that he needed to be alone. Wearing a cravat and a loose shawl for protection, with a sword
and shield for abundant precaution, Shiva ambled along, taking in the strange sights and smells
of the Chandravanshi capital. Nobody recognised him. He liked it that way.
The Ayodhyans seemed to live their life without even the slightest hint of self-control. Loud
emotional voices assaulted Shiva’s ears as if a hideous orchestra was trying to overpower the
senses. The common people either laughed like they had just gulped an entire bottle of wine or
fought like their lives depended on it. Shiva was pushed and barged on several occasions by
people rushing around, hurling obscenities and calling him blind. There were manic shoppers
bargaining with agitated shopkeepers at the bazaar and it almost seemed like they would come
to blows over ridiculously small amounts of money. For both the shoppers and shopkeepers,
the harried negotiation wasn’t about the cash itself. It was about their honour in having struck a
good bargain.
Shiva noticed a large number of couples crowded into a small garden on the side of the road
doing unspeakable things to each other. They seemed to brazenly disregard the presence of
voyeuristic eyes on the street or in the park itself. He noticed with surprise that the eyes staring
from the street were not judgemental, but excited. Shiva noted the glaring contrast with the
Meluhans who would not even embrace each other in public.
Shiva suddenly started in surprise as he felt a feminine hand brush lightly against his
backside. He turned sharply to notice a young woman grin back at him and wink. Before Shiva
could react, he spotted a much older woman walking right behind. Thinking of her to be the
younger woman’s mother, Shiva decided to let the indiscretion pass for fear of causing any
embarrassment. As he turned, he felt a hand on his backside again, this time more insistent and
aggressive. He turned around and was shocked to find the mother smiling sensuously at him. A
flabbergasted Shiva hurried down the road, escaping the bazaar before any more passes could
stun his composure.
He continued walking in the direction of the towering Ramjanmabhoomi temple. As he
approached, the unassailable jangle of Ayodhya dimmed significantly. This was a quiet
residential area of the city. Probably for the rich, judging by the exquisite mansions and the
avenues. Turning to the right, he came upon the road which led to his destination. It curved
smoothly up the hill, caressing its sides in a sensuous arc. This was probably the only road in
Ayodhya, besides the Rajpath, not pitted with potholes. Magnificent gulmohur trees rose
brilliantly along the flanks of the road, their dazzling orange leaves lighting the path for the
weary and the lost. The path leading towards their answers. The path to Lord Ram.
Shiva closed his eyes and took a deep breath as anxiety gnawed at his heart. What would
he find? Would he find peace? Would he find answers? Would he, as he hoped, find that he had
done some good? Good that wasn’t visible to him right now. Or would he be told that he had
made a terrible mistake and thousands had died a senseless death? Shiva opened his eyes
slowly, steeled himself and began walking, softly repeating the name of the Lord.
Ram. Ram. Ram. Ram.
A little distance up, Shiva’s chant was disturbed. At an arched twist of the road, he saw an
old, shrivelled man, who appeared like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He had a wound on his ankle
which had festered because of the humidity and neglect. He was dressed in a torn jute sack,
tied precariously at his waist and hung from his shoulders with a hemp rope. Sitting on the
sidewalk, his sinewy right hand scratched vigorously at his head, disturbing the lice going about
their job diligently. With his weak left hand, he precariously balanced a banana leaf which held a
singke
(singke)
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