The only kingdom in the Sapt Sindhu that had refused to join up with Kubaer so far was Kalinga. Therefore, while trading had become difficult in most parts of the country, it had intensified in Chilika. The port was under the control of the king of Kalinga, who ruled from his capital, Cuttack, over eighty kilometres north of the lake. ‘Cuttack’ literally meant military cantonment or royal camp, the name resonant of the warrior past of the Kalingans. But over many centuries, the people there had grown into a non-violent and peace-loving community, whose interests lay in trading and in cultural and intellectual pursuits. This also made the Kalinga kings relatively liberal in their approach to the vexed issue of state controls. As a result, several Vaishya families chose to settle in Kalinga and ply their trade there.
But things were slowly changing. The anti-Vaishya mood in the rest of the country had begun to seep through to Kalinga. Everyone wanted to ingratiate themselves with Dashrath, the powerful king of Ayodhya, who was also the emperor and overlord of the Sapt Sindhu. And it was well known that the mood in Ayodhya was anti-Vaishya. Furthermore, the mighty kingdom of South Kosala, in the upper parts of the Mahanadi, not far from Kalinga, had recently forged a strong alliance with Ayodhya through marriage. Princess Kaushalya had become the first wife of Emperor Dashrath.
Influenced by its powerful relatives, South Kosala too had started placing severe restrictions on trade. Kalinga, sensing the shift in its immediate neighbourhood, had started realigning itself too. A Naharin administrator from the lands to the north-west of Babylon, in Mesopotamia, was brought in as the governor of Chilika to ‘discipline’ the wayward traders. Nobody knew the man’s original name, but he had taken on an Indian one: Krakachabahu, the one with ‘arms like a saw’. Regrettably, his style of administration was as repugnant as his name. However, the Kalinga king, far away in his capital city, left Krakachabahu to run Chilika by himself.
Soon, traders in Kalinga began suffering the same tax terrorism and countless regulations that their fellow traders endured in the other kingdoms of the Sapt Sindhu. If they couldn’t do business even in Chilika, where could they? Despondent, some decided to give up trading altogether, but the majority laboured on, for it was the only profession they had any experience in. However, the feeling was gathering strength that they had to look for ways to bypass Krakachabahu’s oppressive restrictions.
It wasn’t long, then, before smuggled goods began to find their way from the Sapt Sindhu to the outside world. There was very little that Indians required from foreign lands since they had plenty of home-grown produce to live on. Even if something was smuggled in, it could get confiscated in any of the kingdoms of the Sapt Sindhu if it lacked the customary permits. Understandably then, the smuggling market was geared more towards exports. The Sapt Sindhu produced many goods that the world wanted. Smuggling them out became a convenient way to avoid hefty export duties and make good profits.
A three-tier smuggling system evolved over time. The first tier involved transporting manufactured products from different kingdoms in the Sapt Sindhu to Chilika. This was relatively simple because many of these goods could easily be mixed with legal exports. It was also the least risky—and the least profitable—of the tiers. The second-tier operators used small cutter-boats to run the gauntlet of Krakachabahu’s tax-boats in Chilika before escaping into the sea, either undetected or after bribing the Customs officers. The third tier came into effect in the Eastern Sea, where large seafaring ships, anchored many nautical miles south of Chilika and hidden among other ships waiting to sail into harbour, picked up goods from the cutter-boats and sailed off into distant foreign lands.
Now, the second tier clearly constituted the riskiest part of the operation. And yet, since it was mainly done by young smugglers in small boats, who were desperate to make ends meet, the cream of the profits was skimmed by the third tier: the owners of the large seafaring ships. They negotiated prices down by playing one against the other, while they themselves charged the full and legal, duty-paid price in foreign markets like Arabia, Malay or Cambodia.
When they had first moved here, Raavan and Mareech had taken up employment as dock workers. They survived the hard toil for some time, but eventually, encouraged by the opportunities on offer, Raavan had hired a small cutter-boat and progressed to second-tier smuggling. He had quickly made a name for himself as a smart lad and a talented sailor who was willing to take risks and sneak out goods in the most adverse conditions. It was not a surprise, therefore, when he was approached by a smuggler called Akampana, who specialised in the third tier.
Normally, smugglers in the third tier were capable seafarers, raking in huge profits. Akampana, however, was a bit of a misfit in that category. His was among the least profitable third-tier operations. He was notorious for delaying payments to his crew or not paying them at all. It had reached a point where men simply refused to work for him. But he did have a major asset—his own ship. A large one. One that was capable of sailing on the high seas.
The only way a smuggler in the second tier could graduate to the profitable third tier was by owning or working on a seafaring ship. Knowing this, Raavan agreed to meet Akampana.
The next day, Raavan and Mareech, along with their regular crew of five cutthroats, sailed out in their cutter-boat to a small, hidden lagoon south of Chilika, where Akampana’s house was located.
Raavan ordered his crew to row the boat close to Akampana’s ship, which was anchored not too far from the shore.
‘By the great Lord Varun,’ exclaimed Mareech, invoking the name of the God of Water and the Seas in his surprise. ‘Does this Akampana not do any maintenance work on his ship at all?’
One of the ways to classify ships was by the number of masts they possessed. Most seafaring ships that came to Chilika had three masts. So did Akampana’s. But the sorry state of the vessel was quite obvious. The rigging, including the sails, looked worn and incapable of drawing wind effectively. In fact, the sails hadn’t even been furled up to prevent damage from sudden gusts of wind, which were quite common in the area. The masts were clearly in desperate need of fresh woodwork. The crow’s nest on top of the main mast had most of its floorboards missing. The tar on the ship’s hull, crucial for keeping the vessel waterproof and preventing leakages, needed recoating.
‘I thought Akampana’s ship had a reputation for speed,’ Raavan said, equally surprised.
‘So did I,’ said Mareech. ‘Are you sure you want to work with this man?’
Raavan stared at the ship, lost in thought. Then, abruptly, he threw his angvastram aside. ‘Stay here.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Mareech.
Before he could finish, Raavan had slipped into the water and was swimming towards the ship. When he got to it, he stopped and floated alongside, carefully examining the hull. He then dived underwater to look at the part just below water. He came back up and swam the length of the ship, this time not just looking at it but feeling it with his fingers, disappearing underwater and coming up every few minutes to take a breath before going back in again. On Mareech’s orders, the cutter-boat followed, circling the ship and keeping abreast of Raavan.
When Raavan finally swam up to the surface and climbed onto the boat, Mareech looked at him questioningly.
‘There’s something odd about this ship,’ said Raavan.
‘What?’
‘Not one barnacle. Not one mussel. No shipworms. The hull is as smooth as it must have been on the day it was made.’
Biofouling was a hazard as old as sailing itself. The wooden base of ships provided a ready breeding ground for barnacles and other sea creatures. They clung to the wet surface, multiplying and growing to cover much of the hull below water. Some ships were so badly infested that it was impossible to even see the wooden surface below the waterline.
These bumpy masses of barnacles drastically reduced the speed of a ship. Another peril was the infestation of shipworms, a type of clam that grew as long as two feet. These creatures bored holes into
the wooden hull, causing slow, long-term damage. It was with good reason that they were called the termites of the sea. Raavan had never seen a seafaring ship, the hull of which was not infested with these creatures. But Akampana’s ship was, strangely, completely devoid of them.
Raavan knew that the best way to clean the hull was in a dry dock where the ships were rested on a dry platform so that workers could scrape off the sea creatures and repair or replace the wood. But it was impossible for smugglers to get access to a dry dock. So what they usually did was careen the ship—essentially, ground it on a beach at high tide and turn it on its side. This allowed the hull to come up above the water so that it could be cleaned, and the old wood repaired or replaced.
As if on cue, Mareech spoke up. ‘Maybe they careened the ship and cleaned the hull?’
Raavan shook his head. ‘Uncle, if Akampana hasn’t had the sense to tie up the sails to prevent accidental damage, do you think he would have gone to the trouble, and the expense, of careening the ship?’
Mareech nodded. ‘Valid point.’
Raavan considered the facts before him. With no biofouling, Akampana’s ship could travel at nearly twice the speed of other ships. A huge competitive advantage.
He made up his mind.
‘I cannot pay all of you a salary,’ said Akampana, ‘but I can give you a small share of the profits that we make.’
Raavan and Mareech had left their motley team at a distance, out of earshot. It would make negotiation easier. The three men sat on wooden chairs in an unkempt garden that had clearly seen better days. In the same compound stood Akampana’s large, crumbling mansion. The house was located not far from the shore, so Akampana’s ship was clearly visible from where they were seated.
As soon as Mareech heard what Akampana was offering, he looked askance at Raavan, waiting for his nephew to refuse the ridiculous offer. But Raavan remained silent, his expression inscrutable.
Akampana, a slim man of average height, shifted uneasily. He touched his forehead, unknowingly smudging the tilak, the long, black mark drawn across it. Finally he broke the silence.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘we can work out something for living expenses but—’
An angry female voice interrupted him. ‘What the hell is going on here?’
They turned to see a tall, sharp-featured woman marching towards them.
‘Are you trying to hire a crew again, Akampana?’ asked the woman, her exasperation evident to everyone.
Akampana was visibly nervous. ‘We have to do some business to earn money, dear wife. These people—’
‘Business? You don’t know how to do business! You keep making losses. I am not giving you any more money. I am not selling any more of my jewellery. Just sell that damned ship!’
‘No, but—’
‘You are a moron!’ shouted the woman. ‘You will be better off if you realise that and stay within your limits.’
‘But we need—’
‘No buts! Just sell that cursed ship! I could have gone with Krakachabahu, you know that. He was interested in me. I rejected the affections of the governor of Chilika and stuck by you. But I have had enough of your foolishness. Just sell that ship!’
Akampana looked away in embarrassment. But his silence only appeared to infuriate his wife further. Her tone became even more aggressive. ‘What is the matter with you? You know I am speaking the truth, right?’
‘Of course,’ simpered Akampana. ‘How could I think otherwise, dear wife?’
The woman shook her head, glared at Raavan and Mareech, then turned and stomped off.
Akampana watched the retreating back of his wife, an expression of intense loathing on his face. Then he checked himself, conscious of being in company. He cleared his throat and turned to Mareech, a weak smile on his face. It was Mareech’s turn to look away, embarrassed.
But Raavan didn’t seem affected at all. ‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ he said, as if they hadn’t been interrupted. ‘We’ll take the ship, repair it at our own cost, and start sailing it. You are welcome to join us if you wish. And the profits will be shared, ninety–ten.’
Akampana brightened. ‘Ninety seems fair.’
Raavan regarded Akampana with lazy nonchalance. ‘Ninety for me. Ten for you.’
‘What? But… but it’s my ship.’
Raavan got up. ‘And it can continue to rot here.’
‘Listen, I don’t—’
‘And I’ll also take care of your wife for you.’
Even Mareech, who had got used to his thirteen-year-old nephew’s ruthless ways over the last few years, looked at Raavan in shock.
Akampana glanced nervously in the direction his wife had gone, and then at Raavan. ‘What… what do you mean?’
‘I’ll do what you are too scared to even think about.’
Akampana swallowed visibly. But it was obvious from his expression that he was interested.
‘It’s a deal,’ said Raavan firmly.
Chapter 6
In the two years since Raavan, now fifteen, had taken over Akampana’s ship, he had already turned it into a hugely profitable enterprise. After repairing the ship, he had run many successful smuggling missions, supplying goods far and wide, and raking in revenues.
Since the north Indian ports were becoming more and more resistant to free and easy trade, Lanka had emerged as one of the most dynamic entrepôts in the Indian Ocean rim. Raavan had made frequent trips to the island in the past twelve months. On one of these, he had discovered that Kubaer, the trader-king of Lanka, was his guru-brother—a disciple of his father, Vishrava. But this was not something Raavan mentioned to anyone in Lanka. He didn’t want any help from his father—not from the person, not even from the name.
As his business grew, Raavan decided to make the main port of Lanka, Gokarna—literally, the cow’s ear—his base. The city was conveniently located in the north-east of the island. It had a natural harbour, with a deep bay and land jutting out on the seaward side, acting as natural breakwaters. It was in a position, therefore, to receive and safely anchor ships during any season in the year. A crucial advantage.
The Mahaweli Ganga, the longest river in Lanka, flowed into the Gokarna bay at its southern end. This was useful, for it offered a navigable channel for ships to sail deep into the heartland of the island. The river had been named many years ago by Guru Vishwamitra—the chief of the Malayaputra tribe, which had been left behind by the previous Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram. Perhaps the venerable rishi wished to honour the river that flowed beside his own hometown, Kannauj, by naming this one the Great Sandy Ganga.
Guru Vishwamitra was held in high esteem in Lanka, not only because he was a great rishi, but also because he had helped settle the island and turn it from a rural backwater into one of the powerhouses on the Indian Ocean trade routes. There was a time when Lanka was only known for being the surviving part of the great submerged land of Sangamtamil—one of the two antediluvian fatherlands of Vedic India. People used to travel from across the Indian subcontinent to pray at the ruins of the ancient temples built by their forefathers. But all that had changed. Now, they came here to grow rich. And most of those who had arrived recently were from Kalinga.
As things stood, most Lankans were happy with Kubaer’s rule. And the trader-king and his people continued to accord the greatest respect to Vishwamitra. For it was he who had, more than a century ago, helped King Trishanku Kaashyap establish the great Lankan capital city of Sigiriya, and while very few mourned the deposition of the increasingly unpopular monarch some years later, Vishwamitra remained dear to them.
Raavan had never travelled inland to Sigiriya, which was a hundred kilometres south-west of Gokarna. He had, however, purchased a beautiful house in Gokarna, close to the great Koneshwaram temple, dedicated to Lord Rudra. It had been built in ancient times, on a promontory off the northern part of the bay that jutted out into the Indian Ocean. Kaikesi visited the temple every day, with the six-year-old Kumbhakarna in tow. Raavan’s
little brother was still too young to be sailing with him.
On that particular day, Kaikesi was visiting the Koneshwaram temple with a sense of purpose. She knew that Vishwamitra was in the city, en route to Sigiriya. Many years ago, she had met both Vishwamitra and his right-hand man Arishtanemi, at Vishrava’s ashram. While the meeting with Vishwamitra had been all too brief, she had spent considerable time with Arishtanemi and had even started thinking of him as her brother. She had used her influence with him to wrangle a meeting with Vishwamitra. The fact that Kaikesi’s own family, especially her grandfather, had once been a close friend of Vishwamitra’s father, King Gaadhi, was not mentioned. With good reason.
‘Please don’t tell anyone that I used my husband’s name to arrange this meeting,’ Kaikesi pleaded with Arishtanemi, as she led Kumbhakarna by the hand.
Arishtanemi nodded. He knew of the strained relationship between Vishrava and his first wife’s children. Especially now that Vishrava had married again, bringing home a foreigner from Knossos as his wife. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t.’
Kaikesi smiled. ‘Thank you, brother.’
Arishtanemi led them into the guesthouse attached to the Koneshwaram temple, where Vishwamitra was staying. ‘Wait here for a minute.’
Kaikesi was confused. ‘But…’
‘Just do as I tell you,’ Arishtanemi said, before disappearing inside.
Standing outside the door, Kaikesi could hear snatches of the conversation.
‘I don’t have time to do all this, Arishtanemi. You should—’
Kaikesi walked in, pulling Kumbhakarna along.
A gigantic, barrel-chested man was sitting on the floor in the lotus position. Vishwamitra. He looked up as he heard Kaikesi walk in. He recognised her as Vishrava’s wife. And the granddaughter of his father’s closest advisor.
Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Page 6