SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#2

KAAND 1

ONE

The heavily laden wagon train trundled noisily through the woods. Sunlight fell in beams through the high leafy branches of the sala trees, some towering twenty yards or higher, illuminating the dust motes thrown up in the wake of the rattling wheels. The forest was rife with the colours of spring, bright bursts of saffron, vermillion, scarlet, russet, mustard decorating the sloping hillsides across which the old trading path wound its way. Smaller animals paused in their foraging and raised slender necks or cocked furry heads to listen as the wagons rumbled past then continued their nibbling unabated, accustomed to the passing of mortals through this neck of the woods. A leopard stretched out upon a high tree branch snarled and bared her fangs silently as she paused in the act of sharpening her claws; long furrows of stripped bark and gouged slashes marked her chosen spot. After she had satisfied herself the mortal noisemakers were only passing through, not stopping, she resumed her energetic grooming, purring with pleasure as the soft crumbly bark yielded to her razor-sharp tips. Below and only a few dozen yards to the side, a mongoose ignored the sound and continued to burrow into a hollow trunk rich with the scent of cobra, disappointed to find only cracked egg shells and old sheaths discarded at the turn of the season. Suspended on the trunk of another tree, a wasp stuck in a drip of oozing sap struggled hopelessly one last time before succumbing to the treacly golden glue that sealed in its life. Cicadas kept rhythm as the forest went about its daily business of killing, eating, defecating, urinating, dying and living. Higher up the sloping hillside, a tribe of langurs dozed in the shade, dopey in the late afternoon heat; from time to time, a squabble or mating duel provoked a babble which then quickly subsided. It was too hot to fight, mate, or do much except wait for the coolness of dusk and the night when the forest truly came alive.

The wagon wheel rims deepened the ruts in the oft used path as they rolled along. Most of the occupants appeared to be coddled within the covered carts, sleeping or dozing. Even the drivers were still and silent, moving only the minimum they had to in order to keep the teams of horses in line. There were almost no arms in view, and those that were visible were tucked away in rust-rimmed sheaths and carelessly kept swaddles. At first glance, it appeared to be a traditional grama – literally, a travelling tribe, for a wagon-train was the traditional collective in which the Arya hunter-gatherer tribes of yore had moved from place to place before the relatively recent era of fixed townships and city-states. But the absence of any women, the complete lack of children, and the heavily laden carts, as evidenced from the exertion expdended by the horses drawing the wagons, as well as the covered wagons and oddly quiet procession, suggested something else altogether. There were none of the usual entourage of brahmins trudging doggedly behind the wagons chanting their shlokas either, which ruled out a religious procession. Vaisya traders returning from Videha to Ayodhya, laden with the spoils of a good season of barter? Perhaps.

At one point the path curved sharply, almost doubling upon itself as it skirted a jagged outcrop of rock protruding from the hillside. At the same time, the trees at the bottom of this little outcrop drew back, providing a roughly semicircular clearing. At some time in the not-too-distant past, two old trees had somehow been uprooted and fallen, cutting this clearing in half in a pattern that roughly resembled an arrow fitted to a curved bow. The trees were rotting and overgrown and intersected the original path in a manner which compelled all travellers to slow and maneuver their way in a zigzag fashion for a few dozen yards. Each wagon and horse rider had to slow down and turn left then right then left again, go around the edge of the outcrop where a particularly enormous boulder jutted out like the fist of the bowman preparing to loose the arrow that was the fallen trees, and then turn inwards one last time, riding in the shade of a brief valley-like enclosure between the sharp rise of the hillside here to the left and the tree line to the right, before coming back upon the original path and settling back into familiar ruts. This slowed the entire train and necessitated some concentration of driverly resources, apart from separating each wagon from the one before and after for a moment or two at each turning point.

When the first wagon completed this minor obstacle course and turned the sharp final left, the driver’s attention was immediately diverted to two figures standing upon the large boulder. The angle of the sun and the high positions taken by the two men made it impossible to look directly at them. They were little more than silhouetted male figures clad in simple dhotis, that much he could see. Both held bows loosely by their sides and bore quivers on their backs, each bristling with a goodly supply of fletched arrows. They wore no swords or other weapons that the wagon driver could make out, nor did they appear to have any other companions anywhere in sight. They stood together, facing outwards in an insolent casual posture that suggested they simply happened to be there on this fine spring day, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, and the arrows fitted loosely to the bows held in the lowered arms were simply things they happened to be carrying.

The driver raised his brows, but neither slowed nor sought to stop the wagon. For one thing, it was very heavily laden, overburdened in fact, and stopping and starting required far too much effort and energy, both on the part of the weary team as well as himself. He did not see anything that occasioned risking that much effort here. The two figures standing upon the outcropping boulder appeared to be simply…standing. If not for their oddly intense faces, he would have raised a gnarled hand and hailed them pleasantly. But there was something in their curiously identical features and stillness that reminded him of a duo of young lionesses he had seen once in the Gir woods, in the moment before they had both pounced from diagonal points, converging upon a magnificent but age-bowed stag. This pair put him in mind of that same relaxed yet powerfully gathered predatory stance. He was an old PF whose ancient war injuries had proved too restrictive for him to continue active service. He had retired on the king’s pension and now hired himself out to lead wagon trains like this one to help earn a little extra from time to time. Like all old soldiers who had seen violence explode, he knew how even the most innocuous gesture could sometimes seem provocative or hostile to a person of another culture. He lowered his half-raised hand and stilled his voice. Better to simply ride past and on. These were strange times and there were strange people afoot.

He clicked his tongue softly and completed the turn with deft ease, the wagon swinging around, rear wheels creaking noisily as it rounded the curve. The stallioni on the fore right of the team, a healthy young brute in his prime who was given to covering every female in sight if given the chance, tossed his head and shortened his steps reluctantly to compensate for the sharpness of the curve, nudged and coerced expertly by the driver. The curve done, he lowered his head and pulled hard, drawing lows of protest from his companions who were in no particular hurry to reach Ayodhya. The young stud moved as if he had an appointment with a  female waiting eagerly for him in the capitol, straining at the yoke. The old driver admired his strength and youth without envying him; he had been somewhat of a bull himself in his youth; in retrospect, he preferred the quiet wisdom of age and experience over the brash virility of youth anyday. He was distracted for just a fraction of an instant by the young horses’s antics – long enough for everything to change.

Movement caught his eye on the boulder. He glanced up just in time to see the two figures that had been standing still as statues suddenly stir to action. Both bows were raised, cords taut, and the old wagon rider looked up to see the lethal metal points of two long arrows aimed directly at him. He had a brief instant to think of his great-grandchildren back in Ayodhya and of the toys he had bought for them from the toy mandi in Mithila. He had been looking forward to seeing their faces dance with delight as he drew each new treat out of the jute sack. Those little tykes were his greatest source of pleasure in these last years. But then again, he had seen his share of happy faces. He was not unafraid of dying, nor foolish enough to risk it just to save some rich vaisya trader’s season’s stock.

He clucked the team to a halt, yanking hard twice on the young stud’s reins for emphasis – the fellow was thick-headed enough to ram into the outcrop if not corrected firmly – then dropped his hands, shaking his head to indicate he meant to take no aggressive action.

One of the figures standing upon the boulder spoke. And it was then that the driver had his first real surprise in a very long time. At his age, with his war record and lifetime of experience, he had seen a fair share of unusual situations. But it had been a long time since he had been genuinely surprised as he was now.

Because when the person on the boulder began to speak, he realized what he hadn’t been able to see before due to the angle of the sunlight.

The two bowmen were just boys.

Little more than children.

Ten years have passed since Rama did the unthinkable and banished Sita. Now, she spends her days in quiet tapasya in the remote forest ashram of Maharishi Valmiki, even as her sons Luv and Kush grow ever more proficient at the arts of war. To the sorrow of many, they seem unlikely to ever cross paths with their estranged father. Yet destiny works in unexpected ways. Rama’s growing ambitions and his war-mongering advisors motivate him to launch the Ashwamedha yojana. The mightiest Ayodhyan army ever assembled follows the sacred stallion in a campaign of conquest that seems unstoppable…until a pair of improbable obstacles arise. Defying the military might of Ayodhya and the emperorship of Rama himself, two young striplings capture the Ashwamedha horse and challenge the great army. To Rama’s chagrin the challengers turn out to be none other than his own estranged offspring: the sons of Sita! Don’t miss the epic conclusion to the internationally acclaimed and bestselling Ramayana Series!

SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
300 Pages/Limited Signed Trade Paperback Edition/Rs 400
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The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.