascendance, revelling in the spiritual hospitality of that great capital of the Kosala nation, until the day dawns of your ascension to the throne and coronation as Maharaja of Ayodhya, liege of the mightiest Arya nation on this mortal realm. Nothing else would give me greater pleasure than to see that glorious day dawn. Yet it is not to be. And so, my young prince, you must go on as you have up to now, and I must go my own way. Remember only this: follow your dharma. Whatever else transpires, be true unto dharma and all will be well in the end.’ 
    Rama joined his palms together in a namaskar that attempted feebly to communicate all the gratitude, respect and love he felt for the brahmarishi. ‘Pranaam, guru-dev,’ he said. He would have said more but there seemed no words to express what he felt. He looked up at the brahmarishi and in those eagle-like grey eyes he saw that everything he felt and could not say was understood. 
    Vishwamitra’s face settled into a determined aspect and he turned to face north. There was no raj-marg here; the main king’s highway led out of the west gate, the main entrance of the city. This was merely a cart-track, winding up a wooded slope to the base of a hill, the first of many that grew eventually until they became the foothills of the great Himalayas. Used more by holy men than merchants or soldiers, it was little trodden, and overgrown. Even this close to the city, the woods encroached upon it from either side, elms, pines and firs leaning restrictively. 
    Rama couldn’t help but notice that the curving line of the raj-marg resembled the letter of the Sanskrit alphabet that signified sacred Aum, the syllable of transcendence. He wondered if some Mithilan road architect, centuries earlier, had designed it thus, or if it was simply to accommodate the lie of the land. He would ask Sita about it later. The minutiae of history had always fascinated him, especially the attempts of men through the ages to shape their environs in a manner that reflected their own culture. 
    Brahmarishi Vishwamitra looked back one last time at the quartet gathered on the northern knoll. His eyes met Rama’s gaze and for an instant Rama clearly felt the searchlight of the seer’s soul pass across his mind, like the spill of a blazing mashaal in the dark of