She put her cheeks on the grave with a faint hope that he would talk to her. Perhaps, he might be waiting there with his charming smile. He would call her Apsara. She broke down at the thought, gathered herself and walked to the cave palace. Behind her, the wolf continued its futile attempt to dig the stone, whining as its blisters broke, yet not giving up.
Tara continued walking in the slush. River Pampa had swelled up in the monsoon and had overrun its banks. She could not find the place where Baali had fallen. With a heavy heart, she walked to the overgrown palmyra grove. The headless palmyras stood as a reminder of man’s wanton cruelty to nature. Moss had started growing in their barks. Mushrooms sprouted from their roots which had started putrefying. She stood amid the headless palmyras and whispered, ‘Speak to me, dear.’
She waited for an answer. Did she hear a faint laugh? A whiff of breath at the back of her neck? She turned back. Nothing. ‘You’re here. I can feel you,’ she said. She was scared whether she was going insane. She heard the rustle of leaves and turned. It was Chemba. The wolf came to her side and waited. ‘He is here,’ Tara mumbled. My Baali has cheated death again, she reassured herself.
‘My Apsara,’ the wind whispered. She bit her lips, trying to muffle a sob that threatened to overcome her.
‘Dear, go to my brother. He is in trouble.’
She was angry. She hand’t come here to talk about his brother. She wanted to talk about herself. She wanted him back in her hands. Now. ‘Please come back,’ she screamed.
‘Only you can save him now.’
‘Talk to me. Did you mean it when you said I can–’ she didn’t want to complete the sentence. She didn’t have the heart to ask him whether he had meant it when he said she should marry Sugreeva.
She waited but the wind was just howling now. For a moment, she thought it was Baali who was crying in pain. He was too brave to cry, she chided herself. ‘Talk to me!’ she screamed into the wind. The wolf trotted back to the grave and resumed its pointless work.
She remembered his request. She ran to the palace. As she neared the cave palace, she sensed something was wrong. Many men were huddled in the courtyard. Tara rushed inside the palace. What she saw chilled her heart. Sugreeva was sloshed. He sat on the throne blabbering something. Pots of palmyra toddy lay strewn or broken on the floor around him. Ruma was wailing at the top of her voice. And with his foot on the handrest of the throne, Lakshmana was towering over Sugreeva.
Chapter 41
‘I will chop your head off, you good-for-nothing monkey!’ Lakshmana screamed, waving his sword menacingly over the head of the Vanara king. ‘You promised my brother that you would send your monkey army to fight the King of Lanka. And here you are—drunk and having fun with your ugly wife, not bothering about the promise you made to my brother, Rama, the best of all men and Avatara of Vishnu. Uncivilized barbarians!’
Tara was enraged by the arrogance of Lakshmana. Had Baali been sitting on the throne, would this man dare to talk like this? Was this the way to treat the chief of the Vanara tribe? Are we slaves? She wanted to drag him out of the palace. Then she paused. Lakshmana was a dangerous man. This was the same man who had chopped Soorpanakha’s breasts and nose. It was wise to be diplomatic. She was angry that no one tried to stop Lakshmana. Why were they in such awe of the two brothers? Or were they being prudent?
‘Your brother killed my brother.’
Tara heard Sugreeva’s sloshed voice above the din. Sugreeva was not being prudent at all. Lakhsmana grabbed Sugreeva by his uthariya and yanked him down from the throne. He caught Sugreeva’s hair and raised the sword.
‘Ugly monkey, he did it because you requested him to do that. What did my brother gain by that act except the ignominy of someone who hides behind a tree and shoots his enemies?’
‘Your brother cheated my brother and shot him on the sly. He didn’t have the courage to face my brother.’ Sugreeva looked at Lakshmana defiantly.
‘Thankless Vanara. My brother, in his infinite kindness, did such an act for you and now you blame him!’
Tara knew Sugreeva would be dead if she didn’t do something. She rushed to Lakshmana with folded hands and pleaded with him. ‘Swami, my husband is drunk. He doesn’t know what he is saying. We’re mere Vanaras. We don’t know what is right and wrong, Swami. We’re like children. We’re your Dasas, your slaves. Is it not the duty of the master to correct us when we go wrong? Forgive him, Swami. Your brother made me a widow once, please don’t make me a widow again. I will ensure that once he comes back to senses, he will put the entire Vanara army under your brother’s command so that he can reclaim his wife.’
Lakshmana glowered at her. Tara waited nervously. Lakshmana was unpredictable. She relaxed when Lakshmana threw Sugreeva down and put his sword in his scabbard.
‘You’re reputed to be wise. Make him see reason,’ Lakshmana said with surprising calmness and walked away. All the Vanaras rushed to their fallen king once Lakshmana had left the palace. Tara and Ruma helped Sugreeva back to his throne and he sat listlessly. Tara was not sure whether he would remember what had happened in his Sabha when he came to his senses.
‘Send for Hanuman. Send for every Vanara.’ Tara commanded her ministers. ‘The King is going to war.’
Soon the entire Vanara army assembled in the courtyard. Tara looked at them with a heavy heart. Outside the fort stood many women and children, scared and worried. They had never known of war except through the stories that bards brought them. Disputes were settled by duels and their King used to take care of that. They were unaware of a war where their men would leave them and go to distant lands with no guarantee of their return. Fear was writ large on the faces of everyone. Tara had no idea what she would tell them. She wished Baali was there to handle this crisis and then laughed at her folly. Had he been there, such a situation wouldn’t have risen at all. Give me courage, she prayed, for she was sending many innocent men to their deaths for a cause that had not a thing to do with them. She wondered how she was going to face the widows who would lose their husbands, the children who would lose their fathers and mothers who would lose their sons. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to gather strength. Baali, I want you beside me, she prayed. She gripped the balustrade of the balcony for strength and started her address.
‘Your king is going to war. So far, we have fought only for food or mates. So, war may be an unknown concept for you. War is the way in which civilized people butcher each other.’
There was an angry murmur among the crowd. She pressed on.
‘You might be wondering what us Vanaras, who were living peacefully with our little fights and friendships, who were minding our own business and bothering no one, living in what we call the animalistic, primitive way, have to do with this war of so-called civilized men? We were born free, we lived free. We even fought free and died free. We fought only for food and mates. Now you will be fighting against the Asuras who have never bothered us and have no enmity with us. You will be killing strangers with whom you had no quarrel. That is the price you pay when you involve an outsider in a quarrel between brothers.’
Tara paused. She saw that her people were confused. She had no intention of sending her men without making them understand what they were getting into.
‘I have never seen war and I’m sure most of you also wouldn’t have seen any. War, I have heard, is a dirty business. It follows no rules of the duel. Cunningness is valued over bravery and all is fair in war. But we’re yet to be civilized. We’re uncouth, uncultured Vanaras who speak in a strange tongue. Strange for others, but that doesn’t matter. We don’t matter. We may consider ourselves just one among many tribes that populate this Jambudweepa, a strand in the rich tapestry, but others may not consider us so. They would want us to adapt to their ways, adapt to their tongues, adapt to their gods, adapt their views of right and wrong. Maybe they’re right, for we’re few and they’re more in number.’
The crowd was getting restive. She wanted to say
what she felt, for she was not sure whether she would be able to say them again.
‘Beloved Vanaras, we used to believe our dark skin and thick tongues are signs of beauty, but now we’re being told they’re ugly. We have now also begun to believe it is the truth. We loved our language and respected others, we believed like the myriad flowers of the jungle, each is a part of the jungle, each is beautiful in its own way. Those days are gone. Now, we’re like crops in a farm. Each must be exactly same as the other, with no diversity allowed. Anything different would be considered a weed and destroyed without delay. Unlike in the forest, where nothing belongs to anyone and everything belongs to everyone, in a farm, each plant belongs to the master. When the master needs, he will mow you down, he will thresh you, pound you, grain you, chaff you, ground you and even burn you. There are benefits of course, for your master will feed you water and give you manure. He will sit with a stick to protect you from being eaten by hungry beasts. He is cultivating you for a harvest that fills only his belly. Maybe he is right, for he has won, and we have lost. The time has come for every one of us to be a clone of the other, with no independent thoughts, no different language, customs, cultures or beliefs. So, mow down your enemy, or who your master shows you as the enemy and don’t think much. Be a part of the mob and rejoice in violence. Be a bhakta, a devotee, and wait for the good times. Maybe that is the future. Therein may lie the glory.’
She paused to see the reaction of her subjects. She licked her dry lips, took a deep breath and plunged again.
‘No one should say that the Vanara king isn’t a man of his word. So, you all will be fight a war which isn’t yours. We’re being dragged to a fight where one prince has mutilated a woman and another man has kidnapped a woman in revenge. When you invite an outsider to meddle in a fight between brothers, the best you can hope for is slavery. Be good slaves for the new master, for you have no other choice now. But even when you fight, try to keep the values that we have cherished since the dawn of our race. Face your enemies like men and fight till your last breath. Leave the people who aren’t a part of the war alone. That means no children, women, old men and invalids should be harmed by Vanaras. The cities or towns should be left alone, no looting or burning down homes of innocents. Even if you can’t bring glory to your King, don’t bring him shame. Even if you lose, you will lose doing the right things.’
The crowd was agitated. They were shifting their feet. She could understand their dilemma. They were worried about their families once they left to fight the war; who would tend their meagre farms, who would provide for their little ones and old parents? Even Tara had no idea, but she had to try her best to send these poor men with some consolation. Most of them may never come back, but they should not leave with a heavy heart. They were the subjects of her beloved Baali.
Tara’s eyes were getting misty. She could feel their pain. She could sense their fear. She could see hundreds of children standing far away, staring at her.
‘My dear brothers, worry not, for I shall be there with your women. I shall ensure your family is taken care of.’ Tara’s voice had gone hoarse. She addressed the women, young and old who were huddled at the far end of the courtyard, ‘My sisters, my mothers. Can we not overcome this together?’
After a moment’s silence, the women shrilled, ‘Yes!’
‘Can’t we farm ourselves? I shall be with you. Can we not bring up our children together, even if your men don’t come back. Are we not sisters?’
‘We shall!’ the women cried back.
‘My son Angada will accompany the King in this war.’
Tara said. It burned her heart to part with Angada, with no guarantee that she would ever see him again. But if she kept him safe, and allowed other women’s children to perish, how would she face herself. She gestured to Angada to come near her. The crowd was getting emotional now. Some were crying. Tara hugged her son and showered him with kisses.
‘Angada, you will uphold the honour of your father, the great King Baali. You will come back victorious.’
When Angada bowed to touch her feet, her restraint broke and she broke down into sobs. She didn’t hear the thousand voices hailing her and her deceased husband Baali. She stood at the balcony, gripping the balustrade with her eyes closed. The pain she felt was excruciating. Her pain was multiplied by the pain felt by every mother who was bidding goodbye to her son, for she was the queen. She watched people assembling.
Rama and Lakshmana were assembling the army of the rag-tag Vanaras, some carrying clubs, some stones, some kitchen knives, to take on the might of the most powerful king in the world. Sugreeva came to say goodbye to her. The parting was quite formal, stiff and forced. Sugreeva asked her not to worry about Angada. The boy would come back as a man and it was an honour to fight for dharma, a privilege to be on the side of good that was sure to vanquish evil. He would learn what was right and what was wrong.
She saw her father straining to climb the steps to her palace and rushed to him. When he saw her, he smiled showing his toothless gum. He ran his fingers through her hair and said, ‘I too am going, daughter.’
‘Where?’ she cried.
‘To war,’ the old man chuckled. ‘I can’t fight anyone. But they will need a Vaidya. Both sides. How can I sleep peacefully in my home when our people need me the most?’
Before she could find words to reply, her father was gone, alone with the army of Vanaras to fight someone else’s war. The army carried her son Angada too to a war to be fought on a distant island, against a man who his father had defeated in a war in which men had fought like men, face-to-face. Tara wasn’t sure how this war for vanquishing evil would be fought in distant Lanka.
Chapter 42
The next monsoon passed without any incidents. No one attacked Kishkinda for the word had spread that all men had gone away, and the country was ruled by women. All Rakshasa, Asura, Naga, Yaksha and other tribes kept away from them for it would have been dishonourable to take advantage of another tribe’s misfortune. That was the unwritten law of tribes in the forest. In fact, some Yakshas were willing to send help but Tara politely declined. She wanted her women to gain confidence, to make them learn to live with the sweat of their brows and the strength of their arms instead of depending on their men. This was a God-given opportunity. She was determined to take full advantage of the misfortune. Surprizingly, with no Sugreeva to fight over, Ruma had become herself again and was most enthusiastic in helping Tara achieve her dream.
When it was time for the next harvest, she looked at the fields that had turned golden, the sheep that had multiplied and her heart swelled with pride. Petty fights broke out among women initially as everyone was edgy and sick with worry, but slowly even those died down and the easy camaraderie that developed started knocking down the walls of caste that had been creeping into the society of Vanaras after Baali’s death They were going back to the egalitarian tribal way of life that they had cherished for eons before the slow poisoning of Varna and Jati were brought in by the Brahmins after Sugreeva took over as the King.
Tara noticed that no one sat around idle, looking within oneself, in the name of trying to know the unknown. Such were the luxuries of men who had stuffed their bellies with sufficient food. No woman who had been once a daughter, sister, wife or mother could deny the truth of the world and go in search of a mirage. There was no time to waste searching for the unknown. And no seeker of the so-called ultimate truth had told them what one would do after knowing what is ultimate. What was beyond that? What use was it to know about something that one could never change or own or destroy? No wonder women were exempted from being the seekers of this ‘truth’ and so were the so-called lower castes. No one closed their eyes to the beauty of life and the reality of the world. They missed their loved ones often and discussions turned to the war that was being fought in some distant southern island, but they found solace in work and friendship. Being women, they worried even about the women of Lanka and wondered whether they felt the same p
ain they felt. And in their prayers, they wished them luck and even if their logic told them that both sides could not win, their hearts wished everyone well. They hoped that Rama and Ravana fought each other in a duel in the manner the Vanaras and other forest tribes used to settle disputes instead of the civilized way of burning down cities and butchering thousands and the winning side calling it a victory of good over evil.
One day, she received news that Rishabha wasn’t well. Rishabha was one of the few Vanaras who hadn’t soured his relations with Sugreeva. Tara visited his hut and found that the old man had suffered a stroke. He was lying down on the floor on a torn mat. He had no one to call his own. When she entered his dwelling, the strong and unpleasant stench of stale urine and pus made her gag. She wanted to run out, but she couldn’t leave the old man alone. The village women peeped in through the cracks in the wall and crowded at the window and door. Tara was livid. How could they leave him to die like this? Rishabha’s vacant eyes stared at the roof. She went near him and touched his shoulders. Slowly, he turned his eyes towards her. She saw them shining with tears. She remembered the fights she had had with him and the meanness he had shown to her. For a moment, she thought that fate was punishing him, but she was immediately overwhelmed by guilt for thinking so. She was the daughter of Sushena, the widow of Baali—she couldn’t have such thoughts. She wiped her tears with the back of her hands and smiled at him. The old man started sobbing. His face was partially paralysed, and his mouth slanted at a grotesque angle when he tried to talk. He was trying to say something. She put her ears near his mouth. She was shocked when she deciphered what he told her with great difficulty. He was calling her a b**** who conspired with Sugreeva to kill Baali. She trembled with anger and disgust. He deserves to die like a worm, she thought.
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