Ayodhyā

King Pijavana had given his son a sheltered upbringing. Sudas was a crown prince who had never visited the cities of Kampilya, Ahikshetra, Vinasana or Plaksha. Even Kashi was a journey made only once in his young life. But King Pijavana could not resist the will of the Bharata Rajpurohit, and Rshi Vasishtha succeeded in bringing Sudas to Ayodhya with him.   Relations between the Bharata and the Suryavansha were always tense, owing to mutual suspicion and wariness. But there was also enough to provide for an uneasy peace between the two tribes. They shared the same enemies- Yadavas and Purus, and had the alliance of the Vasishtha School of rshis. A Vasishtha was Rajpurohit to King Bhagiratha in Ayodhya, much as another was to King Pijavana of the Bharata. Both tribes shared the waters of the Gomati, and both heavily favoured the use of horses and chariots. Legend was that when the First King Bharata was on the run from Purus, the Suryavanshi King Trsadasa provided safe passage.   “The Suryavanshi are a fierce and proud people,” Rshi Vasishtha warned Sudas. “They are the forebears of much of our traditions, and they know it. The Maharshi Vasishtha was Rajpurohit to their founder Ikshvaku, and till the Bharatas were formed the Vasishtha School aligned only with the Suryavansha. The Suryavansha established Aryavarta’s first cities, irrigated farms and built city-to-city highways. For centuries they were the only defence to the Dasa threat from the west, and their war against the Purus paved the way for your ancestor Bharata to come to power. They are the pioneers of battle- inventors of more military formations and weapons than the other tribes put together, and perhaps even of the chariot.” “That cannot be true,” Sudas interjected immediately. “The chariot was invented by First King Bharata.”  That was an established truth he learnt in childhood, and Rshi Vasishtha did not argue the point.   The journey from Prayaga to Ayodhya was no small adventure for Sudas. They travelled from Prayaga to Kashi by boat, giving him ample opportunity to spot the famed Ganga dolphins. They swam around the boat and sprang out of the water in majestic twirls and rolls, almost as if they were showing off for the humans. Closer to Kashi, the great forest of Naimisharanya extended south of the Ganga and went as far as the eye could see. Strident calls of elephants, tigers, wolves and other animals alike could be heard from either side of the river.   “The Naimisharanya was once home to savage bands of Rakshasas, Gandharvas and Yakshas,” Rshi Vasishtha said. “But the Somavanshi and Suryavanshi drove them out and made the lands theirs.”   Their boat ride ended some distance before the main bank at Kashi, but even from the distance Sudas could easily spot several golden domes and awnings in the city proper. There was a week of guided passage north, through the Naimisharanya, before they reached the Suryavanshi outpost of Koshala.   Koshala was a heavily fortified military station, and there were no commoners or traders to be found. Tall, grim men in armour and uniform stood guard everywhere, manning the gates and walls. Rshi Vasishtha carried a sanctioned Bharata seal and a Vasishtha bead- symbols that gave them right to pass through to the larger Suryavanshi Kingdom. He kept the journey peppered with historical trivia. “Koshala is named after its founder- King Koshala, grandson of the Great King Ayudha who founded the city of Ayodhya. In Koshala’s time, Ayodhya was ravaged by a mighty flooding of the Sarayu and he had to lead his people south.” The journey from Koshala to Ayodhya was conducted by horse-cart on the royal highway. Giant trees lined on either side, and thorned wires were strung between wooden posts to keep wild animals out. The entire set-up had a primitive feel, but it served the same purpose as royal highways across Bharatvarsha. The Gomati River went further and further into the horizon to their south as the cart made way to Ayodhya on a north-bound route.   “We will continue the tale of Kashyapa and Ikshvaku once we return to Prayaga,” Rshi Vasishtha said, “But I am reminded of the story of Dhanvantari- your ancestor from the Kashi line of the Bharata dynasty.” “I know of him,” said Sudas. “He was among the first of the Kashi Rajarshis, and the founder of our science of Ayurveda.” “Indeed,” said Vasishtha smiling. Sudas had an exhaustive memory for his young age. “But do you also know that in those days the word was actually ayusha, and that ayura was from Suryavanshi dialect?”  Vasishtha asked.   Sudas confessed that he did not know that. #### Year 660 of the Seventh Manvantara “The Maharshis Vasishtha and Atri worked on the Veda together,” Dhanvantari said, “our roots are bound to be the same.” King Vishala nodded in agreement, his genuine smile and easy demeanor in stark contrast to the reputation of those flaming orange, Suryavanshi eyes. Vishala was a hardened ruler, having carved his Kingdom further east of Kashi, and a few yojanas north of where the Jahnavi River met the Ganga. He was a Suryavanshi descended from the line of Sravasti- who in turn was King Mandhatra’s brother. For close to a decade he had protected his people in the Naimisharanya from Rakshasas, Gandharvas and Yakshas.   “And yet there are differences among us, are there not?”  Vishala asked. “The Grand Bharata Kingdom has grown notoriously insular about the Veda, preaching its own brand titled Rig Veda. And I hear that this is in no small part due to the royal family of Kashi.” There was no accusation in Vishala’s tone, and Dhanvantari took no offence. “The rshis Shunaka and Shaunaka do stick to a certain dogma,” he conceded, “but that hasn’t stopped rishi schools from exchanging their ideas.” Vishala nodded slowly. “And now the great Dhanvantari himself arrives at my halls,” he said amiably, “From the legendary Bharata family of Kashi.” “Not enough to match the greatness of these halls,” replied Dhanvantari graciously. “The Suryavansha are an ancient and venerated dynasty. I consider it my honor to meet a descendant of Ikshvaku.”  He meant it. “Kind words,” said Vishala, “But I fear we may be delaying the true moment. There is a purpose to your arrival here, Rshi Dhanvantari. Let us get on with it.” There was a sudden change in mood. There was no smile upon Vishala’s face now, only a grim expression that matched the Surya eyes. Dhanvantari noticed that some of Vishala’s personal guard had stepped closer, out of the shadows. “It is no secret that the Bharata Kingdom is under danger,” continued Vishala. “You have already lost the north, with this Hastina claiming descent from Puru and winning the allegiance of Plaksha and Haradvara. The Yadavas threaten you from Ekachakra, and there are still rogue bands of warriors in Naimisharanya that would swear fealty to Puru or Somavansha. You come to make friends and allies, do you not?” “No,” replied Dhanvantari. It gave him satisfaction to see surprise on Vishala’s face. “It is not my intent to discuss politics. I make my journey to your city as any rshi or shramana would. I merely thought it would be respectful to meet you, and take your permission to pass through Vaishali.” “And where would you be headed?”  Vishala asked. “To Mithila,” replied Dhanvantari, “Kingdom of the Janakas.” *** “Rajarshi Yati often speculated on this matter,” said Dhanvantari, “And there is an interesting tale to it.” “Do tell,” said King Sudhriti Janaka. “It is a well-documented fact that the Somavansha line has been characterized by grey, soma-like eyes,” Dhanvantari said. “They appeared in Pururava first, though some say that Maharshi Atri too had the silver-eyes of moon. The same eyes appeared in Pururava’s son Ayu, and then Nahusha after him. But they descended only to Nahusha’s elder son Yati, and not his younger son Yayati. When Yayati became King and fathered five sons, the grey eyes emerged only in the youngest- Puru.” “A fact that this Hastina has used well,” commented Janaka. “Indeed,” replied Dhanvantari. “But it stands to reason that if he has the eyes of Soma, then he is indeed a Puru. Coming back to the story, the patron Nahusha was fond of all his grand-children, but Puru was his favorite. He often commented that the young Puru was a mirror image of Pururava. And this is what got Rajarshi Yati thinking on the matter.” “How so?” “Rajarshi Yati gave a great deal of thought to the idea of death. Even in his time, it was simply a given reality- not investigated. The famous Nasadiya Sukta of Maharishi Vasishtha had proven to be too esoteric and obscure for the ordinary rshi. Yet whenever Nahusha would look to Puru and remember Pururava, Yati would speculate on the nature of life and what happened to it after death.” “And what were his speculations?”  Janaka asked, his eyes round with curiosity. Dhanvantari had arrived at Mithila to find a place far more serene, peaceful and pristine than Kashi ever was. Mithila had all the aura of spiritual peace without the chaos of trade and politics that populated Kashi.   “Rajarshi Yati theorized that our physical bodies are a vessel for a more subtle form of energy. Our people have known this subtle form for thousands of years. Some call it spirit, others call it soul. It was Rajarshi Yati’s belief that after death the soul lives on, and returns to this world by inhabiting a different physical vessel. He called this process reincarnation, this cycle of inhabiting and leaving mortal vessels.” “Fascinating,” said Janaka. “And how does this connect with the tale of Nahusha seeing his grandfather in his grandson?” “Rajarshi Yati’s speculated that our forefathers return as our children, inhabiting mortal bodies repeatedly within their own family lines. That was his explanation for Nahusha’s experience, and he genuinely believed that Puru was Pururava reincarnated on Earth.” Janaka chuckled in good nature. “In that case,” he said, “I wonder what happens to the Janaka Kings of Mithila.” “What do you mean, King Janaka?” “The Janaka Kings have a tradition of leading celibate lives, Rshi Dhanvantari,” Janaka explained. “The practice was instituted some six or seven generations before me, when the ruling Janaka declared that all subjects were his children, and that he needed no progeny of his own.” Dhanvantari was confused. “I do not understand, where does the heir come from then?” “The ruling Janaka King adopts a child when the time is right,” replied Janaka, “Usually an orphan who has been left in the fields. The actual bloodline of Nimi was lost generations ago, and even I was adopted by the Janaka before me.” “You mean to say that the people accept your rule even though they know that you are not of royal bloodline?”  Dhanvantari asked, incredulous.   Janaka nodded. “Each successive King acquires the legitimacy of his surrogate father,” he explained. “The people loved and accepted the previous Janaka, and so they respect his adopted son. That is how it has been for years, which is why the title of Janaka works best for us. We are born orphans, without identities or dynasties of our own. It is simply this title that makes us who we are, and so we live our lives in duty to it.” “I am told that Mithila has no army, no Law and no law enforcement. There is no King’s justice and no crime. Is this true?” “It is,” said Janaka proudly. “What is the need for crime, when the people are well fed and satisfied?  There are no rich and poor in Mithila, all are equal and all get an equal share of the royal funds. Activities and vocations are collective, from farming and mining to trade. The royal house runs them directly and the returns are distributed equally. Even the King gets no extra share, and this palace is simply administrative. Once I relinquish the throne to my adopted son, I will leave this palace and live like any other Mithilan.” Dhanvantari nodded in awe, realizing that he was in a city radically different from any he had ever visited. *** “Very few tribes build settlements inside the forests,” commented Dhanvantari. “Ikshvaku cleared the Kamyakvana of Rakshasas but never ventured in. Pratisthana was bound by forests on all sides, and now Prayaga and Kashi are, but all these cities were built amid swathes of clearing.” “It must be the Suryavanshi blood,” replied Ajakya, Dhanvantari’s guide. Born and raised in the old Videhan town of Nimipura, he took pride in being a subject of the Janaka Kings. It did not matter to him that these Kings had lost their Suryavanshi inheritance once they went celibate and adoptive. “Have you heard of the Suryavanshi settlement of Ayodhya?”  He asked. “I have,” answered Dhanvantari. “Perhaps there is truth to what you say, Ajakya. Ayodhya is indeed deep inside the Naimisharanya, and our people have not been able to find it yet.” “Passage to Ayodhya is possible only by river,” said Ajakya. “One must sail down the Sarayu from Sravasti. The forest is ruled by Rakshasas, and no man who has ventured into those forests alone has returned.”   “And what about this region?” “The Janakas have a long tradition of peace with the Gandharvas, Yakshas and Rakshasas,” said Ajakya, beaming with pride. Dhanvantari smiled. The Kingdom of Mithila lived a far more static life than that of the Bharata. People clung to older ways here, isolated from the strife and development along the rivers. In Ajakya’s world, everything had a ‘long tradition.’ “Wait,” said Dhanvantari, holding his arm out. With his other hand he pointed and asked, “What is that?” Ajakya bent down and examined the plant Dhanvantari pointed to. It was small with tubular, erect stems that branched out to glabrous leaves. The stems ended in buds that had not bloomed yet. “This is the ativisa plant,” he said after a while. Dhanvantari bent down with him, softly feeling the bladed leaves in his hands. “What is its cycle?”  He asked. “It blooms twice a year, just before fall and then after winter.” Dhanvantari dug the mud around the plant and gently brought it out with its greyish, paired roots. He extracted a pouch of mud from his sack, dug the roots into it and carefully placed the plant into the sack.   “This science you are developing,” said Ajakya, observing closely, “what do you call it, Rshi Dhanvantari?” “A true science does not get a name,” explained Dhanvantari, “its very nature lends a name to it. That is our aim when we continually refine and examine the language of Sanskrit. I am developing a science of Ayusha, the life-bearing confluence of four elements- Body, Senses, Mind and Soul. It is thus given that we call this science the Ayushveda.” “Or Ayurveda,” said Ajakya, following every word. He had impressed Dhanvantari with his quick mind, and the ease with which he grasped unfamiliar concepts. “The word is Ayura in the Suryavanshi dialects.” Dhanvantari nodded in acceptance. “Yes, Ayurveda then,” he said. *** A distant elephant call distracted Dhanvantari from his thoughts, and he turned his gaze towards the direction of the sound. On either side of them was dense forest, populated by both wild tribes and animals. The trees rose high in the skyline, casting streams of light and shadow on the water. The Sarayu river was mighty and wide, if not as deep as the Ganga or Yamuna. A day and a half ago, Dhanvantari had finally managed to convince Ajakya to take him to Ayodhya. Now they sailed downstream towards that remote Suryavanshi town.   “How did this river get its name?”  Dhanvantari asked. “There are many stories to that,” Ajakya replied, “Each as fanciful as the previous.” Dhanvantari smiled and asked, “And which one do you prefer?”  He had learnt that the man was a rational and a skeptic- he would give only a plausible explanation. “I prefer the one my grandmother told me,” Ajakya said. “She said that the Sarayu was named by King Sravasti, brother of King Mandhatra. When Mandhatra attacked the Puru Kingdoms of the south, Sravasti brought his force to Ahikshetra and beyond. He named the river Sarayu, in tribute to the distant-west Dasa river of the same name, though the Dasas call it Harayu. That Harayu was Ikshvaku’s dream, but he had to turn back east and abandon the dream. King Sravasti named this river Sarayu to honor his forefather, and that ancient ambition.”   Dhanvantari absorbed the information, always eager to learn as much of the Suryavansha as he could. His spiritual mind carried immense respect for the dynasty. It descended from the Maharshi Kashyapa, and the Vasishtha rshis were its official priests. And the warrior-consciousness inherited from his family found easy respect for the Suryavanshi Kings, starting from Ikshvaku himself.   There was another reason for his interest in the Solar Dynasty. Ever since the idea of the Prime Man incarnating as a mortal had captured the imagination of people, the prophecies were the same- that the Prime Man would descend once each in the Suryavansha and the Somavansha. Dhanvantari knew this to be more an aspiration than a prediction, a nostalgic dream inspired by the memory of older, grander times; but it interested him nevertheless. He had no doubt that if men like Ikshvaku and Pururava rose again they would easily be worshipped, and he wanted to set his sight on the Suryavanshi King of Ayodhya- said to be of the same line as Trsadasa, Mandhatra, Vikukshi and Ikshvaku.   Further down the river, they heard shrill but sharp calls of Rakshasas and several animals, and on one occasion a group of birds fled a treetop in the distance, chirping angrily. For many yojanas the Sarayu floated straight before turning completely right. Here the trees cleared a little while the Sarayu turned and disappeared up ahead.   “This is the halfway point,” Ajakya informed him, adding a few rows of his own to help the rower. “The Sarayu curves south up ahead and moves down straight towards Ayodhya.” “How does the settlement sustain itself?”  Dhanvantari asked. “Does it not need metals, food, wares and the like?  Where does the trade come from?” “Ayodhya produces its own food,” broke in the rower, “And the rest Sravasti provides.” Dhanvantari speculated on that for a while before asking, “And where are you from, my good man?” “I am a native of Sravasti, rshi,” replied the rower, “But Ayodhya is my home as well.”  Like Ajakya, he spoke in an easy and fluid dialect- not the rigid, strict dialects of Kashi or Prayaga.   “And have you never felt the urge to visit other lands, lands beyond forests and river?”  Dhanvantari asked. He found it curious that people would choose to live here, when the civilization of Kashi, Prayaga, Kampilya and other cities was not far away. “Why would I?”  The rower asked matter-of-factly. “It is in Suryavanshi lands that the culture of Sindhu and Sarasvati still survives. That is the true culture of Aryavarta, and that is all I need.” *** Ayodhya. It was visible from the distance with its four towers rising high above the tree line. Various boats lined the settlement’s banks, and Dhanvantari observed large, orange banners fluttering in the wind, though the symbols on them were not discernable.   “The Suryavanshi banner,” said Ajakya, catching his gaze. “A red horse galloping across the wide field, with Surya shining in the background.” “A design Ikshvaku is said to have invented,” said Dhanvantari. “Yes,” said the rower with a grin, happy at Dhanvantari’s knowledge. Up closer, the rest of Ayodhya became visible, and that is when Dhanvantari realized that he had been wrong all along. His mouth fell open, and he found himself numb. Ayodhya was not a simple settlement- it was a dynastic capital. This was how grand cities would have been like in the old days. The four towers Dhanvantari had spotted earlier stood at the four corners of Ayodhya. Between them ran tall, imposing walls closing it off to the outside world. In his mind he ran the names of countless cities that were said to be built like this- Prasthala, Rajavasa, Harayupa, Vitabhya, Sivobheda, Mohandvara and more. It was a dead architecture, a symbol of times more dangerous and violent. Yet here it stood before him- a city enclosed entirely within four large and thick walls. He saw archers and scouts lining the walls, easily numbering in hundreds. The only structure outside these walls was the port by the bank.   “Impressive, isn’t it?”  Ajakya asked, gazing reverentially at the city.   “You allowed me to think that Ayodhya was a settlement,” said Dhanvantari, his tone only mildly-accusing.   “I thought it best that you see it for yourself,” said Ajakya. “And wait till you step inside. Ayodhya is not a city that can be described in words.”   The rower brought the boat to the bank and two men rushed forward to pull it closer. The rower threw a plank off his boat and got off. “Come, rshi,” he said, holding his hand out. “Welcome to Ayodhya, Capital of the Solar Dynasty.”  There was immense pride in his eyes, and Dhanvantari noticed that the men who had helped the boat bank were strong, stout and clean- signs of prosperous living.   Dhanvantari’s eyes went to the bright, fluttering banners atop several large structures, still feeling partly numb. Despite the grandeur of Kashi and Prayaga, the majesty of the port city of Tamralipti and the military infrastructure of Kampilya, the sight of Ayodhya had left him overwhelmed. Nothing he had ever seen stood as commanding as the walls of the city, and the gate was equally tall and astounding. Its surface was a work of ornate artwork- with glimmering lines of gold carved intricately into fused blocks of solid metal. Solar insignia was easily discernible- a luminous, bright sun of gold was at the center of both the doors of the gate. Two leaping stallions formed an arch with their front hooves meeting at the center. All of Kashi’s splendor and golden domes stood shadowed by just the entrance to Ayodhya. To Dhanvantari the message was clear- this was where Might and Splendor resided. Ajakya led him to the busy entrance where people were lined to both enter and leave the city. A small door large enough to fit two men at a time stood at the left end of the gate. Two guards manned either end, their armor and weaponry clearly of a design different from the Bharata. The scabbard was thicker and less curved while the parts of the armour were fused with twisted, interlocked clippings. Brimming with awe and anticipation, Dhanvantari waited in line with Ajakya as the guards regulated the flow of people. When his turn came the guards stepped back, bent down and touched his feet reverentially. “Pranam, Rshi,” one of them said. “Welcome to Ayodhya. May I enquire where you come from?” Dhanvantari was surprised by the sudden show of respect from two Kshatriyas. “I come from the holy city of Kashi, Ayodhyan,” he replied. “But may I enquire in turn, why two military men touch the feet of a stranger?” The guards looked among each other, confused by the question. “You are a Brahmin, Rishi Dhanvantari,” explained Ajakya, clearly in the know. “The clan of Brahmins far superior to that of the Kshatriyas, for it comprises of Maharshis like Vasishtha, Kashyapa, and Atri. No Kshatriya would think himself higher than you.” *** At the age of seventy-two, King Ayudha was clearly long past his prime. His bald head and withered skin did him no help as he sat upon a golden throne and tried to look Kingly. A long scar ran down all along his left cheek from the eye to the jawline. And where there should have been a left eyeball, there was simply blackness. Far from a King, Ayudha looked like any of the mercenary fighters that formed the Grand Bharata army’s fringe contingents. Yet this was the very man who had carved out a capital in a place infested with enemies of all savage varieties.   “Have you ever killed a man, Dhanvantari?”  Ayudha asked in his rough, husky voice. His sneer leaving no doubt that he had killed countless. “I am a Brahmin, King Ayudha. Weapon and war are not my trade.” Ayudha waved his hand dismissively.   “Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya,” he said, “these are things for common people, for men and women of the land. It is different for the royal dynasties though, battle and death are in our bloodline.” “I cannot say that I agree, King Ayudha. A man can decide what his actions are.”  He heard odd crying sounds in the background, though he could not decide whether that was simply the wind rushing through Ayudha’s large, airy palace.   Ayudha laughed rudely. “Free will, yes- Man is master of his actions. I have heard the platitudes, Dhanvantari, but I will tell you a story. I was born in Sakala, and as an infant I was smuggled away and taken to Vinasana where I grew up in anonymity. That was the only time of free will in my life, when I could roam and do as I please. At the age of fifteen I was forced to flee again and for the next decade I was on the run in Naimisharanya- running from animals, Rakshasas, and men alike. My life was suddenly not too full of choice, and has not been since then. I did not desire to lose this eye, nor did I want this scar. Where was free will then?  How could I decide what my actions would be when my very life was in the balance?” Dhanvantari was silent, unsure of whether Ayudha’s voice carried aggression or merely passion. “My point is, Dhanvantari of Kashi,” continued Ayudha, oblivious to the awe on Dhanvantari’s face, “that sometimes the fates conspire to force decisions upon a man. The first life I ever took was in self defence. A common assassin wanted to bring my head to the Dasas for petty money. I tried to reason with him, I warned him that I could easily overpower him though I was merely sixteen. Yet the man came at me with his dagger. It was my life or his- that was the only free will allowed to me. So I ask you again, have you ever taken a man’s life?” “I have not,” replied Dhanvantari, his attention going to the crying and whooshing sounds that still erupted from time to time. “You must,” said Ayudha instantly. “No one can explore life without experiencing death. And the closest thing to experiencing one’s own death is taking the life of another. Morality need not come into it. Take a sword now and venture out with any of my contingents. Slay a Rakshasa and severe his head, then you can understand life better than you ever have. Better than you ever can by simply meditating on it.” Before Dhanvantari could reply the cry broke out again, louder this time. “Or if the thrill of actual battle is not desirable, you could execute one of my Rakshasa prisoners,” suggested Ayudha, smiling broadly. That was when Dhanvantari realized that the sounds he could hear were the agonized cries of Rakshasas being tortured. He knew then why the Suryavanshi and Bharata had never come to war- the Suryavanshi were already at war with a different enemy.