Lard Ram will help you. He will guide you. He will soothe you. Go to him.

It was the third hour of the third prahar when Shiva stole into the chaotic Ayodhya streets by himself. He was on his way to meet Lord Ram. Sati had not offered to come along. She knew 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 piece of bread and gruel. It looked like the kind of food distributed at cheap restaurants on the donations of a few kindly or guilty souls. The kind of food that would not even be fed to animals in Meluha.

Intense anger surged through Shiva. This old man was begging, nay suffering, at the doors of Lord Ram’s abode and nobody seemed to care. What kind of government would treat its people like this? In Meluha, the government assiduously nurtured all its citizens. There was enough food for everyone. Nobody was homeless. The government actually worked. This old man would not have had to endure this humiliation if he lived in Devagiri!

The anger in Shiva gave way to a flood of positive energy, as he realised that he had found his answer. He knew now that Parvateshwar was right. Maybe the Chandravanshis were not evil, but they led a wretched existence. The Suryavanshi system would improve their lives dramatically. There would be abundance and prosperity all around when Parvateshwar honed the moribund Chandravanshi administration. There will be some good that will come out of this war. Maybe he had not made such a terrible mistake. He thanked Lord Ram. He thought he had found his answer.

Fate, however, conspired to deny Shiva this small consolation. The old beggar noticed Shiva staring at him. Shiva’s sympathetic eyes and compassionate smile caused the beggar’s haggard cheeks to spring to life, as he smiled in return. However, it wasn’t the smile of a broken man begging for alms. It was the warm welcoming smile of a man at peace with himself. Shiva was taken aback.

The old man smiled even more warmly while raising his weak hand with great effort. ‘Would you like some food, my son?’

Shiva was stunned. He felt small against the mighty heart of the wretched man he had thought was deserving of pity and kindness.

Seeing Shiva gaping, the old man repeated, ‘Would you like to eat with me, son? There is enough for both.’

An overwhelmed Shiva could not find the strength to speak. There wasn’t enough food for even one man. Why was this man offering to share what little food he had? It didn’t make sense.

Thinking Shiva to be hard of hearing, the old man spoke a litde louder. ‘My son, sit with me. Eat.’

Shiva struggled to find the strength to shake his head slightly. ‘No thank you, sir.’

The old man’s face fell immediately. ‘This is good food,’ he said, his eyes showing the hurt he felt. ‘I would not offer it to you otherwise.’

Shiva realised that he had insulted the old man’s pride. He had just treated him like a beggar. ‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. I know it’s good food. It’s just that I...’

The old man interrupted Shiva’s words with a warm grin. ‘Then sit with me, my son.’

Shiva nodded quietly. He sat down on the pavement. The old man turned towards Shiva and placed the banana leaf on the ground, in between the two of them. Shiva looked at the bread and watery gruel, which until moments back appeared unfit for humans. The old man looked up at Shiva, his half blind eyes beaming. ‘Eat.’

Shiva picked up a small morsel of the bread, dipped it in the gruel and swallowed. It slipped into his body easily, but weighed heavy on his soul. He could feel his righteousness being squeezed out of him as the poor, old man beamed generously.

‘Come on, my son. If you are going to eat so litde, how will you maintain your big muscular body?’

A starded Shiva glanced up at the old man; the circumference of those shrunken arms would have been smaller than Shiva’s wrist. The old man was taking ridiculously small bites, moving larger portions of the bread towards Shiva. Shiva could not find the heart to look up any more. As his heart sank deeper and his tears rose, he ate the portion the old man gave him quickly. The food was over in no time.