RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker Page A

hands and gentle voice. Dark skin and light humour.
    Rama the river dolphin. Rama the vegetable baster. Rama the minder of rabbits and feeder of fledgling parrots. Rama, friend of the forest, brother of the deer, son of Prithvi Maa.
    She touched his chest gently, longing for that Rama. That gentle man in that rough place. That warrior, slayer of thousands, survivor of countless deathly bladed conflicts, who could dance the mad dance of battle like no other warrior she had ever seen or heard of, who could face down berserkers and face up to impossible odds and still lead his ragtag bunch of outlaws and exiles to victory—bloody and painful, but victory nonetheless—and yet choose to abjure slaying innocent beasts of the woods for his supper, opting instead to gnaw on roasted yams and roots and plucked leaves rather than take the warrior’s share of nature’s bounty that was his fair due. That Rama of the forest who could stay his blade from striking down a pregnant sow that was charging him in mad fury, turn his hip just in time to avoid disembowelment by her wicked horns, twist, turn and smack her on her hairy behind with the flat of his blade, causing her to squeal in outrage and shame and flee into the dark woods. Other, lesser warriors—lesser men —would simply slay the boar and feast on the rich, savoury flesh. But not her Rama. He had perfect control of his senses, his wits, at all times and even when he descended into the maelstrom of battle lust, that heart of darkness that every warrior visited at some time, that dark terrible eye of the storm that even she had inhabited more times than she cared to remember—even then he remained Rama the compassionate, the wise, the infinitely balanced and fair, upholder of dharma.
    The way he had acted after the war of Lanka was yet another example of his devotion to dharma. Acknowledging that even a just war was a needless war; that it fell to the victor to hold out the helping hand, to offer those things that daunted great kings, that legendary emperors had been too proud to ever accept: Regret, first and foremost. Reparation. Rehabilitation. And after all was done, or well begun at least, for the wages of war took eons to be paid out fully, Disarmament. That last alone had eluded almost every conqueror since the beginning of time. Yet Rama had done it, had disarmed, disbanded, dismissed and sent their separate ways the several formidable factions of the greatest army ever assembled in mortal memory. That was Rama. Her Rama.
    In a sense, that sword was symbolic of everything that Rama himself stood for. The sword was Rama and Rama was the sword. Battered, scarred, broken and mended and broken again a hundred times over, yet fighting fit and ready to go now , ready to put loyalty before life, duty before self-preservation, dharma before all else. He was dharma’s truest disciple, most devout servant, most loyal brother, prodigal son, unswerving husband, fiercest protector…
    What else was Rama but dharma by another name?
    He opened his eyes and looked up at her. She smiled slowly, brushing away the stray hairs that fell awry—crow-black hairs that were finally washed clean of the dried juice of the bodhi tree-trunk after being matted daily with that milky, gummy fluid for fourteen years—and turned the gesture into a caress.
    His face mirrored her smile, his dark eyes not seeming as sunken as they had the day he had taken her out of Lanka, the smile less like a skull’s deathly grimace. A quizzical frown appeared and lingered. Her fingers affectionately cupped his hard heart-shaped jaw, the pad of her thumb stroking the stubbly underside of his chin, rasping against the bristling new growth.
    His hand reached up and caught her wrist. The sudden ease with which he did this, the smooth grace with which he slid his hand up the length of her arm to the shoulder, his calloused palm rough upon her arm and then her neck, made her draw a quick breath. It felt so good to be