excuse for action. The roads were nothing better than dirt tracks. There was, however, one
notable exception — the neatly paved and strikingly smooth Rajpath, the royal road, which led
straight from the outer walls through to the opulent royal palace. The Swadweepans joked that
instead of finding potholes on their road, they actually had to search for some stretch of road
amongst the potholes! This was a far cry from the exceptionally well-planned, sign-posted,
paved and tediously standard roads of Meluhan cities.
There were, what can only be called ‘encroachments’, all over the city. Some open grounds
had been converted into giant slums as illegal immigrants simply pitched their tents on public
areas. The already narrow roads had been made even narrower by the intrusion of the cloth
tents of the homeless. There was constant tension between the richer home owning class and
the poor landless who lived in slums. The emperor had legalised all encroachments established
before 1910 BC. That meant that slum dwellers could not be removed unless the government
created alternate accommodation for them. The minor problem was that the Chandravanshi
government was so hideously inefficient that they hadn’t managed to build even one new house
for slum dwellers in the last twelve years. Now there was talk about extending the deadline
further. The encroachments, the bad roads, the poor construction combined to give an
impression of a city in a state of terminal decline.
The Meluhans were outraged. What had these people done to Lord Ram’s great city? Or
was it always like this? Is that why Lord Ram had crossed the Sarayu river to establish his
capital at far away Devagiri on the Saraswati?
And yet, as the initial shock of the ugliness and frenzied disorder wore away, the Meluhans
started finding strange and unexpected charm about this city in constant chaos. None of the
Ayodhyan houses were similar, unlike the Meluhan cities where even the royal palace was built
to a standard design. Here each house had its own individual allure. The Swadweepans,
unencumbered by strict rules and building codes, created houses that were expressions of
passion and elegance. Some structures were so grand that even the Meluhans couldn’t imagine
what divine engineering talent could create them. The Swadweepans had none of the restraint
of the Meluhans. Everything was painted bright — from orange buildings to parrot green
ceilings to shocking pink windows! Civic-minded rich Swadweepans had created grand public
gardens, temples, theatres and libraries, naming them after their family members, since they
had received no help from the government. The Meluhans, despite finding it strange that a
public building should be named after a private family, were awed by the grandeur of these
structures. A vibrant city, with exquisite beauty existing side by side with hideous ugliness,
Ayodhya disgusted and yet fascinated the Meluhans.
The people were living embodiments of the Chandravanshi way of life. The women wore
skimpy clothes, brazen and confident about their sexuality. The men were as fashion and
beauty conscious as their women — what Meluhans would call dandies. The relationship
between the men and women could only be characterised as one teetering on extremes.
Extreme love coexisting with extreme hate, expressed with extreme loudness, all built on the
foundations of extreme passion. Nothing was done in small measure in Ayodhya. Moderation
was a word that did not exist in their dictionary.
Therefore, it was no surprise that the emotional, mercurial and uncontrollable rabble of
Ayodhya scoffed at Daksha’s proclaimed intention to ‘reform’ them. Daksha entered a sullen
city, as its populace stood quietly on the sides of the Rajpath, refusing to welcome the
conquering force. Daksha, who had expected the Ayodhya residents to welcome him with
singke
(singke)
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