Some thirty minutes had passed. The Asuraastra had completed its devastation of the Lankan troops.
A small, skeletal crew present inside the craft had escaped. One of them was a doctor. As standard operating procedure, the vimaan was always manned and ready for flight.
The doctor had managed, with the help of his emergency kit of medicines, to release Kumbhakarna from the paralytic effects of the missile. His body was still immobile and his breathing was ragged, but he could move his head a little. He lay on the floor of the vimaan. Blood seeped very slowly from his Naga outgrowths. His head was on his elder brother’s lap.
He tried to say something, but his tongue was swollen and his speech was slurred and unintelligible.
‘Be quiet,’ whispered Raavan, his cheeks wet with tears. ‘Rest. You will be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you.’
‘Thatha… thuuu… thokay?’
Raavan’s tears flowed more strongly as he understood what his younger brother was saying. Even in this state, Kumbhakarna was more concerned about Raavan’s wellbeing. The king of Lanka kissed his younger brother’s forehead gently. ‘I am okay. You rest, little brother, you rest.’
Kumbhakarna’s partially paralysed face shaped itself into a crooked smile. ‘Thuuu… thowe… thmee.’
Raavan smiled through his tears. ‘Yes. Yes, I owe you, my brother. I owe you.’
Kumbhakarna shook his head slightly, the crooked smile still on his face. ‘Thust… thoking…’
‘Rest, Kumbha. Rest…’
Kumbhakarna closed his eyes.
Raavan held his brother’s head close to his chest, crying. ‘I am so sorry, Kumbha. I am so sorry. I should have listened to you.’
‘My lord,’ whispered one of the Lankan soldiers, looking through a porthole.
Raavan looked up.
‘The gas is still visible,’ the man said. ‘It has wrapped itself around our men. What do we do?’
Raavan knew what that meant. All his soldiers who lay on the ground outside the Pushpak Vimaan would be paralysed for days, if not weeks. They would be in a coma, from which some of them would never awake. He couldn’t step out either. For the effects of the gas could still be strong.
The Battle of Mithila had been lost. His bodyguard corps was destroyed. He had no soldiers left, besides the few within the vimaan. There was nothing he could do.
But that didn’t seem to matter so much now.
He looked down at his brother. And pulled him closer.
All that mattered was his brother. He had to get Kumbhakarna back on his feet.
Raavan looked at the pilots of the Pushpak Vimaan. ‘Fly us out of this cursed place.’
Chapter 28
Raavan breathed deeply. ‘Finally, a chance to get back at the Malayaputras,’ he said.
A little more than thirteen years had passed since the Battle of Mithila. Raavan and Kumbhakarna were in Sigiriya, in the king’s private office in the royal palace. The memory of the battle had faded with time, but the wound was still raw for Raavan.
The humiliating defeat and the devastating destruction of Raavan’s ten-thousand-strong bodyguard corps had not had as much of an impact across the Sapt Sindhu as he had feared. For a short period after the Battle of Mithila, others within the Sapt Sindhu had started dreaming of challenging Lankan authority. They had even begun to see Ram, the prince of Ayodhya, as the leader of the resistance. But before the movement could gather force, Ram had been banished for fourteen years from the Sapt Sindhu by King Dashrath, for the unauthorised use of the daivi astra, in accordance with the laws of the previous Mahadev. All dreams of a rebellion had died with his departure. The fact that Ram’s wife Sita, the princess of Mithila, and his younger brother Lakshman had left with him had hit morale further.
Raavan had endured a loss of prestige too. His people had expected him to return to Mithila and destroy it to avenge the defeat he had suffered, but Raavan knew that the Lankan army was in no condition for an all-out war. Besides, the Malayaputras had left Mithila with the Lankan soldiers, who had been revived and then imprisoned. The price for returning them was Raavan’s solemn oath, in Lord Rudra’s name, that he would not attack Mithila or any other kingdom in the Sapt Sindhu.
To ensure that Raavan kept his word, Guru Vishwamitra had warned him that if he so much as thought of mobilising his army to attack the Sapt Sindhu, he would stop receiving the medicines that kept him and Kumbhakarna alive. To drive the point home, he had further raised the price of the medicines and the cave material. Though burning with humiliation, Raavan had had no choice but to accept these terms. But he had been waiting for a chance to get back at the Malayaputras, and it seemed now that an opportunity had finally presented itself.
‘It’s not about vengeance, Dada,’ said Kumbhakarna. ‘It’s about getting what we want. We have to be careful. Very careful.’
‘That may be true for you. For me, getting back at the Malayaputras is just as important. But I would never do anything silly, or in anger. I am not stupid.’
Kumbhakarna threw up his hands in acceptance. ‘All right.’
‘The important thing is, they have a Vishnu now. And an interesting choice of a Vishnu too,’ Raavan said thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ said Kumbhakarna. ‘Suddenly a lot of things are making sense. For instance, I could never understand why the Malayaputras were so desperate to save Mithila. They used the Asuraastra, defying the ban by Lord Rudra and possibly damaging their relations with the Vayuputras permanently. An insignificant kingdom like Mithila was surely not worth such a risk. But it’s apparent now that they were not trying to save their precious city of sages, but their Vishnu! They knew that you were so angry, you would have killed everyone there that day.’
Raavan nodded. ‘True. They don’t care for their own lives. They care only about their mission. And for their mission to succeed, they need the Vishnu.’
‘Princess Sita.’
‘Who would have thought they would select someone from tiny, powerless Mithila for a Vishnu,’ said Raavan, flexing his right shoulder. He was close to sixty years old now, and aches and pains had become a constant part of his life. Also, the medicines that kept him alive were taking a toll on his strength. The mysterious plague ravaging Sigiriya was only causing further damage.
‘She wasn’t the only candidate,’ said Kumbhakarna.
Raavan looked at his younger brother, surprised.
‘The Vayuputras and Guru Vashishtha believe that Ram should be the next Vishnu,’ said Kumbhakarna.
Vashishtha was the raj guru and chief adviser to the Ayodhya royal family. But his position within the Sapt Sindhu royalty wasn’t the main reason he was held in such high esteem across the land. He was also a maharishi, a great man of knowledge, whose intellect was unmatched. His only equal, perhaps, was the chief of the Malayaputras, Maharishi Vishwamitra. It was also well known that Maharishi Vashishtha was very close to the Vayuputras, the tribe left behind by the previous Mahadev, Lord Rudra.
‘Ram? Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s awkward,’ said Raavan. ‘What are the Vayuputras and Guru Vashishtha trying to do? Create marital discord between Ram and Sita?’
Kumbhakarna laughed. ‘In any case, what the Vayuputras or Guru Vashishtha think about the Vishnu has no bearing on the final choice. The Vishnu is selected by the Malayaputras alone. And Guru Vishwamitra has made his choice. Sita will be the next Vishnu.’
Raavan leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. ‘What is the cause of this fight between Guru Vashishtha and Guru Vishwamitra? Weren’t they friends once?’
‘I don’t know, Dada. That’s something for another story, another book. It has nothing to do with us.’
‘But you do know a lot about most things,’ said Raavan. ‘How did you find out so much about this Vishnu business?’
‘It’s best if you don’t know.’
‘Why?’
‘Just trust me, Dada.’
Raavan
stared at Kumbhakarna. ‘Why do I get the feeling sometimes that we are pawns in a much bigger game?’
‘Every human being is a pawn, Dada. But in chess, the pawn that breaches the other side suddenly becomes very powerful.’
Raavan raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘There is a difference between chess and real life, little brother.’
‘Of course. But chess is a representation of real life. How you play chess says a lot about how you live as well.’
‘Wise words,’ said Raavan. ‘In any case, I trust you completely, Kumbha. Any time I have not trusted you, I have suffered.’
Kumbhakarna laughed and stifled a yawn.
‘Feeling sleepy again?’ asked Raavan, a guilty look on his face.
The Asuraastra had had a debilitating effect on Kumbhakarna. Born a Naga, he had suffered aches and discomfort since his childhood. His outgrowths were painful at the joints, and would bleed profusely during his childhood. The Malayaputra medicines had helped keep the pain and bleeding in check. However, exposure to the noxious Asuraastra’s green light had caused a massive deterioration in his condition. Furthermore, at fifty-one, he was not as strong as he had once been. The renewed bleeding and pain were almost unbearable now.
The Malayaputra physicians had visited Sigiriya and formulated some new medicines that helped manage the pain and the bleeding to some extent, but they also made Kumbhakarna extremely lethargic. He slept for most part of the day, every day. The only way he could get his focus back was by avoiding having the medicines for a few days. But the pain would return almost immediately, and the bleeding would restart if he skipped the medicines for more than five days. Anything beyond that, and his life itself would be at risk.
And all this because he had put himself in danger to save his brother’s life during the Battle of Mithila.
Raavan had not been able to forgive himself. He had curtailed all his other plans over the last thirteen years—from the expansion of the Lankan empire to the takeover of Kishkindha. He focused instead on ensuring that his younger brother remained alive and as healthy as possible.
Kumbhakarna smiled at Raavan. ‘I’m all right, Dada.’
Raavan smiled and patted his brother’s shoulder.
‘In any case,’ Kumbhakarna continued, ‘we have nothing to do with the Vayuputras or Guru Vashishtha. We only need the Malayaputras under our control. And that will happen when we take the Vishnu away. They will want to free her at any cost, and that’s when we can really squeeze them dry. We’ll demand the medicine supply we need for the next twenty years in one shot—without paying their ridiculous prices. Nothing stops us from demanding more from the Malayaputras as long as the Vishnu remains imprisoned in Lanka.’
Raavan nodded.
‘Do we go ahead then?’ asked Kumbhakarna.
‘Yes, we have to kidnap Sita.’
‘Remember, Dada, it’s not about vengeance. We will only ask for what we want. We just need some leverage over the Malayaputras. We will not kill the Vishnu.’
Raavan nodded.
‘She will be our prisoner.’
‘Yes.’
‘A political prisoner. She will be kept in one of the palaces in Lanka, not in the dungeons.’
‘I get it, Kumbha! You don’t have to go on about it!’
Kumbhakarna smiled and put his palms together in apology.
‘Dada, I don’t think this is a good idea,’ whispered Kumbhakarna.
Raavan was in his private chamber in the royal palace of Sigiriya, with Kumbhakarna. Raavan’s son, the twenty-seven-year-old Indrajit, was also present. Indrajit had the same intimidating physical presence as his father. He was tall and astonishingly muscular, with a voice that was deep and commanding. He had also inherited his mother’s high cheekbones and thick brown hair, which he wore in a leonine mane, with two side partings and a long knot at the crown of his head. An oiled handlebar moustache sat well on his smooth-complexioned face. His clothes were sober—a fawn-coloured dhoti and a creamy white angvastram. He wore no jewellery, except for the ear studs that most warriors in India favoured. The plague that was ravaging Lanka had had no impact on Indrajit, which made Raavan proud.
The king of Lanka adored his son. He had picked the name himself: Indrajit meant one who could defeat the king of the Gods, Indra.
Indra was the legendary king of the Devas in the hoary past. The name had, over time, become a title for all who were considered the kings of the Gods. Raavan’s high aspirations for his son were no secret.
‘I agree with Kumbhakarna Uncle,’ said Indrajit, speaking quietly so his voice wouldn’t carry far. ‘This is an important mission. I think we should be the ones to carry it out. We can’t leave it to Uncle and Aunty, who are a hideous combination of arrogance and incompetence.’
Raavan regarded the man and the woman who stood at a respectful distance from him. Vibhishan and Shurpanakha—his half-siblings and Indrajit’s ‘uncle and aunty’. The two had volunteered for the job of kidnapping Sita. Raavan could barely keep his revulsion from showing on his face when he looked at them. They were born of a father he hated and a stepmother he despised, and if that wasn’t enough, his rent-a-tear mother Kaikesi had adopted and nurtured them. She would go to any length to undermine him, he thought again.
‘We’ll take care of it, Dada,’ said Vibhishan politely to his much older half-brother.
Vibhishan was of average height and unusually fair-skinned. His reed-thin physique was that of a runner. But he held his thin arms wide, as if to accommodate impressive biceps. His long, jet-black hair was tied in a knot at the back of his head. His full beard was neatly trimmed and dyed a deep brown. He wore a rich purple dhoti and a pink angvastram, with a lot of jewellery. He was a complete dandy and, according to Raavan, full of false politeness and humility.
‘I am not your dada,’ said Raavan firmly. ‘I am your king.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ said Vibhishan, immediately correcting himself and holding his ears in respectful apology.
Raavan rolled his eyes.
‘Our idea will work, my lord,’ Vibhishan said.
Raavan’s spies had informed him that Sita, Ram and Lakshman were camped in Panchavati, a peaceful spot along the Godavari River, with sixteen Malayaputra soldiers for their protection. Raavan was suspicious of the fact that only sixteen soldiers had been tasked with the security of someone as important as the Vishnu, but he was told that Sita was still angry with the Malayaputras for forcing Ram to fire the Asuraastra. She had refused their support. The soldiers with her were under the command of Jatayu, whom she considered her brother—which apparently was the only reason she had agreed to their presence.
Vibhishan proposed that they use Shurpanakha’s beauty to distract Ram and Lakshman. An encounter with her would presumably lead to the two men letting their guard down. Shurpanakha would then find some pretext to lead Sita away from Ram and Lakshman, and kidnap her. The Ayodhya princes would be told that Sita had attacked Shurpanakha out of jealousy, and in the fight that ensued, she had accidentally drowned in the river. Since the Godavari was prone to swift currents, it was likely that her body would never be found.
This way, Vibhishan reasoned, they would be able to kidnap Sita without having the blame fall on Lanka.
‘Why not just send in our soldiers and pick her up?’ asked Kumbhakarna.
‘What if Ram gets injured or hurt in the process?’ Vibhishan responded with a question of his own.
What Vibhishan left unsaid was obvious to all. Ram was, technically, the king of Ayodhya, and the king of Ayodhya was considered to be the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu. If he died at the hands of a Lankan, treaty obligations would force all the kingdoms of the Sapt Sindhu to declare war on Lanka. And Lanka could not afford to fight a war right now. The army was too weak to go into a battle.
Kumbhakarna was still not convinced. ‘I am sure we can find a better way to separate Ram and Sita without using our own sister as bait.’
‘We fight with the weapons we h
ave been blessed with, Dada,’ said Vibhishan. ‘And Shurpanakha has been blessed with extraordinary beauty.’
Shurpanakha smiled proudly, pleased with the compliment. She resembled Vibhishan, but unlike her sickly brother, she was bewitching in appearance. She had more of her Greek mother’s genes than her Indian father’s. Her skin was pearly white, and her eyes magnetic. She had a sharp, slightly upturned nose and high cheekbones. Her hair was blonde, a most unusual colour in India, and every strand of it was always in place. Everything about her petite frame was elegant. She wore a classic, expensively dyed purple dhoti, which was tied fashionably low, exposing her slim, curvaceous waist. Her silken blouse was a tiny sliver of cloth, affording a generous view of her cleavage. Her angvastram, deliberately hanging loose from a shoulder, revealed more than it concealed. Extravagant jewellery completed the picture of excess.
Shurpanakha seemed convinced of her ability to pull off this plan. Kumbhakarna, however, was still sceptical. He turned to Indrajit for his opinion.
The confident young man spoke up immediately. ‘Vibhishan Uncle, please don’t think I am being rude, but I have honestly not heard a more stupid idea in my life. I don’t see how this will work.’
Vibhishan tensed in anger, but controlled his tongue with superhuman effort. Being insulted by his elder brother was something he had learnt to live with. But to hear such words from this pup? It was intolerable!
‘Do you think any man with a heart that beats can even think of resisting this?’ asked Shurpanakha, pointing at herself.
‘Good God, Shurpanakha! You are my sister. How can you say such things in my presence?’ Kumbhakarna was appalled.
‘You have turned celibate, Dada,’ said Shurpanakha to Kumbhakarna, almost tauntingly. ‘You will not understand.’
Kumbhakarna turned to Raavan. ‘Dada, I don’t approve of this. I say we go with our original plan.’
‘Dada,’ said Shurpanakha to Raavan—she had none of the diffidence that Vibhishan was saddled with—‘I will handle this. You don’t need to get your hands dirty. Allow us to earn your trust.’
Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Page 29