The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  “Finish what you were saying, Akampana.”

  “It would be foolish, my lord, to engage Rama in a duel, for you could not be certain of the outcome. But there is another way.” He paused, and saw he had his master’s interest. “Rama has a wife called Sita, who followed him into the forest. She is exquisite. He loves her more than his own life, and she, him; they are like prana to each other.”

  Ravana’s topmost head hissed, “So what? What are you trying to say?”

  Surer of himself now, Akampana continued at his ease. “She is the most beautiful woman in the world, Ravana. The apsaras of Devaloka cannot compare with her. Her face is perfect; her body is a vision.”

  “Say what you have to quickly, fool,” said the Monster of Lanka.

  Akampana blurted, “If you were to abduct Sita and bring her here secretly, Rama would die pining for her!”

  The nine heads mulled over this, whispering sibilantly among themselves. Then in surreal chorus, they grinned, horribly and all together. They bobbed up and down, endorsing Akampana’s idea, delighted with it. Ravana’s main face smiled, showing four rows of fangs. “I like your plan. Tomorrow at sunrise, I will fly to the Dandaka vana myself to bring Sita back to Lanka.”

  Akampana bowed deeply and left the presence without turning his back on his Emperor. Ravana stood at his window for a long time, staring across sullen green waves. Then he turned back to his duties and pleasures of the day, and to his endless study. The Rakshasa was a profound scholar.

  He retired early that night and he ordered no woman to come to him. He soon fell asleep, the eyes in all his heads shut fast.

  * * *

  The next morning, before the sun rose, Ravana sat in the strangest chariot. This ratha was made of gold, alloyed with a starry metal, and four horned mules were yoked to it. They were green creatures of sorcery and flew through the sky quick as thoughts, at their master’s command.

  When Ravana was ready, his chariot rose into the air. It hovered there, swathed in eerie luster, as the sun crept up behind the palace. The Demon raised a hand to wave to his rakshasas below. Next moment, the chariot vanished from sight.

  Ravana flew across the sea of Bharatavarsha. He flashed across the plateau of the southern peninsula, over field and forest, mountain and river. He slowed his flying mules over a jungle below him that was his destination. He peered down to find the hermitage for which he was bound. Quite soon, he spotted Maricha’s asrama: its wood fire’s smoke curled into the sky. With a command that was just a potent thought, Ravana flew down smoothly as a bird and alighted in the glade where the rakshasa Maricha, now turned a rishi, sat in dhyana. It was the same Maricha whom Rama had once doused in the sea with the manavastra. Maricha was Ravana’s uncle.

  He gave a cry of welcome when he saw who had come to visit him. Quickly he laid out a darbhasana for the Emperor and set a bowl of fruit before him. Maricha was older than he, and Ravana paid proper, if somewhat hollow, obeisance to him before he settled into the grass throne.

  Maricha blessed him and said, “What a pleasant surprise, nephew. Something important must bring you to my asrama. Tell me, what has happened?”

  Ravana looked away from Maricha. He gazed at his humble hut; he gazed at the tree under which it was built, on which the wildflower garlands of worship hung. He took his time to begin, then said, “Uncle, did you know that all my rakshasas in Janasthana have been killed? Khara, Dushana, and all the rest. The entire army has been razed.” He drew a talon eloquently across his throat. “In a day.”

  Maricha’s eyes grew round. “How? When Khara led the army, how?”

  Studying his dark, brutal hands, Ravana said quietly, “One man killed them all.” He paused. Then, rolling the words on his tongue as if to see if they would conjure any magic, he said slowly, “A kshatriya. A Rama.”

  Maricha drew a sharp breath; his hair stood on end. He held up his hands and cried, “Don’t say that name!”

  Ignoring him, Ravana continued, “Obviously the human is powerful; such power is a threat to me.” He took up a blade of darbha grass and began to pick his fangs. “This Rama must be killed. But we think he is too dangerous to face in battle.”

  Maricha, who had experience of Rama, nodded his head several times in assent.

  Ravana continued, “We think his wife should be taken in secret to Lanka, without Rama knowing where she has gone. We know noble hearts like his; he will pine for her and die. Or he will think her dead and kill himself to join her in the next world. I need your help, Maricha.”

  But Maricha gave a moan. To his surprise, Ravana saw the old rakshasa’s hands shook and his face was filmed in a sweat of fear. Struggling to compose himself, Maricha cried, “Whoever set you on this course is your enemy and wants to see you dead. Is one of your advisers trying to kill you? You would be mad even to think of it. This same Rama once shot me a thousand yojanas into the sea; and you find no one else to abduct but Rama’s wife!”

  Maricha breathed heavily; his eyes bulged in anxiety. “Ravana, you are the Lord of all the rakshasas and someone is envious of you. He is trying to have you killed. Rama will finish you if you go near him. He is like a sleeping lion. Only a fool will thrust his head into the lion’s jaws and then awaken him.

  “You are my nephew. I am your well-wisher and I want nothing from you. Return to Lanka, to your women. Forget you ever heard the name Sita. Go, Ravana; don’t invite your death to you.”

  Ravana listened calmly. He was unmoved by the descriptions of Rama’s prowess, unmoved even by Maricha’s obvious fear. But he respected Maricha almost as a guru, and he had never heard him speak of anyone else as he did of Rama. Since there were such conflicting opinions about abducting Sita, he decided to let caution prevail.

  Ravana said, “Very well, uncle; if you feel so strongly I will not take Sita. Though it rankles that a mere man treats us as this Rama has, and I have no fitting response for him. But no matter; there is no hurry. I am sure the chance will present itself one day, and I will crush this prince like an insect under my nail.”

  All his heads glowered at the thought. Ravana flew back to Lanka in his mule chariot.

  11. Surpanaka again

  A few days later, a more relaxed Ravana sat on his crystal throne, worked also with huge pearls and blood-red corals from the sea. He had another visitor, who changed that Emperor’s mind again.

  For days after the slaughter of the rakshasas of Janasthana, Surpanaka lived alone in the deserted city. The ghosts of the dead haunted her, wailing at her for revenge: after all, it was in trying to avenge the injury to her that they had died. She spent those days and their nights as inside a nightmare. Over and over again she saw Rama’s face. She saw his smoking astras, and she heard the screams of the rakshasas she had led to their deaths. She dared not sleep any more except when she fell into an exhausted swoon.

  If one of her brothers had been with her, he would have told her the fault was not hers. But here she was, alone in the midst of the Dandaka vana, and every leaf that stirred in the breeze reminded her of her guilt. At last she could not bear it any longer, the hallucinatory loneliness, and the wounds where Lakshmana had cut off her ears and nose still smarted fiercely. They were ill healed, with no one to minister to them, since all her rakshasis had fled.

  In despair, she decided to go to her brother in Lanka. She arrived with witchcraft, having flown limply over the sea.

  * * *

  Let no one who speaks of Ravana forget his greatness. True, he was evil, none as evil as him, but he was magnificent as well. In fact, such was the greatness of Ravana that no other king on any world could hold a candle to him.

  He sat upon his throne like fire in a crystal shrine. He was a master not only of darkness, but also of knowledge, classical and hermetic. Ravana sat bare-bodied in his splendid court, and his mighty chest bore the circular scar where, once, Indra’s elephant Airavata had gored him. Another emblazoned wound showed where Indra’s vajra had burned him. But Ravana was not kill
ed by tusk or thunderbolt, which no other warrior had ever survived. Indra had fled when the adamantine vajra came back to him without claiming the Demon’s life.

  Despite the inverted cluster of heads, and of these just the topmost was purely evil, Ravana was handsome, as rakshasas are, and manly. Women felt faint when they saw him. Of course, he never hesitated to take any woman who caught his fancy, regardless of whose wife, sister, or daughter she was. What Ravana wanted, he invariably had.

  He was a master of astras, and a favorite of Siva’s. He had a boon of unequaled strength and a sword of power from Siva; with these he had established dominion over the three worlds.

  On his way to the triune sovereignty, he had descended into the Patalas and vanquished Vasuki, Emperor of the nagas. He had then quelled his own half-brother, Kubera, Master of treasures upon the mountain, for lordship over the earth. The Rakshasa wreaked havoc in Kubera’s pleasure garden, the Chaitra, molesting his yaksha women and plundering as much gold and as many jewels as he liked. From Kubera, Ravana also took the incomparable pushpaka vimana. This was not the mule chariot, but a wonderful ship of the firmament.

  Finally, he attacked Indra in Devaloka and defeated the Ones of light. They also now paid him tribute: wealth and horses, elephants and women. The elemental Gods were his vassals. The sun shone softly for him, the moon never waned over his island. The wind blew gently on Lanka and the sea never dared rise there, for fear of Ravana.

  But the Rakshasa had his greatest blessing from his grandsire Brahma: that he could not be killed by a Deva of the sky, a gandharva, a charana, Asura, Daitya, Danava, pisacha, rakshasa; or by any among the immortal races of darkness or light. But thinking them too puny, he had not asked for invincibility against mortal men. After all, he was Ravana, who had once lifted Kailasa in his hands to please Lord Siva. Holding the mountain aloft, accompanying himself on the vina, he sang the Sama Veda as no one had sung it before.

  One should never discount the majesty of Ravana of Lanka. Evil he was, but he was also the greatest of all the created beings of his time. He had dominated the known universe for centuries, and even Deva women felt weak with desire just to see him. He was matchless at arms, in his generosity, in his intelligence and knowledge of the sacred lore, and in his indomitable courage. He was Ravana, the peerless, the invincible. There was no one like him, as complex, as powerful, or as wise, save the great Gods of the Trinity themselves. But let us not forget he was evil as well: a Beast of the night.

  * * *

  Ravana hardly recognized his sister when she stood fuming before him. She had no nose or ears, and her face was so much older. Her hair had turned gray in a week; her voice was different, sadder. If he knew her by anything, it was by the fire in her eyes. She stood with her hands on her hips, glowering at her brother.

  She said shrilly, “You call yourself an emperor. You say Indra is your vassal. But you are only an emperor of your harem, since you don’t seem to know anything that goes on beyond its doors. Ravana, you have grown arrogant and complacent. Janasthana is razed, everyone who lived there is a moldering corpse; and you sit here indulging yourself. Rakshasa, you are not fit to rule!”

  Ravana said nothing. He let her vent her anger. She cried, “Do you know, O Emperor, what force razed the might of Janasthana as if it never existed? A man: one man, a Rama.”

  Ravana said quietly, “Tell me about him.”

  Surpanaka thought bitterly about the prince, his dark face and his mocking smile. Yet her expression grew wistful when she remembered him.

  She sighed, “He is the son of King Dasaratha, who sent him to the Dandaka vana. His arms are long and so are his eyes. He is as handsome as Kama Deva. He wears valkala, and his hair piled above his beautiful face in jata. He wielded a bow that was not made in this world. He shot astras called narachas that burned our soldiers to ashes.

  “I did not see him bend his bow or draw back its string. I only saw his arrows scorch the sky in a livid storm. And fourteen thousand rakshasas were cut down in a muhurta and a half. Khara was among those fourteen thousand, and Dushana and Trisiras. It was no army of weaklings that Rama wilted as if it were a field of green plants.

  “He let me escape because I am a woman; but look what his brother did to me. Lakshmana is just a fair version of him; he is as powerful as Rama. I could tell by the weapons he carried and the speed with which he ruined my face. They are not just two men when they fight; they are two armies by themselves.”

  Another memory stirred in her. Her eyes glittered more than ever. “With them, also, is Rama’s wife, Sita. She is Janaka of Videha’s daughter and, oh, she is beautiful. Her hair hangs below her waist. Her nose is fine, and her body is lissom and perfect. Her skin is golden and I have never seen another woman like her. Hers is the beauty by which all other beauty may be measured.

  “Ravana, you have had the apsaras of Devaloka in your bed, the slender gandharvis and yakshis of night who live in scented pala trees. But you have not seen Sita. She makes the charms of these others seem like stars twinkling vainly beside a full moon.”

  She knew her brother well, especially his weakness. Surpanaka leaned close to him and breathed, “She is the woman for you! She belongs in your bed. I tried to capture her for you; that was when Lakshmana cut my face. If you don’t believe me, go and look at her just once. Then tell me if you don’t lose your heart. She was born for you; your destiny is calling you, Ravana. Go and kill the arrogant kshatriyas, and bring Sita back to Lanka to adorn your harem and your life.”

  She saw the gleam in his eyes and knew she had aroused his desire. Surpanaka fell silent and, whimpering, gingerly felt her wounds. Ravana clapped his hands; he nodded to his court that it was dismissed.

  12. Maricha persuaded

  Ravana sat alone in his court. Light from the sea and the sky streamed in on him through the tall bay windows. Before his mind’s eye there floated a face conjured by Surpanaka, which seemed to call out to him with unearthly perfection. Below the face he saw flawless limbs, like none he had ever caressed.

  He sat thinking only of how he could possess the woman of his dreams: Sita, whom he had not even seen, but who already haunted him inexorably. Plan after plan rose in his ten heads, some absurd, some almost plausible. Plan after plan he rejected, in a spirit of complete solemnity. Ravana had decided he must have Sita: not only for revenge, but also for the pleasure of his bed.

  After what he knew the kshatriya had done to Khara and the others, Ravana was not rash enough to confront Rama. Despite what Surpanaka said, the Rakshasa was neither complacent nor foolish. Rama was a dangerous enemy; he must be stalked cautiously. Ravana sat lost in thought for a while. Then he rose, strode out to his stables, and ordered his flying chariot to be yoked to the uncanny mules.

  Over the smoky sea flew the Demon, bright as a jewel in the sky. His white silks flapped around him; his golden earrings shone in the sun. He Was still deep in thought: he wanted to approach the one whose asrama he was headed for in just the right tone. The Lord of Lanka was bound, again, for his uncle Maricha’s hermitage.

  Ravana sat perfectly still in his chariot, unmoved by picturesque Bharatavarsha unfolding below him. Painted forests and flowing plains, rivers like silver threads laid across the earth and mountains thrusting up: all these he ignored. His thoughts were his masters, and they were far away. He wrapped himself against the wind and sat dreaming in the chariot, and scheming. At last he saw the Dandaka vana. As he flew low, shrouded in maya so he was invisible, he saw the giant nyagrodha tree on the branches of which Jatayu sat when Rama first saw him.

  Maricha’s asrama was not far. When that hermit rakshasa saw Ravana’s chariot descending on him from the clear sky he trembled. Maricha guessed what must be on his nephew’s mind that he had returned. But he was afraid of Ravana, and went to welcome him with a smile on his face.

  With fruit, dark mushrooms, and soft venison, Maricha entertained his royal guest. When Ravana had settled himself comfortably and eaten two ripe
red mangoes in silence, Maricha said, “I hope all is well in Lanka. The queens of my lord?”

  Ravana gazed at him briefly. As was their way, nine of his faces were now hidden. But the inscrutable eyes of the main face were turned unwinkingly on poor Maricha. He blanched and offered his terrible guest more fruit. But Ravana declined, thrusting the bowl away with the back of his long hand.

  At last, he said with a sigh, “Uncle, I have no peace of mind and I have come to you for comfort. A word from you is balm to my distress.”

  Maricha betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “Tell me, my king, what troubles you?”

  “Oh, I am suffering, Maricha, and only you can console me. Surpanaka came to Lanka today. The prince who killed Khara had her nose and ears cut off. Not one or two of our people were slain by this Rama, but fourteen thousand. He is certainly a great archer. But just think, uncle: he must be a great sinner as well, that his father banished such a warrior from his kingdom.

  “Now, in exile, he has crossed my path. He is a blot on the face of kshatriya kind and he must die. For no reason, he maimed my sister; then he murdered fourteen thousand of my best rakshasas and my cousin Khara. Maricha, I am a king. I cannot ignore such provocation or my people will lose respect for me.”

  Maricha thought, “Better that than lose your life.” But he said nothing, only waited in silence to hear what his Emperor intended by way of revenge.

  Ravana resumed softly, “He is evil, this Rama, and powerful. The only way to kill him is to take his wife away from him, so he does not know where she has gone.”

  Maricha’s heart gave a lurch. Ravana saw fear leap into his demon’s eye and ignored it. “Uncle, you must help me. With you at my side, I do not fear even the Devas. You are wise and gifted beyond anyone’s common understanding. You are my hope in this enterprise; listen to my plan.”

  Maricha’s hands shook; he had broken out in a sweat. It seemed to him his life was forfeit, any way he viewed his predicament. If he did not go along with Ravana, the Rakshasa would kill him; if he did, Rama would. Maricha shivered with strange cold this warm afternoon. He nodded numbly to Ravana, to indicate he would listen to his plan.