BENGALURU: Ramabhadra wiped the sweat off his brow. Perspiration clung to him like a second skin, his muscular body glistening with it. Pearls of sweat beaded his thick beard. He was up well before dawn. Thoughts of Ma flooded his mind, making his heart sink with worry. He had grown frustrated at his inability to do anything about it, caught between his father’s intractable nature and his mother’s quiet acceptance.
He had made his way to this small clearing in the forest, well away from the ashram, stripped to his loincloth and thrown himself into strenuous physical exercise. He was strong, he knew, stronger than any man he had met, and he had baked that strength into muscle and sinew in the fire of discipline and effort. But he didn’t know many people, given that he lived in an ashram located in dense woodland far from the cities and the press of people. His brothers ribbed him about it, as brothers are wont to do.
‘I could rest an anvil on your shoulders,’ Vishwa had said.
‘And still have room for a dozen hammers. We should give the plough bull a rest and strap you in.’Vishwa exaggerated about such things, but I do have prodigious shoulders, Ramabhadra thought proudly. He found relief in physical action, in the doing of things. As a child, he had badgered an old Kshatriya renunciate called Veera into teaching him to use a sword. The man had fashioned a mock sword out of bamboo and tried to humour the child. That was until he realised, in amazement, how quickly the boy learnt the exercise forms, how fluidly he moved, and how easily he made the mock sword into an extension of his arm.
Veera had approached the boy’s father and narrated everything to him. Jamadagni had agreed to his proposition: Veera would instruct Rama in martial arts and the use of weapons. He had set aside time from Rama’s study of the Vedas, mantras, rituals and chants for his martial arts practice. Jamadagni would watch Rama’s training, noting his skill and natural talent. Soon, he started teaching Rama the secrets of Dhanurveda and the science of weapons.
Those days held the happiest memories for Rama. He had taken to the training like a duck to water, an eagle to the skies, and soon gloried in his mastery. ‘You have the spirit of a warrior and the blood of a Kshatriya, boy,’ Veera had bellowed. ‘You are no Brahmin.’
‘Maybe I’m both,’ Rama had retorted.
Days and years passed, and finally the day came when Veera had expressed his desire to move on.
‘Kailasa calls,’ he had said, gazing wistfully north.
‘Grant me permission, Swami,’ he had addressed Jamadagni. ‘I’ve taught Rama all I know. He excels his teacher now. He’s no ordinary child.’
‘That is true,’ Jamadagni had said. ‘Go with my blessings, Veera. May you find what you seek.’ Rama had been distraught seeing Veera walk away in the distance. Unshed tears had filmed his eyes as he had vowed to honour the old man by practising every day.
He missed Veera. His easy demeanour and bellowing laugh belied his strict discipline when it came to practice. I hope you are well, old man, thought Rama. I wish we meet again someday. Dawn had broken. His brothers and the renunciates would have finished their sandhyavandana. The lessons and rituals for the day would have started too. Rama bathed in the Narmada, at a gentle ford in the mighty river, banked by armies of lotuses and lilies. Damselflies were already abuzz, flitting back and forth. The light of dawn bathed the river and the forest in exhilarating beauty.
Rama was at home in the forest and privy to its secrets. He knew where to find the Nirgunda trees. The smoke from their burning leaves kept away mosquitoes and soothed cough. He could track animals by their scent and droppings, and knew the small cave where the fruit bats nested. Once, he had spotted a black panther by the river and, fascinated by the powerful beauty of this elusive beast, tracked it across the Vindhyas for days.
(Excerpted with permission from Ranjith Radhakrishnan’s Rama of the Axe, published by Westland Books)