Then, inexplicably, Bhadra began to weep. His cries came in fits at first and then his whole body shook with his torment. He collapsed onto his knees and then fell outstretched at my feet. In earlier times, in a similar situation, I would have kicked his face. I could not stand weakness in anyone. But I saw that Bhadra did not weep from weakness but for his survival. It took courage to lose your pride and still survive. It took will power to suppress one’s screaming ego and grovel before another man. It took determination to keep one’s head down and act humble, when you were seething inside. Ultimately, the victories do not matter, nor pride or glory, only survival matters – one’s life and successors, the clan, race and language. Other things were useless. But then I was what I was and he was what he had become. Neither of us could do anything about it. So I leaned down and helped him up.
“Bhadra.” I looked into his coal black eyes. A flicker of hate came like a flash and went, to be replaced by a dead expression. I ignored the hate. I ignored the stench. Life was too short for such things. I almost felt noble. “Have you eaten?” I asked, with what I imagined was kindness. He shook his head. “Go to the kitchen and eat. I will send instructions.”
He still stood there. It was an awkward situation. He did not speak and I had run out of words. His stench was overpowering. I tried to keep the kindness and pity I felt for the creature intact, but found revulsion creeping in. I fought against it, keeping my eyes away from his black, cracked skin, disheveled and matted hair, the sores on his legs, the protruding belly and unclean teeth. But the smell kept coming back. I wanted to wash my hands, it felt so impure. Involuntarily, I wiped my hands on a silk handkerchief and was embarrassed when his eye followed my movements.
It was then that three-year-old Meghanada came running into the room with peals of laughter. He stopped abruptly and his huge, lovely eyes registered surprise at the dirty, black Asura standing so reverently before his father, the king. I wanted to lift my boy and moved towards him, but then I did not want to touch him with the dirty hands that touched Bhadra. Once again I wiped my hands and a snigger emanated from the dirty fellow. Anger rose in me like a tidal wave and I turned back to him furiously. It was then that my illegitimate son, the dark, ugly, Athikaya, also came running into the room. Except for a loin cloth, he wore nothing. His three-year-old fingers were messy from a half-eaten, ripe mango. His eyes locked with Bhadra’s. I do not know what registered in the mind of the three-year-old but he walked towards the half-starved Bhadra and offered him the mango. Before I could react, Bhadra took it and sucked it as though it was the last thing he would ever eat. Then to my horror, Meghanada extended his little hands and Bhadra stopped eating and dropped the half-sucked, messy mango into them. I kicked the hands hard and the mango shot out of the balcony. I struck Bhadra with the back of my hand. All my altruism vanished. ‘How dare, this lowly one come into my palace and have the prince eat his leftovers?’ Bhadra fell down with an expression of glum satisfaction. I wanted to wipe it off his ugly face with a swipe of my sword.
The two boys howled. I took Athikaya by his shoulders and shook him hard. Meghanada tried to free his half-brother from my grip. He pummelled me with his little hands and then Mandodari came running in and pulled Athikaya from my hands.
“Ravana, are you mad? Are you trying to kill this child?” she screamed. She left the howling Athikaya on the floor and pulled Meghanada to her. My son wept on hÀson weptis mother’s bosom. Athikaya saw this and howled all the more.
“Why do you allow Megha to play with this dirty urchin?” My words sounded hollow even to me.
My wife glowered. “It is your dirty urchin, Ravana,” she said and picked up her weeping son in her arms and stomped out. I was shocked. ‘How dare she speak to me like that?’ She used to be afraid to even come near me. But after a son was born, she acted as if she owned me. She was not afraid anymore. She was not afraid to call me by my name or scream at me and throw tantrums to get her way. I had mellowed, except for the occasional flare of temper. Some could say I was henpecked. Though I hid it with my acts of belligerence and shouting, she got her way most of the time. She used my love for her and my son as tools to control me, and quite truthfully, I was happy.
It took a few seconds to register that there was no noise. I looked around. Athikaya and Bhadra had vanished, leaving me alone. I went to the balustrade and looked down. I could see a limping, dark, figure holding the tiny hand of a dirty urchin, walking towards the kitchen block. A pleasant breeze came in from the sea and carried whiffs of their conversation. Tangled in their laughter, a word shot out like a dart and struck a soft spot in my heart. Athikaya, the son I had never wanted, in his innocent voice, called Bhadra his ‘father’. I did not know whether Bhadra had asked the child to call him so or whether the boy felt like doing so. But it hurt me. I recovered when I thought that the ugly urchin would be out of my hair and away from my beloved son, Meghanada.
Though everyone knew Athikaya was my son, it helped that Bhadra had married the maid I had raped so long ago. So there was some sort of legitimacy to Athikaya and Bhadra’s relationship. It had embarrassed me to know I had raped my servant’s wife and given a child to that family, but I got used to the embarrassment. One can get used to anything, even embarrassment. As a special concession, I allowed the royal instructors to teach Athikaya also, after their lessons to the Princes. And I was surprised to hear that he was a fast learner in the use of arms. He must have inherited it from me. I thought he could be developed as a reasonably good combat companion for my son.
It was with great pride that I announced the graduation of my son, Meghanada. It was fixed for the full moon day of Shravan. My close friend Bali, was the state guest for the function. After the fiasco of my youth, our friendship had grown and I admired Bali and believed the respect was mutual. His wife Tara, and my queen, were good friends. Both Bali and I had errant brothers and that was a much discussed topic between us. Bali kept a watchful eye on my amoral sister, who had settled on the outskirts of his kingdom. He would say that she would bring disaster to everyone because she was so self-centered, but I ignored him, thinking Soorpanakha too insignificant to create an impact. She needed men and she took them indiscriminately. She was a blot on the family, but as long as she and my mother and my sly father kept away from Lanka, I cared nothing about what people said.
Bali was at the height of his glory when he visited Trikota for my son’s graduation. His own son, Angada, a few years older than Meghanada, accompanied him. The boy was a bit of a rebel teenager but which teenager with spirit did not rebel? I felt my friend was a bit too harsh on his son. Children needed space to grow and it was difficult when their father was a huge Banyan tree. Nothing could grow beneath it. The boy was silent and brooding and many times was openly hostile to his strict father. Compared to Angada, my son was an angel. Actually, my son was an angel compared to anyone. I was always afraid of his friendship with Angada, but Meghanada stÀ Meghanaood up for the rights of the weak. I thought this was rather unsuited to the modern age we lived in. My son had the old-fashioned notions and morals of a bygone, classical age. Secretly, I was afraid for his future. But he always argued passionately that people were basically good and noble and that all men, irrespective of caste, race or religion, were equal. Values, truth, morals and right conduct, were eternal and no progress made by mankind could change them. I was proud and worried at the same time.
Unfortunately, I was proved right. Poor boy, what did he know about blue-skinned imposters who played God and justified despicable acts with obscure Sanskrit blabberings? What did he know of the treachery of brothers and friends, about hypocrisy, the ugly, dog-eat-dog world? Of course, I too had fantastic notions of changing the world and creating a great and prosperous society when I was his age. But then I grew up and out of such dreams. Meghanada was showered with luxury whereas the only thing I had at that age was hunger.
But I am digressing. The jackals have left me alone for now. Why do they not eat my feverish
brain and put an end to this? There’s so much I have to remember. Oh Shiva, please call me to your abode. That is, if you actually exist. I will soon know. But the images keep coming to me, so many of them. Prominent among them is the venue of my son’s graduation. I could see the glum satisfaction on Mandodari’s face. I knew it was not because of her handsome son, his glorious looks and dark flying mane as he rode past our seats, or the graceful way he held his bow and shot arrows at birds and fish while swiftly riding past them on horseback. She was proud her son had turned out better than that of her friend, Tara. Her son was much better than my illegitimate son, Athikaya. I felt proud too but Mandodari looked as if she had won the race of parenthood. When did parents become so competitive?
It was then that one of the most embarrassing incidents of my life happened. My son slipped from his saddle and the crowd gasped. Angada, who was seated between Bali and Tara, howled with laughter. My son regained his balance and gracefully continued his ride. I ignored the derisive laughter though I was seething. But what ensued was disaster. It almost drove my country to war and my kingdom to destruction. I heard the sound of a scuffle. ‘Asuras! Always drinking and fighting,’ I thought. I turned to look at commotion and got the shock of my life. Angada lay on the ground. There was an uneasy silence. My son had halted his horse a few feet away. Behind our backs, the bulky and dark figure of Athikaya rose. Then, with slow deliberation, he scrambled away. ‘What had the idiot done? This son of a lowly maid?’
“Catch that idiot!” I roared, and hundreds of guards drew their swords and surrounded both Angada and Athikaya. Bali’s face had gone red and I felt afraid.
Athikaya stood with his thick, black lips parted, strands of his curly hair puffing in the wind, looking positively bewildered. He looked like a stupid bull but I could see his hands were tense. Rudraka walked towards Athikaya, his sword drawn.
“He. . .He. . .insulted my. . .bro. . .I mean. . .Prince Meghanada.” Athikaya stammered. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Meghanada’s face showed amusement and love.
“Throw him into the dungeon. We shall decide his fate tomorrow.” I shouted, stealing a look at the grim faced Bali.
“I’ll deal with him.” It was Angada who had scrambled up.
“Angada. . .” Bali’s voice was chilling but his son defied his father’s anger. What I saw in his eyes was the same hatred I had for my father. I saÀ father.nk back in my seat, knowing that matters were getting out of control. My only prayer was that Angada would finish this idiot Athikaya quickly and save the day.
“You fool. . .” Bali hissed, but Angada was beside himself. He theatrically waved away all the guards and Rudraka looked at me for instructions. I gave a curt nod and he ordered his guards back.
“He kicked me and I want to reclaim my honour,” Angada hissed at his father. Then, at the top of voice, he announced to the gallery, “Citizens of Lanka, watch how we Vanaras deal with an ass who thinks he is a lion!”
Athikaya stood there stupidly, his eyes blinking like an owl. Meghanada dismounted and came to Athikaya. He took his hands and whispered something in his ear and then led him to the centre of the venue. ‘Son of a sweeper, the curse born to erase my pride.’ I wanted to kill him with my own hands. As the son of my sin walked into the centre with my beloved Meghanada, the crowd roared approval. With that one gesture by the prince, Athikaya had become the gallery’s darling. Meghanada drew his sword and threw it to Athikaya who caught it with such ease in mid-air that I was startled. The boy had flair. Now I was torn. I wanted Athikaya to be killed so that I could save my country and my friendship with Bali. But somewhere within me, my parental pride throbbed. I wanted Athikaya to win. After all, he was my blood.
Angada walked in circles. I could hear a few cat calls and hoots. Then the crowd began to chant, “Death to the Vanaras; hell to the Vanaras; hai hai Vanaras.” I stole a glance at Bali and saw his hands tightly gripping his chair. The nerves in his huge arms were taut and throbbing, but his face remained impassive. The crowd began to abuse the Vanaras, calling them half-castes and monkey-men. Some abused the Vanara King himself. I searched for Rudraka. But to my amazement, Rudraka was intently watching the start of the combat with his back turned to me. The noise was deafening.
The first clash of swords broke through the noise. Then they fought – the bellicose son of my friend and the son of a sweeper woman. In the first few minutes, Angada drew blood many times. He was lithe and swift. Athikaya was clumsy at times, elegant at others, but he could not manage to even nip Angada. I began to relax, but also felt sad. The crowd had gone silent and tense. I could feel the hostility in the air. I could also sense Bali relaxing a little. Then, with a powerful kick in the groin, Angada send Athikaya flying to the floor. Athikaya crashed into the ground with a sickening thud. A huge gasp went through the crowd. Angada gave a loud laugh and roared.
Athikaya lay in a heap, unconscious, or perhaps dead. Angada waved his sword at the crowd. He could have thrust his sword into Athikaya and finished him off. But he did nothing of the sort. That would have been too tame for him. He was relishing the moment of victory of a Vanara prince over an Asura and wanted to savour every second of it. I could see the twitch of a smile on Bali’s face and also a flicker of pride. I was sad but relieved. A crisis had been averted. But then I saw the tall, elegant figure of my son walking towards his fallen half-brother. Angada stopped his antics and stared with open hostility at my son. I prayed that he would not challenge Meghanada to a duel. My son would have to accept and the result, either way, would have been disastrous. As I watched, I realized that my entire body was trembling. ‘The idiotic son of Bali, I could murder him. Why could not people bring up their children properly?’
Meghanada took Athikaya’s head onto his lap and then whispered somethÀspered sing in his ear. There was an uneasy calm. Time stood still. It was a hot and humid day and even the breeze from the sea had stopped. Somewhere in the distance a goat bleated and was soon answered by its lamb. My back was wet with perspiration. A murmur rose from the crowd as Athikaya stirred. Then, with an arm over Meghanada’s shoulders, he slowly tried to stand. He faltered twice and was strongly held up by Meghanada. Then he pushed Meghanada aside and took two faltering steps towards Angada. He steadied himself and gave a roar. It was not human, that roar, it reverberated through the gallery and lost itself in the momentary silence. Then the crowd roared back with its ten thousand throats. The sound chilled me.
Meghanada took a club from Maricha and walked deliberately to Athikaya. Without looking at Meghanada, his eyes intently focused on his rival, Athikaya took the club in his left hand and passed it to his right. There he stood, with his legs wide apart, bleeding from a hundred cuts, his huge, left hand firmly on his hips, and his dark, ugly face scowling at Angada. Angada had no choice. He was bound by honour to put down his sword and fight with his club. As he took the club, the crowd with one voice chanted, “Death to the Vanara. Death to the monkey-man. Hai, hai Vanara.”
The game changed altogether. Athikaya was clumsy with his sword. His bulky body could not move as nimbly or as fast as the supple Angada. But his huge weight was an advantage in swinging the heavy club. Angada was still swift and graceful and managed to hit Athikaya more often than the other way round. But Athikaya had such power and accuracy to his hits that the few he connected, injured his opponent. Angada’s style was to thrust and dance away, far from the reach of his heavy rival. That was well in swordplay. But with a club, unless the blow was heavy and well aimed, it did not create much impact, especially on a heavily-muscled adversary like Athikaya who went from strength to strength as the crowd roared for him.
I felt proud of my sons. ‘Did a half-bred monkey-man think he could come with his brute of a son and thrash our warriors?’ Then I caught myself. I was afraid what would happen if Athikaya won. I wanted to remain Bali’s friend. He was a good friend, but good friends were dispensable. Bali was a strategic ally, who kept the barbarian Deva hordes of the upper Gangetic pla
in at bay. Such allies were not dispensable. Illegitimate sons were easily dispensed with. But he had my blood, this huge, stupid son of a maid, and the way he was going, he could make Bali my biggest enemy.
Angada fell, sprawled on the ground. Both his arms were broken and twisted impossibly. Athikaya was bleeding and a pool of blood formed under his left foot. He kept his right foot pressed firmly on the chest of the gasping Angada. Bali stood up from his seat, his fist clenched hard and face taut and tense. His queen’s face had frozen with horror. The crowd shouted in a frenzy, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill the son of the monkey!” The roar could be heard everywhere.
Athikaya raised his club high above his head in an arc, the club almost touching his back. He would have swung it with mighty force and smashed it down on Angada’s head. And Bali’s son would have had been crushed in a second.
“Rudraka!” I shouted at the top of my voice. I was not sure whether he heard or not. It seemed like an eternity, but then Athikaya turned his face towards me. ‘What was it I saw in those eyes – hatred, astonishment, pity or pure raw contempt?’ He stood for a fraction of second looking at me. The croÀt me. Thwd went silent. The image remains frozen in my mind. Then Rudraka caught my eye and understood. He just flicked his hand and more than twenty guards rushed towards the centre. Athikaya stood there, peering into my soul, the son I never wanted, as twenty men hit him from all sides with clubs and sticks. But he stood there like a huge Banyan tree, unmindful of the raging monsoon of beatings performing a death dance. Angada lay still pinned under his huge foot. A dark figure darted from the crowd and almost reached Athikaya before the guards. But Rudraka hit a powerful blow with the hilt of his sword and the figure fell. Later I heard it had been the fool Bhadra. He was stamped upon by the running guards, wriggled for a few moments, and then was still. I could see Meghanada and Maricha trying to stop Rudraka. The crowd was too shocked to react. This was grossly unfair and I was afraid how the crowd would react once it woke from its stupor. I could hear Prahastha shouting instructions to the guards, positioning them for a quick evacuation. And to my horror, I saw my own uncle and my beloved son, fighting with my faithful commander and his troops, to save my illegitimate son. This was a nightmare. The crowd fought with the guards and a few fires began to crackle. There was a stampede.
Asura- Tale of the Vanquished Page 28