Kumbhakarna frowned. ‘And you think I am naïve enough to believe that the Vayuputras care about him?’
‘Why not? We care about everyone. We may not be able to help everyone, but we care about everyone.’
‘But what do you want from me?’
‘We hope that you will help your brother.’
‘And what do you think I have been doing?’
‘Negotiating bad deals does not help your brother.’
‘We have more money than we can ever use. I may as well spread it around a bit. At least some good will come of it. Every bit spent in charity is good for dharma.’
M’Bakur smiled. ‘Have you heard of Lord Vidur?’
‘Of course I have,’ answered Kumbhakarna. ‘Who has not heard of the great philosopher, one of the most brilliant men in history?’
‘Lord Vidur said that there are two ways to waste money. One, by giving charity to the unworthy. Second, by not giving charity to the worthy.’
‘I have been…’
‘Your trade concessions help the rulers and traders in my kingdom. They don’t need charity. It’s the poor who need help. Not only in Damat, but everywhere. Find them and help them. Help them in the name of your brother. Earn some good karma for him. Don’t give in to melancholy. Find purpose. I know your brother saved your life at birth. Now it is your duty to help his soul.’
Kumbhakarna looked thoughtful as he listened intently to M’Bakur’s words.
‘And don’t give up on him,’ continued M’Bakur. ‘We live in a period of constant change. I am sure an opportunity to save Raavan’s soul will come again. He may be too ignorant to see it, but he will need you to help him when the time comes.’
Kumbhakarna spoke softly, his eyes moist. ‘I have lost my brother. I love him, but I have lost him. I have lost him to his anger. To his pain. I have lost him to his grief over…’
‘Over the death of Vedavati,’ said M’Bakur. ‘I know.’
Kumbhakarna stared at M’Bakur. Shocked that he knew something about Raavan that was so personal. And a secret from most.
‘Don’t forget that he loves you too. You and his son Indrajit are probably the only people alive whom he truly loves.’
‘Indrajit loves him in return. Perhaps even more than I do.’
M’Bakur smiled. ‘I know. But he is a little child. He cannot help his father, at least not yet. So it becomes your responsibility to save Raavan. That is your swadharma in this life. Do it well.’
‘Dada, this money makes no difference to us.’ Kumbhakarna was upset and angry. The two extra arms on top of his shoulders stood stiff and straight.
It had been seventeen years since the Battle of Karachapa. Kumbhakarna was in Raavan’s private chamber. As usual, there were some half-naked women dancing in the centre of the massive room. Raavan was on his reclining chair, his fingers idly playing with the hair of the woman on his lap. He had a marijuana-infused chillum in his free hand.
Kumbhakarna could have performed the act of charity by himself, with his own money. But he wanted this specific donation to go from Raavan’s personal income. It had to be that way.
Raavan took a deep drag of the chillum and stared at Kumbhakarna, a lazy, inebriated smile on his lips. He spoke through the smoke rings. ‘I will burn all my money, but I will not let any of it go to the Sapt Sindhu. Even if it is for a hospital in Vaidyanath.’
Kumbhakarna looked around the chamber. The women, the smoke, the alcohol, the marijuana, the excesses. ‘You are burning your money already, Dada.’
‘Well, I’ve earned it… I can do what I want with it.’
Kumbhakarna turned to the dancers and said sharply, ‘Leave us.’
The women stopped dancing, but didn’t leave the hall. They stood where they were, half defiant, half afraid, waiting for Raavan’s order.
Kumbhakarna gestured to the woman on Raavan’s lap. ‘Get out.’
The woman tried to get up, but Raavan pulled her roughly back against his chest. ‘Don’t cross your limits, Kumbhakarna,’ he snapped.
Kumbhakarna stepped forward and pointed at the pendant that hung around Raavan’s neck. ‘This hospital was a promise you made in the name of the Kanyakumari, Dada. We took on her karmic debts at her cremation ceremony. You may have forgotten it, but I have not. I am going to get that hospital built. It will treat patients free of cost and it will save lives. And you will stamp this hundi with your seal.’
Raavan was silent. There was no expression on his face, neither anger nor remorse, not even grief. He had sought refuge from his pain in drugs, alcohol and silly women. The price for that asylum was the surrender of his mind.
Kumbhakarna stepped forward, took hold of Raavan’s hand and pressed the ring on his forefinger, with the royal seal, on the document. The charity was now authorised to spend Raavan’s money.
Kumbhakarna glanced at the woman perched uncomfortably on his brother’s lap and said, ‘You have a wife, Dada. She should not be insulted like this.’
Raavan didn’t answer.
Kumbhakarna turned and walked out of the chamber.
The woman on Raavan’s lap edged closer to him and caressed his cheek. With an air of affected concern, she whispered, ‘I don’t like the way your brother speaks to you.’
Raavan’s reaction was swift. His fist shot out and hit the woman hard on her face. Breaking her nose. As she tumbled to the ground, screaming in pain, he shouted at the dancers in the distance, ‘Get out of here! All of you!’ He pointed at the sobbing woman lying at his feet, her face red, her nose streaming blood. ‘And take this bitch with you!’
As the women ran from his chamber, Raavan fell back in his chair and held Vedavati’s fingers tightly. Tears forced their way through his closed eyes and ran down his cheeks.
You can be better than this. At least try.
Chapter 24
‘I don’t know if I am doing the right thing. I seem to be causing him a lot of stress,’ said Kumbhakarna. ‘He is very weak these days.’
It had been a few months since Kumbhakarna had forced Raavan’s hand over building a charitable hospital in Vaidyanath. He was now in the temple-town, checking on all preparations before construction began. Money had been allocated. Doctors had been identified and hired. The building was to be ready in a few months. M’Bakur, who had remained in touch with Kumbhakarna over the years, was also in Vaidyanath to help wrap up work.
‘Your brother may be many things,’ said M’Bakur, ‘but he is certainly not weak.’
‘The truth is, it’s depressing to see him these days. He has almost surrendered to drugs and alcohol. He’s nearly forty-five years old, he can’t keep abusing his body like this. And I am making it worse with all the stress I am causing him.’
‘You’re wrong. Stress is good.’
‘Oh, come on, M’Bakurji. How can stress be good?’
M’Bakur gestured to a small stove on a platform behind them, on which was placed a vessel filled with water. Cooking in this boiling water was a simple lunch of eggs and potatoes.
‘You see this boiling water?’ M’Bakur said.
‘What does that have to do with stress?’ asked Kumbhakarna.
‘It will help you understand.’
Kumbhakarna sighed. ‘Why can’t you people not speak in riddles?’
‘Because speaking in riddles is fun. And you will understand a thought better if you decode it through a riddle. As someone said: Parokshpriyaa Vai Devaaha.’
The saying in old Sanskrit roughly translated to, the Gods like indirect speech.
‘So, philosophy can never be conveyed directly?’ questioned Kumbhakarna.
‘It can, of course. But it’s much more interesting to have it conveyed in the form of a complex riddle. Deciphering the message keeps the fun of philosophy alive. Also, the understanding thus derived feels like an achievement. If there is no sense of achievement or wonder, even the most important message fails to find its target.’
‘So, I am expected to und
erstand the bigger point you’re trying to make with this boiling water?’ asked Kumbhakarna.
‘Not only will you understand it, you will arrive at it yourself.’
Kumbhakarna threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘All right, then. In answer to your question, yes, I see the boiling water.’
‘Both, the eggs and the potatoes, are in the same water, right?’
‘Yes, obviously. I can see that.’
‘So, they are both being cooked in water boiled to the same temperature, in the same atmosphere, and in the same vessel that is on top of the same fire?’
‘Yes.’
‘What will happen to the egg in this boiling water?’
‘It will become a boiled egg.’
M’Bakur laughed. ‘That much is obvious. What I want to know is, how is the boiled egg different from the original egg?’
‘It’s harder.’
‘Absolutely! Now, consider the potatoes. How will they fare in the water?’
Kumbhakarna smiled. ‘They will become softer.’
‘You see? The same boiling water, the same vessel, the same temperature, yet the eggs harden and the potatoes soften.’
‘So the boiling water is like stress. Different people react to it differently. It hardens some and softens others. Is that your point?’
‘That’s the obvious point, but think about it a bit more. What is the egg like before the stress of the boiling water hits it?’
‘It has a tough shell, but the inside is liquid.’
‘So the egg is hard on the outside but soft inside. And the boiling water, the stress, makes it hard inside as well, does it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now consider the potato. How would you describe it?’
‘It has a flimsy peel—so, soft on the outside and hard on the inside.’
‘People respond to stress in much the same way. Those who are soft on the inside become harder with the right amount of stress, and those who are hard on the inside become softer. If you think about it this way, then the right amount of stress becomes necessary to balance your character. Too much stress is not good—it may break you. But no stress is not good either. You need the right amount of stress to balance your character and make you grow.’
‘So, are you saying that the stress I’m causing my brother will toughen him up again?’
M’Bakur shook his head. ‘I am not talking about your brother. I am talking about you.’
Kumbhakarna frowned, taken aback.
‘There are people across the world with biases against your kind, the Nagas. You have a hard, scary exterior. But inside, you are gentle and sensitive. You are one of the finest men I have had the pleasure of knowing.’
Kumbhakarna didn’t say anything, though he flushed with pleasure at the unexpected compliment.
M’Bakur continued, ‘The truth is that you are the one who is feeling the stress of what’s happening to your elder brother. The stress is toughening you up. It’s preparing you to face what will come.’
‘What will come?’
‘The Vishnu.’
‘The Vishnu?’
‘The seventh Vishnu will come. It will be a tough time for those on the path of adharma. The responsibility of guiding and bringing your brother’s soul on to the right path will be yours, Kumbhakarna. You will also have to save the innocents of Lanka. You will need to be tougher.’
‘I have heard nothing about a Vishnu coming…’
M’Bakur smiled. ‘Only fools react to a fire when it is upon them. The wise see it coming many years before it’s even been lit.’
‘But why will the Vishnu go after my brother?’
M’Bakur looked at Kumbhakarna, his eyebrows raised at the obviously stupid question.
Kumbhakarna retreated quickly, a little shamefaced. ‘Who is this Vishnu? What is his or her name?’
M’Bakur hesitated for a split second before he replied, ‘The answer is not clear.’
M’Bakur knew he could not tell Kumbhakarna the truth, but he wasn’t lying either. At least, not technically.
‘You called for me, Dada?’ asked Kumbhakarna loudly, standing at the door of the chamber.
Twenty years had passed since the Battle of Karachapa. The previous year had witnessed a change in Raavan’s attitude. The forty-seven-year-old had worked consciously to subdue his addictions. He had started taking control of his business once again. He would even occasionally inquire about the hospital in Vaidyanath, though he had never visited it.
Kumbhakarna assumed his brother had been shaken out of his apathy and self-indulgence by the tragedy that had suddenly befallen Sigiriya a few years back. A mysterious plague had taken the city in a vice-like grip and all attempts to end it had failed. Strangely, its effects were most evident amongst children. Babies were being born prematurely, and many had died during childbirth. Those who survived were growing up with learning disabilities, loss of appetite, almost constant abdominal pain, sluggishness and fatigue. Some experienced hearing loss and had frequent convulsions or seizures. Adults weren’t free of pain either. Many of them suffered debilitating joint and muscle pains and crushing headaches. Large numbers of pregnant women suffered miscarriages and stillbirths and many had died during labour.
While the physical symptoms caused widespread distress, even more harmful was the lowering of morale across the land. The finest doctors in Lanka were unable to understand the cause of the plague, let alone find a cure for it. With almost the entire population suffering in some way or the other, rumours had started up about some kind of a curse that had fallen on Sigiriya.
What worried Raavan the most about the plague was the weakening of his army. He could have strengthened the Lankan forces by recalling a few battalions from the various trading outposts across the Indian Ocean, but that would have left those ports defenceless. Also, it would have alerted Lanka’s enemies to the fact that all was not well in the island kingdom, and that, in turn, would have stoked rebellions.
While Raavan applied himself to the task of supplementing the city’s defences without word getting out to the Sapt Sindhu, Kumbhakarna’s approach to the problem was to invest more money in research and the training of doctors and nurses. He was thinking about this now as he waited for his brother to respond.
Then he heard Raavan’s voice. ‘Yes, Kumbha. Come on in.’
Kumbhakarna entered Raavan’s secret chamber, where many of his elder brother’s favourite musical instruments and some of his most treasured manuscripts, numbering in the thousands, were stored. Most importantly, his precious paintings of the Kanyakumari were kept there.
‘Why is the lighting so low?’ He asked.
Raavan pointed to the torches on the wall. ‘You can fire them up now. I needed soft diffused light to complete this last part.’
Kumbhakarna lit the torches and reached his brother’s side to see what he had been working on. He gaped at the sight of the canvas.
Raavan asked, ‘What do you think?’
Kumbhakarna stopped himself from saying the words that came to his mind. Scary and magnificent at the same time.
It was a painting of Vedavati, but not the Vedavati he had known. In the painting, she was the same age she had been when she died, but that was where the resemblance ended. This woman was strong and powerful, her body muscular and sinewy. She was much taller than she had been in real life. Though Raavan had not meddled with her proportions, her curves looked less pronounced because of the more athletic frame. The cumulative impact of all of Raavan’s changes meant she looked less nurturing and more fierce, like a warrior princess. She was riding a magnificent horse, her open hair flying in all directions. One hand held a bloodied sword that was raised high, ready to strike again. In front of her, on the muddy ground, on their knees, were many of the kings of the Sapt Sindhu. They looked desperate and fearful. Some had their mouths open in a scream. A few had been beheaded already, while the others were clearly pleading for mercy. In the background, far in the distance,
were the common people—the Indians—poor and worn out, but exuberantly cheering their Goddess as she massacred their oppressors.
Scary and magnificent at the same time.
‘What do you think?’ asked Raavan again.
‘It’s… it’s spectacular, Dada! I don’t know what to say,’ Kumbhakarna stuttered.
‘I am glad you think so,’ said Raavan. ‘This is how the world should remember her. This is how the world will remember her.’
But this is not how she was.
Kumbhakarna kept his thoughts to himself.
‘Look at her face. I have painted her exactly as she was when we last met.’
‘Yes, Dada. It’s amazing that you still remember her so clearly, even after twenty years and more.’
‘How can a soul forget the reason for its existence?’
Before Kumbhakarna could respond, Raavan turned and picked up a letter, his eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘Look at this.’
Kumbhakarna took the letter and read it quickly. ‘What does this mean?’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Raavan. ‘Are you blind? Read it again. It’s clear as crystal.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘But what?’
‘It’s an invitation from the kingdom of Mithila to attend Princess Sita’s swayamvar.’
Mithila was a kingdom in the Sapt Sindhu whose best days were well behind it. It had been a wealthy river-port town once, settled near the Gandaki River. But the change in the course of the river many years ago, due to an earthquake, had vastly reduced the town’s prosperity, and power. However, even in its diminished state, Mithila commanded respect across the Sapt Sindhu. It was a city loved by the rishis and rishikas, and at least in spiritual and intellectual terms, it remained one of the most venerated kingdoms in India.
‘Exactly.’
‘But why would…’
‘Why would I go?’
‘This is a trap, Dada. You know the Sapt Sindhu royals hate you. Why would they invite you? Please don’t go.’
Raavan looked surprised. ‘I thought you wanted me to try and make peace with the Sapt Sindhu.’
Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Page 24