devatas who were the guardians of the tapovana. Their bodies seemed to be made of leaves, bark, and green shoots, the glimmer of forest streams at twilight and living flesh of brown earth.
They wore shining feathers or coats of butterfly wings and wildflowers, which grew from them as if from tree or ground; and some were clad just in the breeze. They had forms of light, shifting sky-dreams and shards of rainbows, and they came in a motley throng, singing old songs, dancing to rhythms as old as the forest. They came with their untamed hearts full of blessings for the princes who had released them from the tyranny of the rakshasas. That terror had taken root in their bright limbs, enslaving these delicate ones in torment, making all the forest an evil place. Now they were free once more, and they came singing and dancing, and some even crying for joy.
The animals of the jungle had also gathered to see the travelers off. Tigers came with herds of wide-eyed deer; in this charmed place they lived in peace, beyond the hunt. And other beasts came as well, small and great: elephants wise as mountains, vivid swarms of songbirds full of mellifluous delight, and swans and friendly geese from the jungle rivers and lakes. Some of the more frequent visitors to the asrama, who were like the rishisâ friends, had to be cajoled with many a promise that the munis would return soon. For they would set out, those innocent, wild creatures, as if they also meant to go with the journeying party. Even when the hermits and princes were well on their way, high above them they saw flights of familiar thrushes and swallows who would not be left behind. The paths of the air are freer than those of the earth!
Viswamitra walked around the asrama thrice in pradakshina. Then he strode off into the brilliant day with long strides, while the others followed, smiling among themselves at the pace he set. Of course, nobody ever grew tired: the brahmarishi had long since taught them the bala and the atibala mantras. When the sun was low in the western sky, they came to the banks of the golden Sona, and Viswamitra called a halt for the night.
The rishis bathed in the river, shot with saffron shafts of the setting sun. Standing in velvet water, they said their sandhya prayers. Then they gathered ripe fruit, mainly mangoes sweet as amrita, and lay on the green riverbank, chatting. They were full of quiet satisfaction that the sacrifice had been completed. It was a more profound achievement than any but the initiate could know. The munis were grateful the Lord of evil on earth had sent no fiercer force to disrupt such a powerful yagna as Viswamitra had undertaken. What few of his rishis knew was that Viswamitra had brought Rama and Lakshmana to his yagna not only to quell Maricha and Subahu, but to bless those princes themselves: so one day they would rid the earth of the Master of darkness himself, Ravana on his sinister throne.
By now Rama and Lakshmana had grown so attached to Viswamitra they were never far from his side. Beside the river, Rama said quietly to the brahmarishi, âThis is a rich country, Muni. Wherever they turn, my eyes see every shade of green. Tell me, whose kingdom is this?â
With a glint in his eye, Viswamitra turned to face the prince. âBrahma had a son called Kusa, who was a rishi born from the Creatorâs thought. He was a yogin, and he married a mortal kingâs daughter, the princess of Videha, to ennoble the races of the earth. Four sons were born to them: Kusamba, Kusanabha, Adhurtarajas, and Vasu. Kusa told his sons to be kshatriyas on earth, and to rule.
âThose half-human and half-divine sovereigns founded separate cities, and they had great lands around them they ruled over. This green country, Rama, is called Vasumati. Kusaâs youngest son, Vasu, ruled over this land and Girivraja was his capital.â
The river whispered along beside them, as if it heard every word. The moon was rising in the
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