PRINCE IN EXILE

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PRINCE IN EXILE Page 51

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker


  Lakshman did not turn to look at Rama, for that would have meant taking his eyes off Supanakha. But his astonishment was obvious from the way he replied. ‘Let her leave? Put aside my sword? Rama, are you in your right mind? She will tear me apart! She will kill us all if we let our guard down. You saw how she acted when you turned your back on her and put down your sword.’

  ‘Supanakha,’ Rama said. ‘I give you one more chance. If your purpose truly is to gain my love, then heed me well.’

  To Lakshman’s surprise, the demoness stopped snarling and listened silently to Rama’s words, her head cocked to one side. But her eyes remained fixed on Lakshman, boring into him like twin arrows.

  ‘Harming Sita or my brother will not win you my love. It will only earn you my hatred. As of this moment, I feel sympathy for you. If you attack any of us again, that sympathy will turn to distrust. I will make my brother put down his sword in a moment. I give you leave to walk away unharmed. Do you agree to end this feud here and now and leave peacefully?’

  Supanakha’s eyes remained on Lakshman even as she replied. ‘I do not like it, but I will do it, because you have willed it so.

  And because I still have faith that some day you will learn to love me, Rama. For that reason alone I shall go from here. But one day we will be united. That much I believe.’

  Rama sighed. ‘Go quickly and in peace. Lakshman, put down your sword and step aside. Give her room to leave.’

  Lakshman stared at the asura, and she stared back. ‘Rama, you cannot believe anything this beast says. She will promise anything to break free. Even if she walks away now, outnumbered and outmatched as she is she will not let the matter end here. She will return. You heard what she said. She still believes you will marry her some day. She will return when you and I are not close by, and assassinate Sita, as she sought to do today. Let us kill her right now, and end this menace once and for all.’

  ‘No!’ Rama strode forward. ‘Lakshman, do as I say! Release her at once. As your brother, I command you.’

  Lakshman’s body was stiff with anger. But he backed away slowly, lowering his sword. ‘As you say, Rama.’

  Supanakha, pressed back against the tree and forced to stand on her hind legs until now, dropped to all fours again. She licked her chops roughly, twitching her tail as she turned away, her muscles tensing as she prepared to run. She turned her head to look at Rama one last time.

  ‘I will return,’ she purred softly. ‘And you will be mine, Rama. Even if I have to bring fourteen thousand of my rakshasa brothers to make you agree, you will be my husband. I swear it by the name of Shiva.’

  Lakshman’s head snapped up. ‘You see? I told you, Rama! Treacherous demon!’

  His sword flicked out, moving in a blur. It slashed once, then twisted and slashed a second time, then a third. With each slash it sliced off a part of Supanakha’s flesh. The first cut took her nose, leaving a spurting, gaping hole in the centre of her face. The second sliced off her left ear, the third took her right ear. She howled in pain and humiliation, leaping back. Lakshman’s fourth slash sliced the empty air where she had stood a moment ago. She screamed once, then leapt backwards, upending herself head over heels. A flash of her pale-furred belly, and then she had vanished into the shadows of the woods.

  ‘Lakshman!’ Rama shouted, running forward. He caught his brother’s arm and turned it, taking hold of his sword. ‘I told you, no violence!

  ‘That’s why I did not kill her, bhai,’ Lakshman said calmly.

  Rama stared in the direction that Supanakha had disappeared. Moments later, the sound of another anguished wail rose from ahead. It was at least a hundred yards away, and receding. He shook his head in frustration.

  ‘You should not have done that, Lakshman,’ he said sadly. ‘You should not have.’

  Then he turned and walked away from his brother, dropping his sword by his feet as he went.

  Lakshman stood alone, staring into the woods, listening to the echoes of Supanakha’s howls until they grew too faint to hear. After he could hear no more, he bent to retrieve his sword, and turned to follow his brother and sister-in-law back home.

  EIGHTEEN

  Jatayu peered through the early-morning mists over Panchvati, seeking out its destination. Time was when it could have spotted the hill of Chitrakut beside the Godavari river from a mile high. Now, even flying a mere four or five hundred yards above the ground, it was struggling to make out the terrain below. It dropped lower, searching grimly. If it had read the signs correctly, there was not much time left. It must find its destination swiftly or its mission would be pointless. It peered blurrily through the morning haze, flying lower and lower. Caution, it warned itself, any lower and it might lose these high currents. It was a chore getting airborne these days, and flying too low could mean a forced landing in low terrain. There were rksas in these parts, and the bear races and Jatayu had never been very good friends. There was a time when Jatayu had hunted bears, relishing them the way a mortal might relish sweet savouries. Bears had a way of remembering such things. It had a feeling that if it were to come down in bear territory in its present bedraggled state, it would soon become a savoury itself. Even as withered and haggard as it was, it would still provide nourishment enough for a dozen bears for a few nights.

  It scanned the rolling terrain with increasing frustration, cursing the circumstances that had left it so crippled and infirm. Its vision, like its strength, had never been the same since those last days in Lanka. When the island-kingdom had burned in a series of shocking explosions, Jatayu had been caught wholly unawares, singed and burned badly. It had lost much of its feathers, and a fair bit of flesh as well. It would never soar the high skies as it once had, looking down on even the highest condors and eagles with a proud, disdainful eye. But most of all, it had lost its greatest talent: sight. Where once it could spy a pregnant female cobra curled around her nest from two miles high, it was now having difficulty finding a hill and a river from five hundred yards! It was almost wholly blind in one eye, and the other was only slightly less damaged. It was lucky if it could find itself a calf or a lamb or two these days.

  The curve of the rising sun crested the distant mountains, sending rays of light sweeping across the hazy forest-carpeted land. Jatayu looked up involuntarily, and a glittering refraction caught its one good eye. Water. A lake perhaps. No, a river.

  A river! It changed course slowly, painfully. The muscles that worked its finer wing movements were injured too, scorched in the explosions. It flew eastwards, squinting against the effulgence of the rising sun. It struggled to rise a little higher, just enough to put it out of the direct rays of the sun. It took a great deal more work than it once had. To think that just six months earlier it could fly from Lanka to Ayodhya and back in mere days. Ah, to be that Jatayu once more.

  A hundred yards higher, then another fifty, then fifty more … Yes! Now it could see the hill beside the river. That must be it. No wonder it had not found it sooner. It had been scouring much too far to the south-west.

  Foolish Jatayu. Foolish, withered, blind Jatayu. To think that you were once the king of vultures. Second only to the great Garuda, lord of all birdkind. And Ravana promised you not long ago that if you did as he bade you, helped his invasion of the mortal realm succeed, then you would be lord. Above even mighty Garuda. And now look at you, your flocks lost, your master reduced to a mindless palsy, your aerie atop the black fortress burned in the destruction of Lanka, yourself only a hollow shade of your former self. Alas, poor Jatayu. What is left that you can do? What great victories can you achieve now?

  Perhaps none. But it could still do something of note. However small or minor that act might be, it could still attempt at least to redeem itself. To pay the penance for its past mistakes. Earn a small copper coin to place on the empty side of the scales of karma, to balance against the formidable tonne-weight of its past sins and crimes.

  It set its man-like jaw and changed course grimly, heading for the hi
ll named Chitrakut, and the hut atop that hill.

  ***

  Sita had not spoken a word since the day of Supanakha’s attack. Rama did not press her. He had been largely silent as well, speaking neither to her nor to Lakshman. He was no longer angry with Lakshman. He knew that his brother had done what he thought was right at the time; the devas knew that Rama himself had desired nothing more than to raise his sword and cut that she-devil down where she stood. But regardless of how they felt, the fact remained: they had transgressed. Sage Anasuya’s warning had been crystal clear - do not draw first blood. They had done so. And now they could only wait silently to see what the consequences might be. He did not think they would be benign, but he still prayed daily.

  They were returning from their morning rituals, by the path that Lakshman had made. He had finished it the day of the attack, Rama recalled. Since then, Lakshman had undertaken no new hobby or chore. They had all gone about their daily business, doing what must be done but not much more. There had been no laughter, no easy chatter. It was as if a cloud had come to rest over Chitrakut hill, a dark, brooding cloud that muffled all old emotions and stifled all new ones. Their halfhearted attempts at conversation were still-born, their faces sombre. Even the deer and rabbits that Sita had taken to feeding daily in the field behind their hut seemed to sense the change, staring fitfully at them, perhaps surprised by their silence, perhaps reading their hearts.

  The rising sun was just starting to peek over the horizon as they reached the top of the hill. Another few yards and the hut was in view. It was a beautiful morning, with nary a cloud yet in sight. Any day now, the rains must come; it was past their time already. But not today. Surely not today. The sky was the blue of a northman’s eyes, clear and speckless. The wind was still cool, if humid, a blessed relief from the steaming heat of the summer afternoons. The newly cut grass underfoot was soft and pleasantly prickly, like a thick pelt rug.

  A shadow fell across them.

  Rama ignored it at first, continuing to walk towards the hut. Then he remembered: no clouds.

  And even if there was one overhead, the shadow moved too swiftly to be a cloud in this gentle breeze.

  He stopped and looked up.

  ‘Lakshman,’ he snapped.

  ‘I see it, bhai.’ Lakshman’s voice was subdued but alert.

  It was a jatayu. The largest Rama had ever seen. No. He had seen one this large before … at Mithila. When he and Lakshman had stood at the top of the Sage’s Brow, reciting the mantras that unleashed the Brahm-astra. The sky had been full of such flying asuras. And the one at the fore, leading that winged regiment, had been a man-vulture like this one.

  The creature issued a screel as it saw them looking up. It flew past them, beyond the hill and a hundred yards farther east, then began a slow turn, curving back.

  ‘It seeks us,’ Lakshman said quietly. He did not add what he normally would have said, that perhaps they ought to prepare to defend themselves.

  Rama indicated a spot a few yards further. A kind of promontory jutting out over the river vale. He stopped there, Sita and Lakshman close behind. He glanced at Sita. She met his look with an expression that contained no discernible emotion at first. Then she reached out and squeezed his arm. He nodded, thanking her for the reassurance. He removed his bow from his shoulder and set it by his side, casually held. Lakshman followed his example.

  The jatayu approached the hill again, the rising sun backlighting it. Rama could see the sun shining through gaps in its feathers. That could mean only one thing. The creature was injured, its plumage severely damaged. As it came closer, slowing in preparation to land, he saw that its underbelly and wings had been singed badly, burnt black in patches. From the awkward way it moved, he sensed it was still hurting from those wounds.

  With a final screel, the bird-beast landed on the promontory. It flapped its wings several times, its enormous claws scratching yard-long rents in the grassy surface as it struggled to get a firm grip. The wind from that flapping was enough to flatten Rama’s river-dampened garments against his body. A powerful stench of charred flesh came to him.

  Finally, the jatayu settled down. Its hooked beak turned this way, then that, several times. Rama saw that it had lost most of the vision in its left eye; that was why it was turning its head, to look at each of them in turn with its remaining good eye.

  ‘Jatayu,’ Rama said. ‘That is your name, is it not?’

  ‘Aye,’ the bird-creature said in a high-pitched tone, then made a noise in its throat as if trying to re-accustom itself to human speech. ‘Jatayu,’ it continued in a lower tone. ‘The first of its name.’

  The legendary Jatayu itself. Rama was impressed and saddened both at once. As a young boy, hearing the tales of such creatures of myth and legend, he had dreamed some day of coming face to face with them. Never in those dreams had he imagined the circumstances to be as they were now. ‘How come you to this sorry state, my winged friend?’

  Jatayu bowed its bald head briefly, as if unable to meet Rama’s eyes. It spoke in a broken patois that betrayed how long it had been since it had spoken anything other than asura dialects. ‘Once was Jatayu friend and ally of mortals. Your own ancestors called it friend, as you did just now. But many things changed over time. For too long now, it has been in the service of Ravana, lord of asuras.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rama said slowly. ‘I thought it was you I saw in the skies above Mithila, leading your flocks in battle against us.’

  ‘Jatayu admits it. It was at that very battle for Mithila that Jatayu lost its flocks.’

  ‘And suffered these grievous injuries as well?’

  ‘Nay. These were the result of Lanka’s burning. When the island-kingdom was torn apart by civil war these months past, following its master’s descent into mindless coma.’

  ‘I see.’ Then the demoness had spoken truly. Lanka was a spent force, Ravana no longer a power to reckon with. ‘And what business brings Jatayu here to Chitrakut hill this summer morning?’

  Jatayu hesitated, scratching its claws restlessly. They were still strong and sharp enough to gouge out foot-deep depressions in the ground. ‘It wishes to make amends. Jatayu has done much for which it is ashamed. It knows it has not long to live now, with such grievous wounds and its powers enfeebled. In its infirmity and old age, it would like to try and balance its karma.’

  ‘A noble intention, nobly stated,’ Rama said. A spark of hope sprang up in his breast. He had feared at first sight that the giant flying creature had been yet another demon sent to plague them in their exile. But now he thought it might be a gift from the other side, from the side that so often stood by and watched without offering a helping hand. A rare gift from the forces of Brahman, like the jewelled bow and golden arrow given by Anasuya. ‘How may I help Jatayu achieve this noble goal? Tell me, old friend of my forefathers.’

  Jatayu’s half-blinded eyes betrayed its surprise. ‘Rama is kind. Jatayu has done nothing but spy on his people, attack and murder them, and even attempt to attack Rama himself. Yet Rama speaks to Jatayu with respect and love.’

  Rama went closer to the bird-beast, ignoring the awful stench of burned and rotting flesh, mingled with the natural unwashed odour of bird. He placed a hand on the edge of the creature’s wing, feeling the powerful but damaged muscle beneath the leathery hide. ‘Because I feel the same way as you do, old one. Jatayu seeks to atone for its past sins. So does Rama.’

  ‘Rama?’ Jatayu cocked its head. ‘What sins does Rama have to atone for? You are a soldier of dharma. Even Ravana feared you for your adherence to dharma. The force of Brahman has ever been strong with you, Rama. You are gifted with great prowess because of your adherence to dharma and the path of Brahman.’

  ‘Yet Rama has misused that very prowess. I have taken too many lives, my friend. It must stop. I must make amends for the blood I have spilled. That is why I seek only ahimsa now. The code of non-violence.’

  Jatayu’s pupils flared. Each of those enormous grey-green
orbs was as large as Rama’s head. They stared at him, and he could see his own image reflected in them. ‘That will not be possible, Rama. You cannot embrace ahimsa. Not today. Perhaps some other day, in the distant future. But not today. Nay.’

  ‘What does Jatayu mean? Why do you say these words?’

  Jatayu wheezed, releasing a foul breath that told Rama more eloquently than the external wounds how badly the giant vulture-beast was really injured. ‘Because Jatayu comes here today to warn Rama and his companions. A terrible storm approaches Chitrakut. Rama and his companions must leave, must return to Ayodhya and seek aid. He must do so at once, for time is scarce. Even as we speak, the storm grows every closer to this peaceful hill. Before nightfall on this very day it will break here like a cloudburst. And if Rama remains here, he will be washed away.’

  Rama shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. What is this storm you speak of? What comes?’

  ‘Supanakha,’ Jatayu said. ‘The demoness. She has sought the aid of her brothers Khara and Dushana. They are the last survivors of Lanka’s army, lost at sea and separated from the rest of the invading armada, and somehow spared by the Brahmastra. They have inhabited the seaward plains south of Chitrakut, and even now they make their way northwards, seeking you out. Seeking to avenge their sister’s humilation and mutilation at your hands. I saw them start out two days past, and it is no more than three days’ march from thence to hence. They will arrive here sometime today.’ It hung its head briefly. ‘Jatayu would have come sooner, but it is ashamed to admit that it took two full days to make up its mind. Only this day, in the still, silent hours before dawn, was Jatayu so assailed by its conscience that it rose out of the tree it slept in and flew north to Chitrakut, seeking to redress its past sins, seeking to warn you, Rama.’

 

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