Asura- Tale of the Vanquished

by Anand Neelakantan

  Then I saw Bali running towards the centre. Maricha was fighting a pitched battle with Rudraka and Meghanada had almost got through the guards when Bali hacked his way through the chaos. Meghanada turned against Bali and my hands went involuntarily to my sword. But before I could do anything, Bali, with one deft movement of his hand, caught hold of Meghanada’s wrist and pried away his sword. Then, with a powerful kick, he sent Rudraka sprawling. He pushed away Meghanada and my son staggered for a few steps and fell onto his back. Next was the turn of my brave uncle. Bali lifted Maricha and threw him a good ten feet away. The other guards were too afraid to move and gave way. Athikaya had collapsed over Angada, wheezing hard. Bali lifted the huge hulk of Athikaya easily in his hands. ‘He’s going to slam him hard on the ground. How dare he come and kill my son?’ I thought.

  The crowd bayed for Vanara blood and many broke through the security ring and ran to the center. I expected Bali to throw Athikaya down and finish him off before attending to his son. But, surprising everyone, Bali walked back with my son in his arms – my bleeding, thrashed, hacked, ugly, black son. And the crowd fell silent. The men who had run to the middle to fight, stopped in their tracks and watched. Tara sobbed and my wife joined her. But then, tears had welled in my eyes too. I wanted to hide them so I turned back and shouted instructions to my soldiers. But nobody listened to me. And my friend, that noble warrior, the fairest man I would ever see in my life, Bali, the only one who could be truly called great, came to me with my fallen son in his arms. His son lay there dead or alive, we did not know. But the man had the greatness of heart to be fair. What I had done had been ignoble and I was ashamed. I, the mighty king of the Asuras, cried that day, in front of thousands of my subjects. I hid my face from the world and cried. I cried for my son Athikaya, who had almost died; for my friend, his fairness and supreme sacrifice; for my son, Meghanada; and my uncle, who were brave enough to stand against me and Bali for what was right. And I cried for being such a scum.

  They took Athikaya away to the court physician, and that idiot Bhadra too. They carried away the son of my friend who was half dead

  more from shame and fright than from Athikaya’s blows. Their wounds would heal, but what about the wounds to our hearts? Would they ever heal? Could friendship survive such a magnanimous act from one friend to another? Friendship could survive betrayal, but could it survive such an extraordinary act of kindness anÀf kindned great heartedness?

  The crowd dispersed but over the din of voices, I heard something that was a harbinger of things to come. That brute Angada hissed as he passed his father, “Weakling! I’ll get back at you…” and so on, while Bali stood staring into the distance as if he had not heard anything. I saw Queen Tara look at her husband with unadulterated hate and I was afraid for my dear friend. At that moment, I was afraid that the world as I knew it, had changed. Our generation and its values was giving way to a new, unscrupulous, arrogant, young world of Angadas. I was afraid that people like us would be wiped off in the coming days. Our values were being lost and life was becoming too fast and unscrupulous for older men like me. I was growing old much too fast. Slowly I took my wife’s hand and walked towards our chariot. That day my wife left me alone in my own world and I curled inside my darkness like a worm. Early next day morning, Bali and Tara left with their wounded son. And I never saw my friend again.

  36 A country thanks its hero

  Bhadra

  It was almost dawn when they brought him home, bandaged and bruised. He moaned softly as they came. Without a word, they gently laid Athikaya down, and they left without a word.

  Athikaya grew up in my arms. From the time he was three, he called me father. Initially I had been horrified. He was a prince, though an illegitimate one, and I was what I was. I had shouted at him, pleaded with him and even cried, to stop him from calling me so, but he had persisted. And in my heart, I wanted him to call me his father. He was now my son. No king could lay claim to him. He anchored me to the earth. Together we explored the city of Trikota and the jungles, backwaters and hills which surrounded it. I taught him to use arms. He was a prince in my humble hut. And he was my pride, my future.

  It pained me when he was mocked; when he was dragged around like a puppy with the legitimate prince, that haughty, know all, Meghanada. But the boy carried a deep affection towards his half-brother. I was jealous of it and of the love he showed my wife, Mala, his mother. I tried to dissuade him from going to the palace but the summons came often, either from the King or his son. They needed someone to run around, to do odd jobs. He had a doglike devotion for the King and the Prince. He was such a simpleton, so innocent. He was strong in body but weak in his mind. He went out of the way to help people. But like other good natured people from the lower rungs of society, his goodness was mistaken for naivety.

  Everyone considered him a fool. But I was sure that behind that soft and kind face, a tremendous strength of character lay hidden. At times, I saw glimpses of that hidden steel, but mostly Athikaya was just a young, gullible, innocent boy, who was taken advantage of by the cunning people of the world. Kindness, courage, morals, principles, sympathy, these were dangerous values to have for someone who belonged to our social position. It was unsafe to have a golden heart under a dark skin. Those were the luxuries of the rich, the noble, the high-caste, the fair-skinned, which they used when it benefitted them. My large-boned, black and ugly son, could do without them. But a bit of sycophancy, a dash of cruelty, a willingness to serve any master to survive, and the ability to hide seething anger and cower before those who were stronger, were survival tools in our world. But I could never convince foolish Athikaya about any of it.

  The boy had a privileged life till now. Did the present generation understand the hardships we had undergone? Even Prince Meghanada has had a privileged life while his father builtƀS his kingdom on the flesh, sweat and blood of people like me and struggled to become what he was now. Perhaps, when we started, all of us had the same chance. Anybody could have become what he was now. He was nothing more than us. What did Ravana have that I did not possess? Was it the quiet confidence that he was born to rule? Was it plain luck, or because he was so ruthless and clever? If ruthlessness was the key, then Rudraka possessed it more than anyone else. If strategic and long-term thinking was the answer, no one could match Prahastha. If it was bravery, then there were scores of brave Asuras around who could have made it big. If charisma was the most important factor, then why didn’t Vidyutjihva succeed? If cleverness was important, then why had Maya not made it?

  I think it was the size of the dream and the willingness to act on it. Ravana dreamt big and strove ruthlessly to achieve it. And he got all sorts of people working for him to achieve his ambition. He crushed many underfoot. He used fools like me as firewood for his burning ambition. And so he now lived in the palace and I in a hut. I hated Ravana for it. Ravana could beat my son to a pulp; treat me like a cur; refrain from touching our ugly black, soiled, sweaty, stinking skin, and at the same time talk loudly about the equality of men; and pose as the saviour of the Asuras from Deva torments, but mark my words, we the meek would survive when the kings of all colours, had gone. Despite Ravana’s arrogance, patronizing attitude and riches, we would outlive him. We may lick his boots; crawl on the earth in front of him and pay obeisance whenever his shadow falls on the earth, but one day his tribe would vanish, fighting his useless battles for vainglory. But we would survive and win the final war – of survival.

  My son stirred and let out a moan. I was shaken from my fantastic and heroic mental flight. Cold reality crept up on me. What was I? A small-time nobody trying to make a living, betrayed by his wife, saddled with her illegitimate son, ruled by a selfish king. A poor, hungry, unhealthy, and beaten up, black, untouchable rascal. That summed me up. And I dared to dream of challenging kings? I laughed at myself.

  It was very hot and I was getting pickled in my own perspiration. My body hurt as I slowly sat up. Hunger gnawed at my belly. I tried to s
tand but my head swam. I caught at the wall and stood there panting for a few minutes. Then I collapsed and lay still. A wave of self-pity rushed over me as I gulped down my tears and anger. I turned and crawled towards the kitchen. I could see holes on the rough floor. There was dust everywhere, which I had never noticed before. I was so close to the floor that I could smell it. ‘Why couldn’t that damn woman keep the house clean?’ I was angry with my wife. ‘Let her come back and I would teach her proper housekeeping.’

  A large, black spider scurried away hastily as I entered the kitchen. I stared at it for a few seconds but realized that looks cannot kill spiders. I crawled to the hearth and managed to sit on the floor with my legs spread as I opened the lids of the pots and vessels one by one. Empty. Nothing. My stomach rumbled with hunger. A pot hung from a rope in one corner. Perhaps it had curd. Mala would have kept it high to keep it safe from the rats. Or perhaps jaggery or some other nice savouries. How could I reach it? I could not stand up. Then I laughed. Savouries here? In an untouchable’s house? Some of Ravana’s vanity had rubbed off on me too. I was dreaming too big.

  ‘Where had Mala gone?’ I heard the noise of a cart drawing near and stopping in front of the house. Was the King sending her home in a chariot now? I crawled towarˀcrawled ds the front door. There were hushed whispers and then a soft knock on the half closed door. I waited silently. A bejewelled hand pushed the creaky door open, throwing a trapezium of sunlight on the walls and floor. My son moaned again. A dusty breeze wafted in, ruffled the old clothes in the corner, and went out through the window opposite. I squinted into the bright sunlight, and saw the tall figure of Prince Meghanada enter. It was followed by Maricha’s tall, jaunty figure. Two princes in an untouchable’s humble hut! I could not believe it. Involuntarily, I tried to get up, but collapsed again.

  Smiling, Maricha came forward and lifted me up gently and placed me on the lone, broken chair. I protested and tried to stand, but he gently and firmly pushed me back into the chair. ‘Dear God, how can I be hospitable to these people?’ A prince in my hut. I was angry that they saw my poverty, my broken chair, my rags, my torn bed sheets, my cracked walls and floors, and my weak body. This was my house and I needed some privacy to hide my failure from the eyes of a cruel world lorded over by rich princes like these two. Then I grew afraid. Had they come to take away my son? Had the king decided at last that he had a brave son in Athikaya? Had my wife finally deserted me? Was she living with the king as his queen and taking away her son from me? Or had these people come to gloat over our misery? I sat there with a hundred questions scrapping like wild cats in my mind. I sat blinking like an owl, speechless.

  “How are you Bhadra?” Maricha’s voice had lost none of its kindness. ‘Thank you sir, for the thrashing I received from your soldiers,’ I wanted to scream. But I sat there without a word. Meghanada sat on the bed, close to Athikaya, and examined his wounds. He spoke softly and Athikaya responded like a lost puppy which had finally managed to find its master. With disgust, I thought, ‘If Athikaya had a tail, it would have been wagging.’

  “I know, Bhadra, we have wronged you.” Maricha had his hands on my shoulder now and was so close that I could smell his rich perfume. I averted my eyes – I could not stand so much kindness. I was, after all, an untouchable, scum of the earth. I peered to see whether, like Ravana, Maricha too had wiped his hands after touching my black skin. No, he had not. I was disappointed. Perhaps, he would bathe once he reached his palace.

  “You should not think unkindly of our King, Bhadra.” I looked back at him. Who was I to think anything and how did it matter? “He is the same Ravana. His whiskers have turned grey, but Bhadra, he is the same impulsive boy with audacious dreams and a will to achieve. I know, bad things have happened to people like you. Though the Brahmins have been banished, the bane of Brahmanism is slowly creeping into our society. It is so easy to believe that one is superior to all others. I know there are people who consider the poor, black, original Asuras, impure, and even refuse to touch you people. They think that poor settlements like this will defile our beautiful cities. I know, there are people who would like to banish the poor like you out of the capital, or if possible, out of the country. But believe me, Bhadra, it is Ravana’s compassion that has prevented that from happening. He feels for the poor. True, we are far from the ideals of Mahabali, in achieving social equality. That is still a dream. But we are striving towards it. And he has sent us with a message that he will banish all caste or varna from his thoughts. The State will no longer discriminate among its own subjects. This is our solemn promise, and as a minister, I make it on behalf of His Majesty.ˀ His Maj”

  What a speech! But I was not impressed. The old man hugged me and I could see tears in his eyes. Perhaps he felt noble hugging me, touching me, and talking about elevated ideas to me. Let him enjoy his moment of greatness. Perhaps the years had hardened me. I could hear Athikaya sobbing loudly. The poor boy had been moved. He was lucky he still believed such tall talk. He had yet to become infected with the malaise that people of my generation suffered from – incurable cynicism. But the people standing inside my stinking hole of a hut were powerful and important. So I kept up the pretence. I acted deeply grateful and thankful. From the expression on his face, I could see the old fool had been taken in. Poor fool, one could easily deceive him. Then my heart went out to the old man. If anyone was really sincere amongst all the thugs who were our ministers, it was this hard, brown, nut, Maricha. He believed what he said and might have even striven to implement it in all earnestness. His King might do it for glory. But whether the conservative old guards like Prahastha, Jambumali, and the rest, would allow such changes, was still to be seen. And even if all of them agreed, Vibhishana, the disguised Brahmin among the Asuras, would see to it that such gestures were defeated. Vibhishana was an intolerant fanatic. Even then, I was sure that one day he would sell the entire Asura civilization to the Brahmins and Devas.

  “As a token of goodwill, His Majesty has asked us to present this small gift to you. It will not recompense you for all the services you have performed or the privation you have undergone for the glory of our race and country, but please accept this token from a grateful King.” Saying this, Maricha put a reasonably large cloth bundle that jingled with coins, into my lap. There was satisfaction on his face. He waited for my profuse gratitude, but I said nothing. I just kept staring down at the bundle.

  Meghanada took leave of Athikaya and I heard my son saying to the Prince, “When you asked me to do it for you, I forgot everything else. I would happily die for you, Your Highness, I would die for you.” And he kissed Meghanada’s hands. Something inside me snapped. ‘The idiot would die for the prince?’ This was our fate – to toil, to live, to strive, and to die, for the high and mighty. I once did it for the father of this same Prince, and maybe would be forced to do it again. Oh Shiva! Was there no escape? And now my son says he forgot his parents and himself and would have died for his master. Did these men boast that they could command worms like us to die? Did they think they could pursue their destiny by crushing a few black, irrelevant, cursed, puny people like ourselves, under their feet while marching to glory, riches and destiny?

  I stood up. My head swam, but the anger that lay coiled inside gave new strength to my weak and battered body. “Get out! Get out you bastards!” I screamed. I threw the bundle of coins and it flew out of the open door like a missile. The cloth tore open and spilt its contents all over the filthy road and gutter. I saw they were silver coins. I couldn’t even boast that I had throw away gold coins for the honour and dignity of my people. Had they been copper coins, it would have justified my belief that princes and noblemen were miserly and mean and I cared nothing for their presents.

  But they were plain silver coins. They would not make me rich nor were they small enough to feed my deeply held prejudices. Urchins and beggars had gathered, but did not dare to touch the glinting coins. The presence of the Prince and a minister, and bawdy, old Bhadra shoutin
g and creating a scene, was too fascinating to be distracted even by silver coins.

  I had gone too far, so I decided to speak my mind. “You think you are doing me a ˀe doing great favour by visiting my hut? You nearly killed me and my son. Who wants your coins? Keep them for yourselves. The King is compassionate, you say,” I spat for effect. “Does he know what it is like to be treated as though one had a contagious disease? Does he know the pain of hunger? The sting of failure? The throbbing ache of hopelessness? The agony of being homeless? He does not want poor, black Asuras to be treated as untouchables, he wants us to live in the cities. I know the reason for that too. You noble, rich, pseudo-Brahmins rave against us being unclean, our black skin, our smell. . .but you need us more than we need you. Who would carry your rubbish if we were banished? Who would sweep your streets, draw your carts, and die for you in your petty wars?”

  I felt cold steel at my throat. I stared at Prince Meghanada’s gleaming eyes and was afraid. I trembled as my fury fled and I came to earth with a thud. The horror of what I had said hit me with brutal force. My lips trembled and tears of fear and helplessness traced their way over my burning cheeks. It was over. The blade was pressed harder and I felt the warmth of blood trickling out. Surely I would die for my impudence.