Radhika seemed hesitant.
‘You would not have spoken about the Ayodhya princes had your father not allowed you to do so,’ said Sita. ‘And, I am sure that he would have expected me to ask this question. So, he wouldn’t have sent you to meet me unless he was prepared to reveal his true identity. Tell me, who is he?’
Radhika paused for a few moments. ‘Have you heard of Lady Mohini?’
‘Are you serious?’ asked Sita. ‘Who hasn’t heard of her, the great Vishnu?’
Radhika smiled. ‘Not everyone considers her a Vishnu. But the majority of Indians do. I know that the Malayaputras revere her as a Vishnu.’
‘So do I.’
‘And so do we. My father’s tribe is the one Lady Mohini left behind. We are the Valmikis.’
Sita sat up straight. Shocked. ‘Wow!’ Just then another thought struck her. ‘Is your uncle, Vayu Kesari, the father of Hanu bhaiya?’
Radhika nodded. ‘Yes.’
Sita smiled. ‘That’s why …’
Radhika interrupted her. ‘You are right. That is one of the reasons. But it’s not the only one.’
Chapter 13
‘Chief Varun,’ said Vashishtha, as he came to his feet and folded his hands into a respectful Namaste.
Varun had just returned from Mithila. And, Guru Vashishtha had been expecting a visit from him.
Vashishtha was much taller than Varun. But far thinner and leaner compared to the muscular and sturdy tribal chief.
‘Guru Vashishtha,’ said Varun, returning Vashishtha’s greeting politely. ‘We need to talk in private.’
Vashishtha was immediately wary. He led the chief out to a quieter spot.
Minutes later, they sat by the stream that flowed near the ashram, away from the four students, as well as others who might overhear them.
‘What is it, Chief Varun?’ asked Vashishtha, politely.
Varun smiled genially. ‘You and your students have been here for many years, Guruji. I think it’s time we properly introduce ourselves to each other.’
Vashishtha stroked his flowing, snowy beard carefully, feigning a lack of understanding. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean … for example, the princes of Ayodhya do not have to pretend to be the children of some nobles or rich traders anymore.’
Vashishtha’s thoughts immediately flew to the four boys. Where were they? Were they being rounded up by Varun’s warriors? Chief Varun’s tribe was not allowed, according to their traditional law, to help any Ayodhyan royals.
Perhaps, I wasn’t so clever after all. I thought we would be safe if we just stayed away from the areas under Lankan or Malayaputra influence.
Vashishtha leaned forward. ‘If you are concerned about your laws, you must also remember the one that states that you cannot harm the people you accept as your guests.’
Varun smiled. ‘I intend no harm either to you or your students, Guruji.’
Vashishtha breathed easy. ‘My apologies, if I have offended you. But I needed a place that was … safe. We will leave immediately.’
‘There is no need to do that either,’ said Varun, calm. ‘I do not intend to kick you out. I intend to help you, Guruji.’
Vashishtha was taken aback. ‘Isn’t it illegal for you to help the Ayodhya royalty?’
‘Yes, it is. But there is a supreme law in our tribe that overrides every other. It is the primary purpose of our existence.’
Vashishtha nodded, pretending to understand, though he was confused.
‘You must know our war cry: Victory at all costs … When war is upon us, we ignore all the laws. And a war is coming, my friend …’
Vashishtha stared at him, completely flummoxed.
Varun smiled. ‘Please don’t think I am unaware that my Vayuputra nephew steals into your ashram regularly, late at night, thinking we wouldn’t notice. He thinks he can fool his uncle.’
Vashishtha leaned back, as a veil seemed to lift from his eyes. ‘Hanuman?’
‘Yes. His father is my cousin.’
Vashishtha was startled, but he asked in an even tone. ‘Is Vayu Kesari your brother?’
‘Yes.’
Varun was aware of the bond that Hanuman and Vashishtha shared. Many years ago, the guru had helped his nephew. He chose not to mention it. He knew the situation was complicated.
‘Who are you?’ Vashishtha finally asked.
‘My full name is Varun Ratnakar.’
Suddenly, everything fell into place. Vashishtha knew the significance of that second name. He had found allies. Powerful allies. By pure chance.
There was only one thing left to do. Vashishtha clasped his right elbow with his left hand and touched his forehead with the clenched right fist, in the traditional salute of Varun’s tribe. Respectfully, he uttered the ancient greeting. ‘Jai Devi Mohini!’
Varun held Vashishtha’s forearm, like a brother, and replied, ‘Jai Devi Mohini!’
Indians in the Sapt Sindhu have a strange relationship with the Sun God. Sometimes they want him, at other times, they don’t. In summer, they put up with his rage. They plead with him, through prayers, to calm down and, if possible, hide behind the clouds. In winter, they urge him to appear with all his force and drive away the cold fury of the season.
It was on one such early winter day, made glorious by the energising sun, when Sita and Samichi rode out into the main palace garden. It had been refurbished recently on Sita’s orders. The two had decided on a private competition — a chariot race. It was a sport Sita truly enjoyed. The narrow lanes of the garden would serve as the racing track. They had not raced together in a long time. And, they had never done so in the royal garden before.
The garden paths were narrow, hemmed in with trees and foliage. It would require considerable skill to negotiate them in a chariot. The slightest mistake would mean crashing into trees at breakneck speed. Dangerous … And, exhilarating.
The risk of it, the thrill, made the race worthwhile. It was a test of instinct and supreme hand-eye coordination.
The race began without any ceremony.
‘Hyaah!’ screamed Sita, whipping her horses, instantly urging them forward.
Faster. Faster.
Samichi kept pace, close behind. Sita looked back for an instant. She saw Samichi swerving her chariot to the right. Sita looked ahead and pulled her horses slightly to the right, blocking Samichi’s attempt to sneak past her at the first bend.
‘Dammit!’ screamed Samichi.
Sita grinned and whipped her horses. ‘Move!’
She swung into the next curve without reining her horses in. Speeding as her chariot swerved left. The carriage tilted to the right. Sita expertly balanced her feet, bending leftwards to counter the centrifugal forces working hard on the chariot at such fast speeds. The carriage balanced itself and sped ahead as the horses galloped on without slowing.
‘Hyaah!’ shouted Sita again, swinging her whip in the air.