The soldiers around Sita dispersed and returned to their positions.
She lay there, safely strapped onto the stretcher, some twenty feet away from Raavan. Her angvastram was drawn over her body, and the straps were tight across her torso and legs. Her eyes were closed. Saliva trickled out of the corner of her mouth. A large quantity of a very strong toxin had been used to render her unconscious.
For the first time in their lives, Raavan and Kumbhakarna saw Sita’s face.
Raavan felt his breath stop. He sat immobile, heart paralysed. Eyes glued to her face.
To Sita’s regal, strong, beautiful face.
Chapter 2
Fifty-six years earlier, the ashram of Guru Vishrava, close to Indraprastha, India
For a four-year-old, Raavan was quite sure and steady in his movements.
The precocious child was Rishi Vishrava’s son. The celebrated rishi had married late, when he was over seventy years of age. Though you couldn’t tell by looking at him: the magical anti-ageing Somras he drank regularly kept him looking youthful. In his long career spanning many decades, Rishi Vishrava had made a name for himself as a great scientist and spiritual guru. In fact, he was considered to be among the greatest intellectuals of his generation.
Being the son of such a distinguished rishi, the weight of expectations rested heavily on Raavan’s young shoulders. But it appeared he would not disappoint. Even at this early age, he had a fearsome intellect. It seemed to all who met him that the child would someday surpass even the vast achievements of his illustrious father.
But the universe has a way of balancing things. With the positive comes the negative.
As the sun set on the far horizon, Raavan patiently tied the fragile legs of the hare he had trapped to two small wooden stumps sticking up from the ground. The creature struggled frantically as the boy pinned it down with his knee and pulled the ropes taut. It lay there with its limbs splayed, underside and chest exposed to the sky. The little boy was satisfied. He could begin work now.
Raavan had dissected another hare the previous day. Studied its muscles, ligaments and bones in detail, while it was still breathing. He had been keen to reach the beating heart. But the hare, having suffered enough already, died before he could cut through the sternal ribs. Its heart had stopped by the time Raavan got to it.
Today, he intended to go straight for the animal’s heart.
The hare was still struggling, its long ears twitching ferociously. Normally, hares are quiet animals, but this one was clearly in a state of panic. For good reason.
Raavan checked the sharpness of his knife with the tip of his forefinger. It drew some blood. He sucked at his forefinger as he looked at the hare. He smiled.
The excitement he felt, the rapid beating of his heart, took away the dull ache in his navel. An ache that was perennial.
He used his left hand to steady his prey. Then he held the knife over the animal, the tip pointed at its chest.
Just as he was about to make the incision, he sensed a presence near him. He looked up.
The Kanyakumari.
In many parts of India, there was a tradition of venerating the Kanyakumari, literally the Virgin Goddess. It was believed that the Mother Goddess resided, temporarily, within the bodies of certain chosen young girls. These girls were worshipped as living Goddesses. People came to them for advice and prophecies—they counted even kings and queens among their followers—until they reached puberty, at which time, it was believed, the Goddess moved into the body of another pre-pubescent girl.
There were many Kanyakumari temples in India. This particular Kanyakumari who stood in front of Raavan was from Vaidyanath, in eastern India.
She was on her way back to Vaidyanath after a pilgrimage to the holy Amarnath cave in Kashmir, and had stopped at Rishi Vishrava’s ashram. The holy cave, buried under snow for most of the year, housed a great lingam made of ice. It was believed that this cave was where the first Mahadev had unveiled the secrets of life and creation.
The Kanyakumari’s entourage had returned from the pilgrimage with their souls energised but their bodies exhausted. The Goddess had decided to stay for a few weeks in Rishi Vishrava’s ashram by the river Yamuna, before continuing on her journey to Vaidyanath.
The rishi had welcomed her visit as a blessed opportunity to speak to the Goddess and expand his understanding of the spiritual world. Despite his best efforts, however, the Kanyakumari had kept to herself and spent little time with him or the many inhabitants of his ashram.
But that had only added to the natural magnetism and aura of the living Goddess. Even Raavan, usually preoccupied in his own world, had stared at her every chance he got, fascinated.
He looked up at her now, transfixed, knife poised in mid-air.
The Kanyakumari stood in front of him, her expression tranquil. There was no trace of the anger or disgust that Raavan was used to seeing whenever anyone from the ashram caught him at his ‘scientific’ experiments. Nor was there any sign of sorrow or pity in her eyes. There was nothing. No expression at all.
She just stood there, as if she were an idol made of stone—distant yet awe-inspiring. A girl no older than eight or nine. Wheat-complexioned, with high cheekbones and a small, sharp nose. Long black hair tied in a braid. Black eyes, wide-set, with almost creaseless eyelids. Dressed in a red dhoti, blouse and angvastram. She had the look of the mountain people from the Himalayas.
Raavan instinctively checked the cummerbund tied around his waist, on top of his dhoti. It was in place, covering his navel. His secret was safe. Then he remembered the hideous pockmarks on his face, the legacy of the pox he had suffered as a baby. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt self-conscious about his appearance.
He shook his head to get the thought out of his mind.
‘Devi Ka… Kanyakumari,’ he whispered, letting the knife drop to the ground. His eyes were fixed on the Goddess.
The Kanyakumari stepped forward without a word, her expression unchanged. She bent down and picked up the knife. With quick, efficient movements, she cut the restraints on the wretched hare.
She then picked it up and gently kissed it on the head. The hare was quiet in her hands, its panic forgotten. The voiceless animal seemed to know that it was safe again.
For a fleeting moment, Raavan thought he saw the Kanyakumari’s eyes light up with love. Then the mask came back on.
She put the hare down and the animal bounded away.
The Kanyakumari looked again at Raavan and returned the knife to him.
Her face remained impassive.
Without saying a word, she turned and walked away.
Not for the first time since she had arrived at the ashram, Raavan wondered what the Kanyakumari’s birth-name had been, before she was recognised as a living Goddess.
Raavan had slipped out of the house as soon as his mother, Kaikesi, fell asleep. He moved quickly towards his destination.
He was seven years old now. And already renowned in many ashrams, besides that of his father’s, as a brilliant child with a formidable intellect. He had started his training in the martial arts as well, and was already showing great promise. As if that wasn’t enough, he had a keen ear for music too. His favourites were the stringed instruments, especially the magnificent Rudra Veena. It was only a few months since he had started learning to play the veena, but he was already in love with it.
The Rudra Veena was named after the previous Mahadev, Lord Rudra, whom Raavan worshipped with a passion. The instrument was considered to be among the most difficult to play. He had been told that to master it required years of practice—each time he heard this, he drove himself harder, for how could Raavan be any less than the best?
As he walked quickly through the darkness, Raavan’s mind was on the contest that had been arranged for the following morning, against a musician called Dagar. A young and already well-known Rudra Veena player, Dagar was visiting Rishi Vishrava’s ashram.
Though it was only a
friendly competition, Raavan had no desire to lose.
He thought again of the first time he had beheld the instrument of his choice. He had felt a deep reverence as he touched the rounded teak-wood fingerboard fixed on two large resonators: they were made of dried and hollowed out gourds, he had been told. On both ends of the tubular body were woodcarvings of peacocks, known to be the favourite birds of Lord Rudra. Twenty-two straight wooden frets were fixed to the fingerboard with wax and there were three separate bridges.
This most dramatic of instruments had eight strings—four main and three drone strings on one side of the player and one drone string on the other. All the strings were wound around the eight friction pegs on the tuning head.
During that first lesson, Raavan had watched as the older students sat on the floor and settled the veena with one gourd over the shoulder. Some of them rested it on their left knee. That was when he had realised that the instrument was customised for the person who handled it; there was no question of one-size-fits-all.
Anyone who has observed the structure of the Rudra Veena knows that it is an extremely complex instrument to understand, let alone play. Wire plectrums worn on the index and middle fingers of the right hand are used to pluck the main strings, while the drone strings are played with the nail of the little finger. The strings have to be manipulated with the left hand from beneath the horizontal neck, made more difficult by the fact that the right hand ends up blocking the drone string on the side.
But what truly separates the Rudra Veena from other stringed instruments is the dramatically higher quality of resonance, which is due to the two large gourds attached to its ends. The frequency and strength of the resonance have a significant impact on the tonal quality and the music.
Damage the gourds. Damage the resonance. Damage the music.
Raavan quietly slipped into the small hut where he knew the musical instruments were kept. Dagar’s veena was there too. Musicians were known to worship their instruments every night and morning. It seemed Dagar was no different. Puja flowers and burnt incense sticks lay at the base of his Rudra Veena.
Raavan sniggered to himself.
Dagar’s prayers will not be answered tonight.
He worked quickly, without a sound. First, he slipped the cloth cover off the instrument. Then he unscrewed the gourd on the left and felt its insides. Polished and smooth. He took out a metallic wrench from the pouch tied to his waist and used it to begin scratching the insides of the gourd.
Dagar would not be immediately able to make out that the resonance was not right, not even while tuning his instrument the next day. He would realise it only when playing the raga during the competition. By which time, it would be too late.
Raavan kept glancing towards the door as he worked. He couldn’t think of a single excuse to offer if someone were to walk in just now. But there was no time to worry about that. He focused his energies on the task at hand.
The morning of the competition dawned clear and blue-skied. Much to the surprise of the ashram’s inhabitants, the Kanyakumari of Vaidyanath was back amongst them. It had been a good three years since her previous visit. This time, she was on her way to Takshasheela, the famed university-town in north-west India, along with her entourage. And Rishi Vishrava’s peaceful ashram had proved to be an ideal resting point.
With the Kanyakumari as a witness, the two musicians began playing. The contest didn’t last long. Dagar’s damaged veena ensured that he gave up barely ten minutes into his performance, and his younger opponent was declared the winner.
But Vishrava knew his son well.
He dragged Raavan to their frugal hut immediately after the competition.
‘What did you do?’ he hissed, closing the door behind them so no one could overhear the conversation.
‘Nothing!’ said Raavan defiantly, his head barely reaching up to his father’s chest, his eyes blazing. ‘I was just better than that idiot whom you like to favour.’
‘Mind your tongue,’ said Vishrava, his fists clenched with anger. ‘Dagar is one of the finest young Rudra Veena players of this modern age.’
‘Not fine enough to beat me,’ Raavan scoffed.
‘The Kanyakumari is here. How can I allow any subterfuge in her presence?’
Raavan didn’t know what the word meant. ‘Subterwhat?’
Kaikesi, who was standing behind them, spoke up in a gentle voice. ‘Vishrava, if you feel that Raavan is guilty of deceit, please publicly announce Dagar as the winner. Raavan will understand. Perhaps the Kanyakumari herself can—’
Raavan cut in. ‘But your husband is guilty of deceit too. He has been lying since the time of my birth. Why doesn’t he tell the Kanyakumari about that? Why doesn’t he tell everyone the truth about me?’
The old sage raised his hand in anger.
‘Please don’t!’ pleaded Kaikesi, rushing up and throwing her arms around her son. ‘You have to stop hitting him. It’s wrong… please…’
‘Silence! This is all your fault. I am suffering due to your karma. Your bad karma has infected his navel! And his mind!’ Vishrava’s voice was bitter.
‘Hey!’ said Raavan angrily. ‘Don’t talk to her. Talk to me.’
Enraged, Vishrava pushed Kaikesi aside and lunged at Raavan. He slapped the boy hard on his cheek. The seven-year-old went flying across the room. Kaikesi shrieked and ran to shield her son.
Vishrava looked at the boy lying on the ground. Raavan’s cummerbund had come undone, revealing a small purple outgrowth from his navel—his birth deformity. Proof that he was a Naga. All across India, people believed that birth deformities were the consequence of a cursed soul, of bad karma carrying over from the previous birth. And such blighted people were called Nagas.
Vishrava spoke with barely disguised disgust. ‘Cover that thing!’ He glared at his wife. ‘Your son will destroy my name.’
Raavan pushed his mother’s protective hand away. ‘Yes, I will. Because everyone knows I am better than you in every way.’
‘Arrogant brat! Lord Indra has bestowed his gifts on the wrong person,’ growled Vishrava as he turned to leave.
‘Yes, go away! Get lost! I don’t need you!’ Raavan shouted, struggling to keep his voice level despite the tears that threatened to well up.
The ever-present ache in his navel intensified. Growing in ferocity.
Raavan was sitting by the side of the mighty Yamuna River, not far from his father’s ashram. His cheek still burned, though the tears had long dried up.
He was staring at the ground, a magnifying glass in his hand. With great care, he focused the rays of the sun into a powerful band of light, burning the little ants that scurried about. He was breathing hard, raw anger still pulsating in every vein. His navel throbbed, the centre of constant pain.
The fragrance reached him first. He felt his breath catch.
He turned his head and saw her.
The Kanyakumari.
His body froze, the magnifying glass still in his hand. Burnt and shrivelled ants lay near his feet. The sun’s concentrated rays singed the grass.
The Kanyakumari’s expression remained calm. No sign of disgust. Nor anger.
She stepped closer and took the glass from Raavan’s hand.
‘You can be better than this.’
Raavan did not say anything. His mouth was suddenly dry. The long-held breath escaped in a sigh.
The Kanyakumari smiled slightly. An ethereal smile. The smile of a living Goddess.
She pointed towards the ashram, where the music competition had taken place in the morning. ‘You can be better than that too.’
Raavan felt his lips move. But no words came out. His mind was blank. Unable to construct even simple thoughts and words.
His heart had picked up pace. He noticed that the ache in his navel had magically disappeared. For a few moments.
‘At least try,’ said the Kanyakumari.
She turned and walked away.
‘You would have won anyway,’ Daga
r said, smiling.
It was past sunset. Most of the ashram’s residents were back in their huts. Raavan had come to see Dagar, bringing with him the holy lotus garland he had won earlier in the day. Reluctantly, his eyes unable to meet Dagar’s, he had mumbled a confession. The older contestant had responded graciously.
Dagar, like most others present at the event, had suspected that something was not right with his instrument. He had examined the veena after the competition and quickly identified the problem. But he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. Raavan was a child, after all.
Raavan did not say anything. He stood with his head bowed. Thinking of the Kanyakumari. She was to leave the next morning.
The sixteen-year-old Dagar, standing head and shoulders over the younger boy, ruffled his hair. ‘You have talent. Use that to win. You don’t need to do anything underhand.’
Raavan nodded silently. He didn’t like his hair being ruffled by anyone.
Except her… he would do anything to get her to ruffle his hair.
‘And don’t worry,’ said Dagar, with a smile. ‘My veena is being repaired. No permanent damage done.’
Raavan let out a long breath. He had expected the ache in his navel to disappear. But it hadn’t.
‘And you can keep this,’ said Dagar, returning the lotus garland to him.
Raavan grabbed it. And ran back home.
Chapter 3
Two years passed. Raavan turned nine. Every day, he strove consciously to keep the Kanyakumari’s words alive within him. You can be better, he often reminded himself. Very rarely did he do anything without considering what her reaction to it might be. And it appeared to be working. He got along more easily with the people in the ashram; some actually seemed to like him.
He had also started covering his navel with a cummerbund when he was at home. He knew it embarrassed his father that his son was a Naga, and he had been trying his best for the past two years to not aggravate the situation.
Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Page 3