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

with her man again, her Rama. For apart from all else, he was still that. A man. Her man.
    They lay like that, gazing into one another’s eyes for neither knew how long. A sunbeam slipped through a gap in the gently wind-wafted drapes and fell upon the foot of the bed where it turned satiny saffron covers ablaze, catching the weave and warp of the colour and turning it into naked flame. Sita had been embarrassed by the first sight of the saffron bedcovers—the colour used for newlyweds, because it indicated passion and coital energies. She had been clad for so long in the deep red ochre of the spiritual warrior that the satiny saffron had seemed to blaze like a forest fire, searing her senses. She glanced down now, attracted by the warmth of the sunlight on the naked sole of her upraised foot, and saw the saffron spread glow, then turn to fire again. The fire caught and took hold of her and threatened to consume her.
    Rama’s grip upon her neck suddenly changed. From a carelessly affectionate caress it became a pressing vice. She saw his eyes narrow, sensed his body tighten. And that familiar look came upon him, like the visor of a war-helm lowered across his features, masking him with the formidable appearance of a warrior, a kshatriya, a yoddha…nay, a mahayoddha.
    “Rama.”
    The voice was low yet penetrating. It carried as gently as the morning wind wafting slowly from the open verandah. She could not see its owner, but guessed he was perched just above the balcony, on the ledge that served as a rain-ward, perhaps gripping one of the arching apsaras. But even before the voice spoke, the person it addressed had already left her side. Detaching himself from her, Rama had rolled backwards, off the edge of the bed, snatching up the sword deftly as he went, and swept out of the room as lithely as a gust of wind. She lowered her hand, staring briefly at her empty palm—empty too long, much too long—and released a silent shuddering sigh.
    There was a brief moment of silence as the caller waited for a response. Then Rama appeared on the verandah, leaned out and tapped his sword on the overhanging ledge. The sound of metal tapping stone reached her. “Come down, my friend. Join us.”
    “It’s your favourite vanar,” Rama said as he re-entered the room, the sword lowered.
    A furry body lowered itself into view, bare feet thumping onto the floor of the verandah. Hanuman parted the drapes and entered, head bent over and eyes averted sheepishly.
    “Apologies for disturbing my lord and lady in their private sanctum,” he said in his gruff vanar voice.
    Sita smiled. “You need not apologize, faithful one. Our home is yours to visit anytime you please.”
    She rose from the bed and stood, gesturing to a cushioned couch across the chamber. “Please, be seated. I will send for some refreshments.”
    She reached for the silken rope that hung beside the bed, intending to tug upon it to ring the brass bell that would summon her serving girls.
    “No.” Hanuman’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Please. Do not.”
    Rama and she both glanced up at the tone.
    The vanar shook his head. “I beg your pardon once again. I would not come here thus unannounced and invade your privacy if it was not urgent. I come only because there is a visitor. Someone comes to Ayodhya. And I thought Rama should know of it before the man arrives within the city. In case…”
    He glanced at Rama, whose face was once again shielded, she saw, by that war-mask. His warrior face. He was listening intently as Hanuman completed his message:
    “In case my lord prefers that he not be allowed to enter at all.”

    TWO

    “Who is this visitor?” Rama asked, dressing himself even as he spoke.
    Hanuman bowed his head in the direction of his lord’s presence. “It is the bandit-turned-sage. The one they now call by the name of the termite ants who built their home upon and around his meditating body, and so deeply was he lost in meditation that he endured