“Prahastha has gone to talk to him.”
“I will leave politics to you men. Son, you are at a marriageable age now. Some might say you are the most eligible bachelor around. So how about getting married?”
“I don’t think I am ready for it, mother, I have a country to rule. I have just started,” I protested.
“So. . . I asked Mayan if he would be happy to give his daughter, Mandodari, in marriage to you.”
I was flabbergasted. The last thing I wanted was to get married to a stiff rod. I looked at her and there was no coy smile, no shyness. She met my gaze with an intensity that shocked me. Her eyes were dark, sharp, with heavy eyelashes. She was beautiful in a stiff sort of way. There was a kind of haughtiness in her. It was as if her father had used a chisel and a measuring tape while making her.
“Fortunately he agreed, so I have asked the astrologers to fix the time for the auspicious occasion.” When did you succumb to this purely Deva custom of asking astrologers for everything, mother? “I think we should give you some time to get acquainted with each other, so shall we elders move out into the garden?”
Saying this, she went out without meeting my eyes. My sister lingered with a sly smile on her lips. I wanted to run out, jump through the window and vanish. Mandodari, now what kind of a name was that? Mayan, you could have done better than that. There is no point in making engineering marvels if you do not know how to give a nice name to your daughter. She stood there without moving, her eyes boring into me. I felt naked. I was uneasy. ‘Hey, isn’t it the girl who is supposed to be nervous? Get a grip, Ravana, you are a King, albeit through a revolution of indigestion,’ I reminded myself.
“Mayan brother, I have something important to talk to you,” my mother called out from the garden. “And you Soorpanakha, go and unpack your things. Hurry.”
“Suizee sore, sure, the garden layout is marvellous, but the watering systems need some modification. . .” I watched in horror as Mayan stumbled out mumbling something. My sister gave me another of her knowing smiles and vanished in a fluff of swirling clothes. ‘Don’t go away. Stay here old man, I like you, I love you. Wait and we shall discuss the intricacies of Gandharva architecture or a Vanara temple design. Stay and let us talk. What was that you were saying about the ceiling pattern? Don’t go away; stay here and talk. . .’
“This room has a nice view.” she said. Like father like daughter.
“Yes.” said I. After that she remained silent and I searched my mind for something to say, a single thing to say. ‘So this is how your family life is going to be Ravana? She will stare at the wall and you will stare everywhere else like a dumb ass. Should I ask her about the things she has studied or should I ask her to sing a song? Does she play an instrument? What if she declines to talk or does not answer my questions? What if I break one of those intricate social customs by asking the wrong question?’ The room was getting increasingly stuffy and humid. This was the wrong way to get married; I was convinced of that by now.
“Well. . .er. . . I learned archery under Brahma and I love music. My hobby is to find a cure for children’s ailments and. . .” I stammered and stuttered and stopped.
She turned, crossed her arms and looked at my eyes steadily. “My father told me you are going to be my husband and as I am an obedient daughter, I agreed. I know all the Vedas of the Devas, and I have studied Deva and Asura history. I have also studied engineering and architecture under my father. I write poetry and I paint. I love hunting and I am a sharp shooter.”
No one asked whether I was ready to marry a walking encyclopaedia. She stopped and I waited to see whether there was anything more. She might know Chinese, might even know how to build ships but was being modest and not telling me everything. On the first night she might say, ‘Surprise! I actually know how to recite the Chandagyo Upanishad backwards, but kept it a secret when we met in that nice room with a view. But now that we are so intimate, I feel we should have no secrets. As an obedient wife, I will also tell you that I feel the Atharva Veda has many tribal and Asura elements in it.’
I felt small, uncultured, unaccomplished. I knew I was a good warrior, but so were the 300 soldiers trained under Rudraka. I was trained under Brahma but I had rejected most of that formal education. I wanted the interview to end. I was worried about the treaty Prahastha was going to sign with that pirate and how we were going to cope after coughing up the princely ransom. Then I got a shock. Mandodari started singing. It was a melodious song, glorifying the rule of Mahabali, and she sung it very well. Her voice was rich and her rhythm perfect, rising and ebbing at the correct places. It was flawless but lacked soul. It was too perfect to have soul. There was no passion. Mandodari did not mean what she was singing, it was just an exercise, mechanical, emotionless, passionless, but perfectly rendered. No maestro could have faulted her singing but somewhere it jarred.
As suddenly as she had started, Mandodari stopped singing. An uneasy silence came up between us. I did not know what to do. Should I compliment her? Applaud her singing? Pat her back and feel the smooth texture of her skin? Or just smile? Maybe I should sing a song in return? ng hatI was confused and stood there miserably, waiting for someone to appear and rescue me. Earlier I had been irritated by all the idiots passing by my room and coming to talk to me. Now I desperately prayed for someone, even old man Mayan, to come and get me out of this.
“So you have got acquainted. Next Sunday is your marriage and I have sent messengers to invite those of our relatives who can be reached. The rest we will inform later.” Mother had come into the room and the engineer was standing at the door and tut-tutting at the ornamental pillar near the window. My sister was at the doorway, beaming at her future sister-in-law.
“But moth--” I was cut short by the sudden noise of shuffling feet and the room went quiet. Prahastha entered with Jambumali and Maricha walked behind. I was annoyed at the sudden intrusion into what was essentially a private affair but was relieved at the same time. Seeing my mother, Prahastha bowed with folded hands and enquired about her health. Maricha went straight to my mother and with a twinkle in his eyes said, “So sister, the match-making is over, eh? And see, how he is blushing.”
I wanted to strangle him. Prahastha stared straight at the ocean and Jambumali suddenly found it convenient to start a conversion with Mayan. Mandodari stood staring at me with an intensity that made me stutter. Kumbha and Vibhishna came running into the room and Kumbha hugged me, his two-day stubble scratching my face. He reeked of toddy.
“Hmm. . . if you don’t mind, will you ladies please leave us poor men to tackle some important affairs of state?”
My sister went out with a pout, and my mother came and planted a kiss on my forehead before leaving the room. I turned red as I saw a smile twitching at the corners of Mandodari’s mouth. Mayan lingered as if he wanted to stay and admire the architecture, but Maricha took the professor out of the room with a kindness which only he could show. We sat there, the silence building, and finally when I thought Prahastha might go mad and start singing raunchy songs, Maricha walked in, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
“If your antics are over, Maricha, let’s start doing some work,” Maricha smiled at Prahastha’s attempt to get even. “It was a tough bargain. The pirate is a tough negotiator. I know you are not going to like it but we need time to build our strength.” Prahastha paused. I grew pale. I did not want to hear what the terms were. I was itching for war. But reason told me that foolhardy heroism would not take me anywhere. Many Asuras perished that way and now come to life only in country ballads.
“And what have you conceded?” I asked.
“Spare the accusatory tones for later. You are speaking to a Council and I was fully authorized by you to negotiate as I deemed fit.”
“You wind bag! Have you forgotten there is no Council now? I am the King and you are my Prime Minister. If I ask you questions, you answer them without showing off your superior education.” I was trembling with rage and had drawn my sword. Prahast
ha stood there cool and unflustered, an arm resting on the hilt of his sword. It was like he was baiting me, daring me to make a move.
“Please let’s be civil with each other,” Jambumali said. Maricha was staring at me, an ugly scowl crossing his otherwise, smiling face.
‘Why do I say things like that to a man old enough to be my father?’ I slowly put the sword back and sat down on my chair. ‘Your throne, Ravana, your throne,’ I reminded myself.
Prahastha also sat down and when he spoke I noticed thatI notypeitali he had lost that tint of righteousness which always irritated me. “Two lakh gold coins, 20,000 gold coins every third month, seven of our best ships, one third of our total pepper produce, one fifth of cardamom and cloves, and a quarter of our revenue from the customs we collect from our ports.”
There was total silence in the room as Prahastha read the signed parchment. I heard Maricha swear under his breath and Kumbha shifted his legs uneasily.
“What do we get in return for these small favours?” I hoped my sarcasm would not provoke another reaction from the old nut. ‘Only you react, Ravana, only you rave like a lunatic. Prahastha, he’s an aristocrat.’ I clenched the armrests of my chair so hard that it would have hurt them.
“We are in no position, Your Highness, to demand anything.” Prahastha continued in a dry, flat voice, “He offered us protection from all forces. He offered to police the seas to make it safe from pirates.”
A derisive laughter followed this remark and even Prahastha smiled before continuing. “He will withdraw the siege as soon as he receives the two lakh gold coins. He has promised not to attack the city. The coins have to be delivered to the ships he chooses. His delegates will inspect our warehouses and granaries to assess the present produce and assist our accountants in computing the share.”
Again an uneasy silence followed. Everyone computed the settlement in their minds. None of us was sure how much we would have to give. We had no idea how much the state treasury held, how much our warehouses and granaries had, what the tax collection was, the toll collection, or anything else. We warriors considered such things beneath our notice, best left to those inferior creatures called accountants. The room, with the exception of Jambumali, did not contain any experienced administrators. I did not know that ruling a country would be tougher than capturing it. I did not know why Prahastha agreed to all the terms without having any idea of what we possessed.
“You might wonder why I negotiated all this without actually knowing how much we have in the first place. It was tough. I assumed Varuna had spies in the government, who would have been regularly supplying information to him about our country’s economy, even during Kubera’s time. So I thought that Varuna would make us an offer which would be stiff but manageable. I negotiated from there.” Prahastha looked up as he said that.
“So you assumed the pirate would be generous enough to give us an affordable settlement.” Kumbha was baiting Prahastha.
“I think that was the best anyone could have done given the circumstances. Now let’s start our work of appeasing the pirate,” Jambumali intervened, before Prahastha could react, and I gave him a grateful look before I stood up and brought the meeting to a close.
Prahastha walked towards me with long, easy strides. “Ravana, should I arrange for yo
ur coronation? Would you like to combine it with your marriage?” he asked me in a whisper.
‘And save some expenses in the process?’ I managed to nod my head in assent.
“Your Highness, we will sit and study our position.” he said loudly and the conversation stopped. “Perhaps you would like to retire if you feel tired, Your Highness.”
“No, I will join you. Get the officials who are in charge of the treasuries.” I said and saw Maricha smiling.
17 The silver-tonguedI notage
Bhadra
I was sitting near the kitchen, waiting for someone to come and take me to my master. The day passed, with people moving in clusters through the street, busily chattering with each other, discussing politics and their future. I wanted to go and join the crowd and gain information about the general mood of the man on the street. But I was afraid to move lest I miss the messenger who would surely come to take me to my master. My master was going to come himself to meet me. He would hold me close and thank me for all that had been done. I would say that it was all Shiva’s doing. That I was but a small pawn in his game. I dreamt and dreamt but no one came. I sat there, sweat pouring down my face in two channels and soaking my chest. Yet I dared not move. My king had already forgotten me. I could not believe it. No, he was busy, he was waiting for his family members to disperse and then he would call me. But by evening I was not that sure. I was afraid to go and show my face. Who was I? A lowly creature, a small worm. I felt like spitting on myself.
There was no point in waiting. I felt betrayed. I had risked my life, had been tortured, and now I lay here forgotten, thrown out like a curry leaf after use. I tried to push the thought from my mind and walked without direction. I heard that Varuna’s fleet had surrounded the island and there was going to be a war. So what? It did not concern me. Let the princes and warriors bother about it. What I wanted was a drink. Suddenly I remembered Mala. It was possible she would be sleeping with someone else now. If so, I was going to drag him out, kicking and screaming, and throw him out.
I lost my way in the labyrinth of streets and it was quite late by the time I found her house. I was quite drunk by that time, having stopped at three toddy shops en route. A mangy dog was sleeping on the doormat and I kicked it with all the viciousness and strength I could muster. It vanished into the night, howling with pain and cursing me in doggie language. I pounded the door and peppered it with a stream of abuse. By the time she opened the door, I had already reached her great, grandparents’ habits in detail. Some heads had popped out from the neighbouring houses and I showered them with some choice vocabulary.
Mala opened the door and poured a pail of water over my head. The coolness of the water stunned me and she dragged me inside by my waist cloth, dripping wet. By the time we reached her bed, I was crying like a baby and she was cooing meaningless words. I slept with my head buried in the cleavage of her heaving bosom, with her fingers tracing paths through my hair and her heartbeat in rhythm with my snoring. Later, when the palace bells tolled twice in the early morning, I woke and reached for her. I slept again, fulfilled. I woke much later with a hangover. The street was busy with vendors shouting, pushcarts zig-zagged between pedestrians and bullock carts. Through the open window, the smell of sweets from a nearby shop rushed in and I vomited. I watched the puddle forming designs on the expensive silk sheets of Mala’s bed. Then she came, cursing me, with a pail, a wooden mug and a coir brush. A million needles exploded in my head.
I slept the whole day, except for a few minutes when I was force fed some gruel. About midnight I woke to find Mala lying beside me nude, sleeping like a baby. I caressed her and slowly succeeded in arousing her. Then, with a sudden force which made her cry out, I entered her. Images flooded my mind. Scenes of torture by Vikrama mixed with the roaring sound of the waterfall of the Poorna, the taste of blood in my mouth, the eyes of Ravana, that thankless bastard, all mixed to form a collage which was frightening and fascinating at the same time. To my shame I found that my organ had shrunk and was lying limp like a decaying old banana. Mala sat up . Mavaand looked at me with open contempt, pity and horror. I tried entering her again, but she shoved me away and stood up. I felt ashamed of my nudity, my impotence, and ran out of the room covering my groin.
Somewhere on the outskirts of the city, a lone jackal howled a painful cry and I felt like joining him. You impotent, good-for-nothing bastard. Bhadra, you fool! You wanted to dine with kings and change history; you wanted to give up your life for your race; for the life you irrevocably lost on the banks of the Poorna. This is what is left of you, forgotten and cast away.
“Get inside.” Her voice was soothing as her fingers ran through
my hair. I stood up slowly, unashamed of my nakedness, not caring if anyone else saw me and walked like an obedient puppy into her home.
Three days after I entered her life again like a lost dog found, she suggested we go to the local vegetable market. We walked towards the sea, towards the smell of fish, rotting vegetables, cow dung, sweets and snacks frying in oil. The setting sun coloured her smooth cheeks a bright orange and her eyes laughed when she spoke. A small drop of sweat swayed precariously on the tip of her nose. I wanted to lick it then and there. My eyes wandered and touched her eyes, brow, tresses, small straight nose, full kissable lips, the cleavage between her round breasts and further down, her exposed navel. I locked my hand with hers and looked into her smiling eyes and at that moment I knew that I had fallen in love.
I stood behind her, holding the basket while she haggled with the hawkers. Lost in my daydreams, I did not register the implication of the arguments and opinions of the people in the market. As we walked back, the happy and easy romantic mood vanished as she grumbled about the prices. I felt irritated and snapped at her to keep quiet. She reacted with surprising ferocity and began cursing me and every man in the world, “Politics, politics, why can’t you men stop ruining our lives with petty politicking and fights? It costs twelve sovereigns for a dozen bananas. He has fleeced us but says it’ll go up again. The new king has imposed further taxes and additional tolls on the highway which adds to the cost. Damn politicians, damn the king.”
“Hush Mala, you cannot speak about the king like that. If someone hears, we could get reported.” A few heads turned and stared at us. I was not amused and was afraid. I did not want to be reported for treason.
“You keep your mouth shut. I do not care for any king. They all are the same. What is so fancy about the new one? Deva, Asura, Gandharva, half castes, they are all the same. They only worry about how to glue their fat asses to the throne and screw the people. They talk big, like the emancipation of the Asuras, getting even with the Devas, preservation of culture, and all that humbug. But finally it boils down to the same thing. Screw the people, enjoy a luxurious life in the palace and cling to power.”
Asura- Tale of the Vanquished Page 13