Then Sita turned her head and looked at the impossibility herself.
At the ten-headed being that stood beneath an arch of peculiarly distorted light and air, clearly the product of some manner of powerful sorcery. The impossible, terrible, ten-headed being that she had never expected to see again except in nightmares. The sight of whom sent great surges of terror coursing through her veins and made her entire being scream in silent agony far, far greater than any physical wound or impairment could ever cause.
Ravana! Here!
How could it be possible? Surely she was in the throes of some nightmare now. Like the nightmare that had plagued her as a young, fifteenyear-old princess in her bed in Mithila that one night, back when life had been so simple, and the future had stretched limitless and full of possibility. That night too, he had seemed palpable, as if he had been present there in her very sleeping chamber; and when the nightmarish vision transported her bodily to that high fortification upon that dark storm-tossed island and she had looked down upon that massive army boarding an armada of warships, it had seemed real too. Yes, surely this was a nightmare just as that had been. Just a bad dream.
But she knew that was not the case. Whatever this was, it was real. As real as the agony in her twisted, perhaps broken, wrist. As unbearable as the knowledge that she had tried and failed to halt Atikaya’s rape of Ayodhya. As heart-wrenching as the dread that filled her at the sight of Ravana himself. As plaintive as the pounding of her heart as she stared at the nemesis of her entire existence.
Ravana was really standing there, a mere two dozen or so yards from where she crouched nursing her injured wrist. And he was not quite the same Ravana she had last seen in Lanka. This being was younger. How much younger in actual years she had no way of knowing, for she knew that rakshasas did not age as mortals, and Ravana was unique even among rakshasas. But much younger in actual physical development. His many faces were all, the absence of wrinkles and deeper set eyes, greying brows, healed scars and myriad other little details all informing a single overarching conclusion. Yes, this much was certain: This Ravana was not the same being who had abducted her from the sanctity of their humble domicile in Chitrakut and borne her away to Lanka in the golden Pushpak. No, this rakshasa was a younger Ravana, from a much earlier age. A time when she herself had probably not been born, or maybe not even her ancestors! Most of this she sensed rather than knew for certain, yet she felt sure that she was right.
And he was not looking at her. Seemed to be barely aware of her. Was completely preoccupied with something or someone to his right, although Sita could see nothing and nobody there. Which was something that gave her great relief. She did not think she could bear it if he turned and stared directly at her. She might lose all self-control then and fly into a demoniac rage herself, launching at him with no thought or care for her own life or the consequences. Because that creature, that beast, had altered her life forever. The bastard! He had changed everything forever, just when things had been about to settle back to normal after thirteen long years of exile.
Then an even stranger thing happened.
Ravana bent down and knelt upon the naked ground, his knees crunching the dirt, powerful thigh muscles bunching as he bent his great torso until not one or three but all ten of his heads touched the dirt of the Sarayu Valley, obsequiescing himself the way a devout believer might do in a temple of his deity.
And even as he did so, the deity Himself appeared.
The world hummed in Sita’s ears. A chorus of song exploded inside her mind. A great indescribable sense of joy, adoration, relief – too many intermingling emotions to even describe individually, an outpouring of beauty and delight and life-affirming ecstasy – swept her up. The pain in her wrist vanished instantly. She felt her entire being surge with life and vigour. The life – the lives – within her womb shared her ecstasy and kicked and gurgled within their watery paradise. And she found herself stupefied as she watched the form of something completely beyond all imagining appear before Ravana’s obeisant form, shining and resplendent beyond all description.
The archway that loomed above Ravana shimmered and pulsed with rainbow hues, showing itself to be clearly some manner of portal. A Vortal, as Ravana had termed it. It crackled with great rolling waves of energy that traversed from one side to another then back again, like a patch of oil upon the surface of a lake reflecting a rainbow in the sky overhead. The crackling and rolling reached a crescendo, then blazed out in a gout of hot white flame – the frozen soldiers by the seventh gate who were in the path of the gout of flame felt its heat upon their frozen bodies, intense and searing, yet could do nothing but stare dumbly like wooden statues. As suddenly as it shot out, the gout of flame retreated and died, as if absorbed into the shimmering, oily air between the arching sides of the Vortal.
In the centre of that gateway – for a gateway it was, in its own fashion
– stood a being like none other ever seen by all those present. Nor would any of them be graced by such a vision or presence for the rest of their living years. None except one of course: Rama. But he was still frozen like everyone else and was only able to watch mutely the extraordinary events unfolding here below.
What stood in that archway now. That gateway. That Vortal. What stood there was no man.
No mortal.
No demon.
No rakshasa.
It was a deva.
Not just a deva.
The deva.
He who possessed the power to end all Creation itself. To perform the Tandav. The Dance at the End of Time. The Dance that would demolish all reality, signal the end of the Day of Brahma. Paving the way for the Wheel of Time to turn once more and a new Day to begin, with Creation renewed, refreshed, re-initiated.
Father of Ganesha. Paramour of Parvati. The Eternal One. Last of the Trimurti. Dweller atop sacred Kailasa peak. Wearer of animal skins. Self-anointed (as he was now) with ashes from cremation grounds. Cohabitor of graveyards and cremation ghats. Friend to ghouls, vetaals, danavs. The first yogi, creator of the art of yoga.
Destroyer of worlds.
Effulgence blazed forth from his very pores, like the rays of a sun brought close enough to touch. A terrible, merciless, searing light, a veritable river of shakti that blasted forth and burned everyone and everything around.
There was a moment.
An infinity contained within a single breath-space.
A fraction of time.
A beat between heartbeats.
A pause so miniscule it could not be measured.
A crack in the surface of time so infinitesimal that it could not be seen by the naked eye – or by the aid of any magnification.
In that moment, the One who had arrived through the Vortal spoke.
And Ayodhya listened.
SEVEN
Reality returned like a roaring of rapids. Rama felt as if he had fallen asleep in his bed at night and awoken to find himself in blinding sunlight upon a raft tossed madly by a brutal white-water river, rushing headlong towards a great waterfall.
He gasped in air, sucking it in so fast he choked upon the first breath, like the very first breath he had once taken upon exiting his mother’s womb.
Even before his mind had accepted the end of the unnatural stasis that had held him in thrall, he was moving. Instinct drove him forward before logic and reason returned.
He stopped.
He looked around.
He turned.
He was not upon the high spot. At the seventh gate.
He was in his bed, in his private chamber, sitting upright, arms tight with muscled tension, fists balled, body wound and ready to spring, to attack, to fight.
The covers lay bunched around him, in disarray. Sunlight blazed into the chamber from the verandah where someone had only just this moment levered up and tied the drapes, letting in the daylight. From the angle and intensity of the sunlight bathing the chamber, it was full morning. The person who had opened the drapes stood in th
e verandah, her back to the chamber, gazing out, a soft tune upon her lips. Sita.
He looked at the space beside him and saw the place where she had lain only moments earlier. He forced his arms to relax, his fists to unclench, and slowly lowered his hand, placing the palm upon the bed. Still warm.
He forced himself to breathe more regularly, to calm his combative instincts. There was no threat here. No enemy. No danger.
He rose from the bed, tossing the covers aside, and walked to the verandah. He shielded his eyes with the back of one hand for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the gaudy sunlight. The sun was warm and pleasing on his body, evaporating the cool sweat that had broken out on his bare torso. Sita sensed his presence and glanced over her shoulder in a mildly coquettish way.
“You look like a cat fallen on its back instead of all fours,” she said, teasing.
He tried to speak, found he had to clear his throat, did so, then said, “I did.”
She turned a frowning smile upon him. “Meaning?”
He shook his head, releasing a long breath. “I did fall…or thought I did.”
She was concerned. “Are you well?”
“Yes.” He made a hoarse sound, cleared his throat. “Yes. I am myself now. Just…” He shook his head as if unable to put it into words. “It was beyond strange. Just…a very odd dream.”
He stood up, stretching and twisting to get the kinks out, then went to stand before the verandah. She joined him.
She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, her bare skin upon his feeling deliciously sensual yet completely innocent. “Tell me about it. I had a very strange dream too. I suppose you could call it a nightmare even.”
He put an arm around her shoulder. “Perhaps we shared the same dream. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Anything’s possible,” she gestured at the open verandah, at the cloudless deepwater-blue sky beyond, at the city laying sprawled out for their viewing pleasure. “This is Ayodhya.”
“Yes,” he said, picking up on her playful tone. “And a fine city it is.” He looked pointedly at her profile as he said, “There are none fairer in all Aryavarta. Perhaps even all Prithvi-loka.”
She raised her eyebrows but kept her profile to him, eyes fixed on the view. The morning light was warm on her face, reminding her unexpectedly of the sunshiny glade by the river in Chitrakut where they had once sat and bantered playfully much like this – how long had it been since then? Too long. “Well, perhaps not the finest of all,” she admonished archly. “That position I would leave for Mithila the jewel of the Videha nation.”
Rama inclined his head. “Spoken like a true Videhan.”
“But it is a fine city, there’s no denying that. Almost as fine as Mithila.”
His face twitched in a smile. “Gracious of you to concede that, Vaidehi. So what brings you to the Kosala nation?” he said, adopting a teasing playfulness.
She played along. “Oh, various matters. Some personal, some of commerce.”
He nodded so exactly like the merchants in the Trader’s Market in downtown Ayodhya, sombre and pensive as they totted up incredible sums and potential profits and losses in their head while trying not to let the slightest emotion show on their faces, that Sita had to stifle a giggle. When he leaned his elbow with exaggerated casualness against a pillar, feigning a very unsuitable cockiness, it was all she could do not to laugh out loud. “Incidentally, it may interest you to know that I am familiar with the Queen of this fine city.”
She arched her eyebrows. “How interesting. I know the King.”
They looked at each other a moment. He attempted to arch his eyebrows too, to mimic her. He knew he must look ludicrous: playful expressions were not his strong suit. She made the mistake of looking too closely at his face and burst into uncontrollable peals of laughter.
He waggled his eyebrows at her, compounding her hilarity.
“Oh Rama,” she said. “That was priceless. You looked like a tiger trying to digest an inedible meal!”
He smiled. “Good. Perhaps then I need to change my diet.”
“I think we both do.”
He nodded. They were not talking about food.
He smiled again. “I need to work on my happy faces now. We both do.”
“True, true. It has been too long since we made use of them, has it not?”
“Too long.”
They looked at each other. The sun shifted a fraction, shining now on Sita’s upper arm and chest, and it felt like a benediction bestowed by Suryadeva upon her, literally warming her heart.
“Good,” she said warmly. “Because you’ll have need of them.” She patted his arm. “Not to worry, my love. I’ll give you some tips.”
“That would be very nice of you—” he said, then broke off at her expression.
Turning, he looked in the direction of her gaze. The verandah had been empty a moment ago. Hanuman stood there now, hanging his head in embarrassment.
“Forgive me, my lord Rama,” said the vanar gruffly. “I meant no disrespect. But it is urgent.”
“It’s all right, my friend,” Rama replied. “I know it must be, or you would not be here. What is it?”
The vanar kept his gaze averted and pointed downwards as he said, “There is something you must see at once. I have just come from the far end of the Valley, from the first yojana stone. It is the most peculiar phenomenon I have ever scented in all my years.”
Rama glanced at Sita. She made a moue of curiosity too, saying, “What is it, Anjaneya? What did you see there? And you can look at me, I’m quite decently attired, thank you.”
At the mention of Sita’s attire, Hanuman’s pale yellow face fur seemed to turn a deeper golden shade in embarrassment, and though he did look up as requested, his eyes immediately sought out Rama and fixed on them intently. “I do not have words to describe it, my Queen. It is best if you both came with me and viewed it for yourselves.”
Again, Sita and Rama exchanged a glance. He saw the same thought flash through her mind: If it was not very urgent, perhaps even of critical importance, Hanuman would never have climbed up to our private chambers unannounced in the first place. Whatever this thing is, it must be very important, quite likely a matter of life and death. Or of Ayodhya’s survival, said a voice inside his head. He could still see the terrible vision of the city in ruins after the young rakshasa in his nightmare had run havoc through it. What was that creature’s name again? It eluded him now, but the ghastly memory of the city destroyed was etched on his consciousness immutably. It was the only thing from his nightmare that he clearly recalled now; the rest was already wisps of smoke and fragments in the clear light of day.
“Very well, then,” he said, knowing he spoke for both of them. “We shall come at once. Lead the way.”
The horses whinnied and reared as they came around the curve in the rajmarg. Rama had to pull down on the reins with some force to still them, and even then they tossed their manes, twisting their heads from side to side, eyes rolling up to reveal the whites.
“It would be best if we left the carriage here,” Hanuman said quietly as he dropped down from an overhanging branch. The vanar had raced them here despite Rama’s chariot having the fastest team of Kambhoja stallions; a distance of some miles, and yet he was not even winded.
“Chariot,” Rama said, absently correcting him. Hanuman had urged everyone to constantly correct him when he erred in any way, however slight. He rarely did: his occasional slip-ups were invariably with relation to things that had no counterpart in vanar culture, hence had no vanar term for them. Transports were among those. The very idea of enslaving and harnessing other fellow animals for the sake of their own transportation was anathema to vanars; it hurt their sense of pride to even contemplate such cruel self-indulgence.
“Chariot,” Hanuman repeated softly, memorizing the word. He led the way around the thick sala tree that grew at this particular point on the raj-marg, forming a blind curve which compelled all users of
the royal highway to go around it with extreme caution. Sita felt a tingling of anticipation and understood the nervousness of the horses – she could hear them whickering even now behind her, and thought that had Rama not had taken the time to tie their reins to a post, they might well have turned around on their own and raced back to Ayodhya. Even she could sense something. Her skin prickled. She reached down instinctively, touching the hilt of the sword she had strapped around her waist. There were weapons in the chariot too: javelins, an unstrung bow, a quiver with steel-tipped arrows, a mace. She wanted to suggest to Rama that perhaps they ought to bring at least the bow and quiver. Just in case…
But Rama was already rounding the sala tree, ducking his head to one side to avoid the drooping roots. She saw him straighten his neck, look ahead, and stop. Beside him, Hanuman stopped as well, and folded his hirsute arms across his chest, as if silently saying, see.
She didn’t want to take the last few steps that would bring her alongside them. Didn’t want to see what lay beyond the curve, what new disaster, crisis, challenge or conflict now loomed in their lives. She wanted to be back in the bed-chamber with Rama, looking out at Ayodhya, bantering and flirting like just-met lovers, content in each other’s company, the sunlight warm upon her face, a beautiful day ahead, a beautiful life…
A peaceful life.
She knew that whatever lay there, beyond that curve, would change this day. Would shatter this peaceful, lazy calm. Would make bantering and flirtation impossible. Would draw a dark coverlet of threat over this warm sunshiny morning.
RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA Page 24