She looked at the frail figure of Rishabha and sighed. The poor man was embarrassed that he had to depend on a woman. He was trying to assuage whatever little pride he had. It was an old man’s babble, a sign of senility perhaps. She wasn’t going to lose her sanity for his sake. She called for help to lift the old man up. She made him sit and started cleaning his bedsores. The old man continued to curse her. Later, she had him transferred to the cave palace. She knew there was no recovery and death would be a blessing for Rishabha. She learned to ignore his frequent screams in the night, accusing her of killing Baali.
Travelling minstrels brought news from the South. Unexpectedly, she received a message from her long-lost friend. A kinnara had brought her the leaf. It was a letter from Prabha. She had met the Vanaras under Sugreeva. In her characteristic style, it started abruptly:
‘Tara, I met him after a long time and he hasn’t changed much. I am sorry I never tried to contact you. I wanted to run away from everything after Sugreeva rejected me. I wanted to die but never had the courage. I love life too much, Tara. I have travelled in all directions, without any aim. I saw life, Tara. I was a lone woman travelling without a male companion. I was loved, hated, chased away, welcomed, ignored, accepted, raped, molested, protected—ha, everything has happened to me. Somewhere, sometime, I learned to forget Sugreeva. I thought I had gotten over everything. But when I met him, I knew nothing has changed for me. They were in search of some Deva woman, the wife of some prince. I don’t know why they were bothered about some prince and his wife. Vana Naras will never learn, will they? To think that they are helping the man who killed your Baali. How foolish of me. I am sorry, Tara. I am hearing many dark rumours. What happened to Baali? I heard someone killed him on the sly. I even heard it was one of the two princes. I don’t believe that rumour at all. If it was one of those princes, Sugreeva wouldn’t be helping them. Would he? I asked him about it, but he was uneasy. Poor man. He loved his brother too much. How inconsiderate of me. I am sorry, Tara. Despite all my learning, I am your foolish Prabha. You were lucky to have a man like Baali in your life, dear. You are also lucky to have someone like Sugreeva. I know it is cruel, but I sometimes wish I were in your place. But my destiny is to be a mendicant. No regrets in life. That is what we say, isn’t it? Even if I am, do I stand a chance? I know Sugreeva is your husband now and he loves you deeply. Don’t worry about me. I am not going to be your rival. You did the right thing by marrying him, Tara. Angada is such a charming boy. I met him too. He looks like Baali, no, Sugreeva. Ha, ha, they were so similar, no? The men we fell in love with in the prime of our youth. I wish those days would come back. How is your father? I feel like visiting you. I want to be the same old Prabha again, looking out for handsome boys, swimming in the river, swinging and playing hopscotch. Alas, I am a mendicant now, in search of the ultimate truth, though I have no idea what it is. Such is life. Why did we become old, Tara?’
The letter ended as abruptly as it had begun. Tara smiled through her tears. Her mind became heavy with memories. Why did they become old, she repeated the stupid question of Prabha and laughed. She tore the letter to pieces and flung it up. She watched the wind carry away the pieces of her friend’s letter and deposit them in the river. The river would take them to the sea and it would dissolve one day, never to be seen again. Why did they grow up? She asked the breeze. She wished she could hold Prabha’s hand and run through the dry riverbank, their faces in the howling wind. She knew those days would never come back, neither would her friend.
It was after another two months that she heard from a traveling minstrel that Hanuman had gone to Lanka and had been captured by Ravana’s son. Tara was sitting with the women’s council when the minstrel came with the news. The women crowded around him, anxious to know the whereabouts of their loved ones. When the singer said Hanuman had burned down Lanka in revenge, they booed him and called him a liar. For they were sure that no one would arrest a messenger and set him on fire and no messenger would set a city of innocent people on fire for the rancour he felt for their King. Tara could never believe her gentle friend would do such things. They had never heard any such thing in their lives and they could not conceive such things could ever happen. They lamented about the exaggerations of the poets and their propensity to lie. And this soon became a joke among Vanara women, and the word poet became a synonym for liar. Only Tara felt uneasy, for she knew the definitions of right and wrong were changing and the Vanaras were too naïve to grasp the rapidity of change. She tried to prepare them for the new world, but it was difficult to make her people understand the complexities of the civilizational progress that was advancing towards them like wildfire.
Tara learned about the wonderful bridge that Nala built over the sea and her heart filled with pride for her friend. When the news came that Ravana was betrayed by his brother and was killed by Rama, the women of Kishkinda rejoiced. Their men would be home soon, and celebrations broke out. No one spoke about the secret dread that all women harboured about their men not being there in the victorious army that would soon return. There were hushed discussions about the strange news of Rama asking his wife to enter the fire and prove her chastity. This was unconceivable for ordinary folks of Kishkinda. They could not believe Rama would drag so many people to the battlefield if he suspected she was unchaste. And they wondered what the big deal was about being chaste, for among Vanaras, the man who won the duel always kept the woman. That was the rule among all beasts of the forest. Sometimes even women fought duels over men. They could understand such fights but not the chastity angle and how fire could prove or disprove it. After many discussions and gossips, they concluded that it was another lie by a poet. Tara was not so sure, for she had heard of such tests from the Brahmins who came often to do sacrifices in palaces during Baali’s time. She remembered when she had offered to enter the fire after she had argued with Baali when he came back and how he had scoffed at the idea. He had taken her word for the truth despite his anger and jealousy towards Sugreeva at that time. He had trusted her to be honest and had he not, she would have never agreed to stay with him despite her heart-wrenching love for him.
Kishkinda waited for the return of the heroes. Every dawn, women would look longingly towards the south, expecting them to burst forth from the horizon and come rushing with victorious yells and slogans. The war was over, and they would be here soon. Old men worried whether they would die before they could see their sons one more time. Mothers made the favourite dishes every morning and wives dressed in the finest dresses. Children discussed what their fathers would bring and sisters yearned to once again argue and fight with their brothers. If only they would come soon. Rishabha died on a full moon day and Tara buried him near the grave of Riksarajas. They were rivals, but death erases all rivalry and friendship. Sometimes, she thought she heard Rishabha cursing her even from the grave. She never understood what she had done for him to hate her so much except for being a woman. She had forgiven him long ago.
The winter had set in and trees had started losing their leaves when the first news about the heroes’ arrival reached Kishkinda. A few shepherds had seen them coming; they were a boisterous lot, halting in every village on the way and tasting the finest toddy in every tavern. Kishkinda was decorated with pontoons and mango leaves; marigold flowers were hung on every tree on the dusty village route. Near the village wells and tanks, by the river ghats and market places, conversation centred on the imminent arrival of the sons of Kishkinda.
They came one evening, a huge procession of unwashed, unkempt, war-weary men in their dusty dresses and matted hair, wild and rapturous in their victory—marching towards Kishkinda. As they waddled through the knee-deep waters of Pampa, any resemblance of order broke down and they started running, howling, shrieking, and raising dust to the skies. The women ran to meet them halfway. There were hugs and kisses and touching reunions. Children were tossed up by unshaven men high in the air and caught mid-way. Dogs yelped and danced around their long-lost mast
ers, wagging their tails like fans. Shy brides forgot their bashfulness and kissed their husbands with gay abandon, almost choking the laughing men in their bear-like embrace. Mothers fussed over the lean bodies of their young sons, daughters cosied up with their fathers. Sisters teased their brothers and old men who were bent with age, suddenly found strength in their spines and stood erect and proud, grinning with their toothless smiles, watching the women of their families fuss around with their sons and grandsons, wishing they could show their affections and pride in the same way as women.
Many women returned beating their breasts, for their men had died and were never going to set foot in Kishkinda again. They waited until the last of the men had climbed ashore. Friends who had seen their husbands or sons or brothers die, came to break the news to them and tried to soften the blow by saying how bravely they had fought in the war. No words of consolation lessened the pain made bitter by the gaiety of the ones who had survived. It didn’t matter that their loved ones had died for a God in his war against a demon—the death felt cruel and the finality of its devastation, just the same.
Tara waited at the gates of Kishkinda fort, eager to meet her son. She tried to push away the thoughts that he might have perhaps become a cripple or may be affected by a fatal injury. Near her, Ruma stood chattering incoherently, crying and laughing at the same time. They saw a group of Vanaras coming towards the fort. It was a riotous, boisterous gang carrying two men on their shoulders. They were dancing wildly as the group rushed through the narrow path leading to the gate. Clubs and swords were thrown up in the air and caught unfailingly. The victory cries from a thousand throats shook the foundations of the fort. Drummers and singers had joined the procession, and each played to their wish, with no respect to tune or rhythm. It all added to the cacophony and the air was electric with frenzied energy.
As they neared, Sugreeva jumped down from the shoulders of men who were carrying him and ran to Tara. Ruma rushed forward with open arms. Tara watched with blurred eyes, her happiness knew no bounds. Sugreeva stopped before Ruma.
‘How are you, Ruma?’ Sugreeva asked.
Ruma broke down, her words became incoherent. She closed her mouth with the back of her palm and cried. Sugreeva smiled at her kindly and Ruma embraced him and wept on his shoulders. It broke Tara’s heart to see that Sugreeva’s hands didn’t embrace Ruma back. He stood stiff and awkward, looking embarrassed. Sugreeva gestured with his eyes to the waiting maids and they came to gently separate Ruma from him.
Sugreeva walked to Tara with wide open hands, expecting her to rush to his embrace. He had become leaner and fitter and had grown a beard. He looked handsome and tough and resembled Baali more than ever. He came so near to her with his open hands that she could smell his muskiness, his lust, and his longing.
Tara looked straight at his eyes and asked, ‘Where is Baali’s son?’
His face fell, but he recovered fast. He smiled, reminding her of Baali again, and gestured with a sweeping hand. Angada stepped forward.
Tara staggered with shock. The man stooped to touch her feet. Angada had changed so much. He had become a man. He resembled a young Baali, the one she had met fresh after his arrival with Riksarajas, so long ago yet so fresh in her mind. She pressed him to her bosom and showered his forehead with kisses. His stubble that brushed her cheeks surprised and shocked her. She wished he was still the baby who she could carry in her arms and show the crows and cuckoos. She felt his face, his strong limbs and broad shoulders, felt proud of him and sad that she had grown so old. She hadn’t noticed the traces of wrinkles that had started appearing on her hand until she had saw them contrasted with her son’s smooth skin.
‘You’ve grown so . . . so big,’ she finally managed to say. She could feel the jealousy emanating from Ruma who was standing beside her. She wished he would talk to Ruma and chided herself in her mind. This was her son, there was no need for her to be so generous. Angada was Baali’s son. It was alright to be a bit selfish when it came to one’s son.
‘Tara,’ Sugreeva said softly. ‘Do you know what our son did?’
Tara didn’t miss how he said our son. She ignored it. She was eager to know his exploits, to learn about her son’s heroism in war.
‘Without Angada, we wouldn’t have won the war,’ Sugreeva said.
She looked at her son, drinking the raw confidence and power that emanated out of him. Her chest burst with pride. She wished they were inside her chamber and not in the street with thousands of eyes fixed on them. Oh, how I wish to fuss over him, run my fingers through his unruly hair, how I wish to feed him his favourite dishes, she thought.
‘Tell me, tell me about my Angada,’ she said and the crowd cheered.
Sugreeva said, ‘Our son has become a man, Tara. I promised you that he would come back a hero. Behold your hero.’
‘Won’t you tell me, please. I’m dying to hear about my Angada’s valour.’
Sugreeva put his hand on Angada’s shoulder and pressed him close. He started narrating the valour of Angada.
‘The war was at a crucial juncture. Ravana’s army attacked relentlessly. Ravana’s son Meghanada had even succeeded in critically wounding Lakshmana and it was only due to the timely action of Hanuman that he was saved. As we were discussing the ways to defeat the King of Lanka, we heard the news that Ravana was making a sacrifice. Astrologers predicted that if the demon king completed this yajna, Ravana would become invincible. We were worried. It was a war of Dharma against Adharma. The evil should not be allowed to be victorious. No one knew what had to be done to save the war for us.’
Sugreeva paused and looked at Angada with pride. Angada stood with swelled chest and a confident air. Sugreeva continued, ‘And Tara, when we were worrying about the Yajna, do you know what our son did? Such a strategist, such a brilliant thinker and if I may add, a bit of impulsive too. But he is young and that is to be expected, but his planning and execution was meticulous and brilliant. Tara, I couldn’t have come up with such a plan even to save my life!’
The crowd cheered. They hailed the young prince of Kishkinda. Tara waited impatiently for Sugreeva to reveal what action her son had done that merited so much praise. Baali, she thought, would have been proud.
‘Angada sneaked into the palace of Lanka. It was a grave risk and had I known, I wouldn’t have allowed him to do that. Imagine breaking into the palace of the most feared Asura king Ravana? That is what our son did, this brave young man. He sneaked into the palace and found that Ravana was busy doing the Yajna. The demon’s face must have looked fearsome in the light of sacrificial fire. Anyone less brave would have fainted but not our brave son. He broke into the Antapura of Ravana and found his wife, Mandodari. She was asleep, and he grabbed her by her hair. The poor woman screamed in panic. Angada dragged her through the corridor and tore her clothes off.’
Tara was shocked! ‘He did WHAT?’ she asked in disbelief.
Sugreeva continued, ‘That was a brilliant, strategic move, Tara. He let her cry. It was a grave risk to take as other Asuras could’ve come there. A few came too but were too shocked to find their queen in the grip of a Vanara. Two of them tried foolishly to save their queen, but Angada cut them down. Others ran to inform their king, but Angada didn’t want to wait. He dragged the half-naked queen to the sacrificial altar. The soldiers of Ravana were standing nearby, too scared to disturb their King’s prayers. They knew this Yajna would make him immortal and even the Maryadapurushottam, Rama, the epitome of virtue and avatar of Vishnu, would not be able to slay the demon after the Yajna. Mandodari cried loudly at her nakedness.’
The crowd laughed at that comment. A few of the men jeered and catcalls and whistles were heard. Tara stood rooted, not able to believe her ears.
‘The queen of the great Ravana cried that her husband was a shameless man. He was more worried about his death than the honour of his wife. She compared him with Rama who was willing to fight a war for his wife whereas Ravana was busy saving his own. That riled the Asu
ra King. He stopped the Yajna and opened his eyes. His face contorted in rage at the sight of his hapless wife in the arms of Angada. He took his famed sword, Chandrahasa, and rushed towards Angada, but our son ran away. The poor King was so busy consoling his wife that he didn’t bother to chase Angada.’
‘I would have killed that demon,’ Angada said. ‘I didn’t want to run away, scared. I ran away because it wasn’t right on my part to deny that honour of killing Ravana to Lord Rama. I had done my dharma, I had stopped the Yajna.’
‘Brilliant!’ Sugreeva said and the crowd cheered.
Tara moved forward. ‘Angada,’ she called in a tired voice.
‘Yes, mother,’ he beamed.
Tara slapped him hard. ‘You did that to a woman? You tore the clothes off a woman? You dared to touch her without her consent? Is this what you have learned?’ She kept slapping him as he cowered in anger and fear. She pummelled him, screaming and hitting him hard across his face, his chest, wherever she could lay her hands. She didn’t care that others were trying to stop her. She didn’t feel Sugreeva slapping her hard or her nose bleeding. She didn’t hear people abusing her. She kept hitting her son, ‘You good-for-nothing scoundrel. I sent you to make you a man and you’ve returned a monster. Is this the dharma you learned? You should have died there in Lanka itself.’
They pulled her away from a battered Angada with great difficulty. Sugreeva glowered at her. Tara stood panting, her hair dishevelled and her cheeks burning with anger. Ruma was consoling Angada. Tara saw him weeping on Ruma’s shoulders and her anger boiled again. She rushed to beat him again, but Sugreeva stopped her.
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