Bhagirathi

1. Sagara Returns

Fifty years. Fifty long years full of gore and war. He could still clearly remember the day he had ascended the throne of Kosala. The revered Sage Vashishtha had placed the crown over his head and handed him the royal sword. The sword which had been passed down over generations of Sun Kings. The sword which had been supposedly forged by Lord Surya himself and handed to his grandson Ikshvaku. Ikshvaku wielding that sword had established the great kingdom of Kosala and had made Ayodhya his capital. But on that fateful day of his ”Rajyabhishek“ the kingdom lay in ruins. It had been reduced to a mere fiefdom hardly spreading across a few Yojanas on the banks of Saryu. Ayodhya, the name literally meant unconquerable, lived under fear of siege every day. So that day he, Sagara, son of Bahu, descendant of the great Ikshvaku, had unsheathed the sword and taken an oath to restore the name of Suryavansham to its former glory. The flag bearing the burning sun would once again be unfurled across the length and breadth of Aryavrata , he had proclaimed to his courteers. With the fire of this vision burning in his heart, he had rallied his small but brave and faithful army and had left Ayodhya the very same day.

Now he was returning to Ayodhya after yet another victorious campaign. His face bore marks of innumerous scars earned in battles over last fifty years. He sometimes joked with his queens that these scars were his most valuable trophies of the wars. Long white hairs flowed behind him as the chariot bearing him sped across the roads of Ayodhya. Occasional cries of the night watchmen “Jagte Raho” were the only sound interrupting the hoofbeats of the horses. First rays of Sun were breaking through the clouds and falling on the serene waters of Saryu. He always returned to his capital in the early hours of the day to avoid all the fanfare. His army was camped outside the city walls. As the day would progress, the soldiers would enter the city leaving there arms behind. Ayodhyan soldiers would finally be able to spend a few days in peace in the company of loved ones while the soldiers from other parts of the kingdom would just revel in the famous excesses of there capital city.  It seemed to him that the city was nowadays in a state of perpetual festivity. Not that he minded but sometimes he would fear that such insouciance, such abandon might lead them back to the dark times from which he and his army had wrested them out with there blood and limbs. There was so much more left to be achieved, so many lands still unconquered.

As the palace came into the view, he could make out the petite figure of Keshini, his younger queen, standing under the archway at the entrance. Even after all these years, even after bearing the weight of having a son like Asamanja,  her gentle face glowed with an inner radiance.  Always she would be standing there with a warm and proud smile on her moon like face and “aarti thaal” in her hands ready to welcome her victorious king back. Sumati, his other queen, would of course be still asleep in her chambers and so would be her 60 sons after yet another night of revelry. Then he spotted a young man, barely out of adolescence, standing behind Keshini. Oh Anshumaan, brave Anshumaan. Sagar’s heart leapt with joy at the sight of his grandson. So unlike his father, Asamanja. One day he will be a great king but not yet. There was still a lot to be learnt and he had a good teacher in Keshini.

He alighted from the chariot with a jump, even before it had come to a complete halt and he felt glad at having done that. His ageing muscles still had some of the suppleness of the youth. Though as he landed a sharp pain shot through his thighs due to the sudden impact. They had taken far too many blows over the years. No matter how hard he trained, how much he tried to keep old age at bay, he could not deny the fact that time was not on his side. Just as the last specks of sand hurry down the neck of the sand clock, days were rushing past him. Soft touch of a hand at his feet broke him out of his reverie. “Pranam Maharaaj” Anshumaan addressed his grandfather in a soft yet firm voice. Laughing heartily, Sagara held his broad shoulders and lifted him onto his feet. “I might be Maharaj for rest of the city, but for you, my dear Anshumaan, I am only your grandfather, Dadaji. Keshini, you have been training the lad well, I can see”. Keshini stepped forward and applied red kumkum powder on Sagara’s forehead, the customary Tilak that wives applied on there husband’s forehead as they went out to battle and also when they returned home victorious. And Sagara always returned home victorious. She dreaded the day when he would not return at all for he would rather die in the battlefield then come back defeated.

“Oh dear Keshini, once again lost in thoughts of my death!”, Sagara laughed. “Hush Maharaj, one must not speak of such things” Keshini replied, hurt.   “Maa please don’t get all sentimental now, neither an arrow nor a sword can go past my Dadaji’s shield”. Anshumaan always addressed Keshini as Maa, mother, even though she was her grand mother. “Saarathi, rest the horses well. We might have to leave for another long journey in a day or two”, Sagara ordered his charioteer. “But you have just arrived. How can you think of leaving so soon? Look at your wounds!! They have not even begun healing”, Keshini objected but knew that her pleas would only fall on deaf ears. Sometimes she felt that she was not his second wife, but third. The day Sagara had unsheathed his sword, it was as if he had been bound in wedlock to it. It was never out of his arm’s reach, not while he was sleeping, not even while he was bathing. He was always prepared to leave for the next battle at a moment’s notice. All his life he had been either in a battle or riding to it.

“Keshini, we have had this argument so many times before. Nay not argument, just discussion, because my loving Keshini never argues with me unlike Sumati. You know the oath I have taken, and for a Suryavanshi Kshatriya, reneging on an oath is a fate worse than death. Time for my passing into the other world is coming close and do you want me to burn in the fires of Narka”. “NO Maharaj, banish this thought. There never was a person more deserving of Swarga than you”, Keshini replied horrified.  “No one has ever done more to uphold the name of his ancestors and his clan. When the time comes, and may it never come, Lord Indra himself would be standing at the gates of Swarga to welcome you”. Keshini looked down for a while. “I am your wife and its my Dharma to worry about you but above that its my dharma to help you uphold yours. So as I have never, I will not stop you this time also. But till then please rest your mind and body. I will get the raj vaidya to nurse your wounds.” “This is why I admire you so much, my beautiful lady. I wish I could spend the rest of my life in the shelter of your love, but ...”, Sagara stopped suddenly as if shocked by this rare moment of weakness. “Daas, get me the keys to the Hall of the Kings” he ordered the man servant standing at the door curtly and then marched inside the palace.