Asura- Tale of the Vanquished

by Anand Neelakantan

  Then, shattering the deadly silence of the night, I heard the cruel laughter of my daughter, Sita. “Ravana, you wicked Asura! You deserve your fate. You and all your kin will die such horrible deaths at the hands of my husband, Rama of Ayodhya.”

  ‘I deserved it my daughter? I deserved it? I just sacrificed your little brother for you. I may lose everything but still I will stand up for you. Once I forsook you, but never again. You will understand what sort of a husband you have, only when the protection of your old father ends. Then, alas, my dear daughter, it will be too late.’ I wanted to yell all these things at Sita but I had no strength left. I walked away alone, carrying the dead weight of my little prince, into the dark depths of the night. Perhaps, there I would find some solace, someone to dry my tears, and where I could lay myself in the lap of darkness. I kept walking, my dead little one sleeping peacefully in my arms.

  43 Let my city burn

  Bhadra

  The city was burning. The policemen had vanished and the front section of the police station was on fire. My escape route had been blocked and at any moment the fire would reach my cell. Thick curls of smoke billowed in as I sputtered and choked. I was trapped. I tried to run through the raging fire but lost my nerve when faced with the intense heat radiating from the inferno. It had become difficult to breath. I did not know what to do but I am a survivor. But this time I wasn’t so sure. The orange tongues of flame hungrily devoured everything in their path. A part of the roof collapsed and the dark sky burst into the room. The smoke escaped and the air cleared a bit.

  I tried scrambling up the wall but could not find anything to hold onto and fell back again. I searched for something to stand on. The inspector’s table was burning as a huge beam from the roof had fallen across it. I tried pulling it out and finally, after many anxious and tense moments, it yielded. I pushed it hard towards the wall. My hands burned but I was barely aware of the pain. That would come later. I stepped onto the table and then jumped over the wall and I ran for my life.

  It was utter chaos outside. Houses, shops and everything on the streets, were burning. I could see the palace burning in the distance. I ran towards my house. The fire had killed people indiscriminately. Brahmins, untouchables, slaves, barbers, merchants, drunkards, pious men, guards, gamblers, prostitutes, old ladies, babies, saints, rowdies – were all dead. The acrid smell of burning flesh filled the sky. Many were trampled upon. A few were barely alive. Some were fighting the fire. Others wailed the loss of loved ones and possessions. I ran through the streets where death had done its fiery dance. I was afraid and hungry but I kept running. I do not know how or why but as I left the main streets and turned towards the humbler dwellings, I saw the fire had not done much damage there. People had come out and were gawking at the raging inferno licking our city clean. Many tried to stop me and enquire what was going on. I continued running. All I wanted was to reach home and get away from kings, palaces, spies, and their deadly games. Let the city burn and men and woman die, I wanted to be safe in my house. By the time I reached my street, it all seemed like a bad dream. The silence was only broken by a few stray dogs chasing the huge rats that infested our gutters.

  As I reached home, I was startled to see the door slightly ajar. I slowly entered, ignoring the creaking noise of the old wooden door as I opened it. In the faint light I saw the silhouette of my snoring wife, blissfully unaware of the raving fire ravishing her city. I cursed her and moved to my bed. It was then that I saw someone lying on my bed. I was startled. The flickering light emanating from the burning city did not illuminate the figure. I searched for my dagger, but could not find it at my waist. I was too afraid to molve.

  “Father. . .” the voice trembled.

  “Who. . .?” I shivered.

  “It is Athikaya. . .”

  “Why. . . you fool. . . you. . .you. . .” I moved towards the figure now sitting up on the bed, with his head buried in his hands.

  “I killed the Prince. . .I killed him. . .”

  “What. . .?!” What had this fool done? Had he killed Prince Meghanada? What was going to ha

  ppen now? I began to panic. ‘Would the entire army hunt us down?’ My wife woke and blabbered incoherently. I screamed at her and she cowed down. I shook Athikaya and slapped him hard across his face. “Idiot! you wake up and stop talking nonsense.. stupid fool.”

  Then, bit by bit, I extracted what had happened. I was relieved to find that this stupid son of my mine had played no part in the death of the little prince. Rather, he was the hero who had rescued the Queen. Then I felt bitter. ‘No one, neither the King nor all those fair-skinned ones who hung around him, will ever acknowledge the heroics deeds of people like us. No bards will ever sing paeans to the selfless acts done by common people like us. Forget the bards. Who needed them?’

  I left my wife to fuss over my incoherent son. Outside, the sky was tinged red in the east by the rising sun and by the burning city in the west. Wearily I stretched my limbs and walked towards the river wondering what the monkey-man had gained by killing innocent babies, men and women, and setting fire to a beautiful palace. The procession of the dead had started towards the funeral ground on the other side of the river. I could not see the faces of the men and women who accompanied the bier, but I could imagine their teary eyed faces. I watched indifferently as the first pyre was lit, and thick smoke curled into the sky. I went home and sat on my mud verandah to watch the smoke over my burning city.

  44 Messenger of peace

  Ravana

  It was Prahastha who insisted that I come out and take a look at the city. I was angry with him at the time, but he insisted. He told me it was the duty of the King to see how his subjects suffered and to take action to mitigate that suffering. I shouted at him and even threatened to dismiss him, to behead him. But he stood his ground without saying anything in return other than to calmly insist that I do my duty. Finally he wore me down and cursing, I agreed.

  I saw the horrible sufferings that had been inflicted upon my citizens. I walked with Prahastha, dressed in simple clothes and ceased to be a king. I was a fellow sufferer. Houses were gutted, streets were strewn with odd rags and charred furniture. Heaps of trash lay smouldering in various corners, looking suspiciously like flesh. Many buildings had collapsed and broken walls, black with soot, stood haphazardly. Some had only windows or doorframes with no roof above. Some buildings had only a few pillars standing in the mounds of smoldering ash. They looked like relatives stricken by grief, standing around the funeral pyre of a loved one. Men and women stood in corners, devastated by their loss and stunned by the suddenness of it all. I heard the stifling sobs and occasional wails that broke through the thick walls of the houses that stood precariously on the verge of collapse. Half burnt, animal carcasses lay strewn around. It was sickening. I wanted to go back to the palace and get away from this scene of abject human misery. The loss of my young son seemed small in comparison.p>

But the sudden thought of my dead son opened the flood-gates of sorrow. I looked pleadingly at Prahastha but he only looked grim. Unable to control my tears, I was also angry at the monkey-man, at Prahastha, at the world at large, for bringing me to this situation. But I was too stunned to move. The road was soggy with soot and water and mud clung to my clothes and sandals. A sickening breeze wafted through these lanes of death. I was overcome and retched, clutching my stomach as I emptied myself on the road. It was then that an old woman recognized me. She came running from her house, letting out a high-pitched shriek. I was taken aback and stopped retching.

  “You scoundrel! See what your lust has brought us to!” she screamed. Prahastha tried to stop her but she pushed him away with great force. Then she beat her breasts and wailed, “I brought up two fine sons with so many sacrifices. Their wives, my grandchildren, all gone. All gone in the flames of your lust. . .you have a wife like an angel and you still have to lust over Deva women? And see what she has brought to us Asuras.”

  A crowd gathered aro
und her. There were angry murmurs and some clenched fists. I stood pinned to the ground. I was afraid they would lynch me to death. What kind of a ruler was I? I felt disgusted. Lanka burnt on all sides. Whatever I had built, whatever my people had built with their dreams, ambition, passion and hard work, lay crumbled in ruins around me. I had failed as a king. I could not protect my citizens from a lowly monkey. I was a failure as a father. I could not protect my small son from being roasted alive. I was a loser. It needed Prahastha to make me come out to see and empathize with my fellow sufferers. My knees gave away and I collapsed on the ground. With trembling hands, I tried to touch the feet of the angry old woman.

  “Mother. . .forgive me. . .I. . .I. . .” A gasp went through the crowd.

  Prahastha lifted me up but the old woman fell at my feet. “Forgive me your Highness. . .you are our Emperor. . .you should not fall at my feet.” She dissolved into sobs. The crowd which had been angry enough to lynch me to death suddenly became indifferent and moved away as I staggered towards my charred palace, leaning on the old but strong arm of my Prime Minister.

  “Jai to Ravana.” Someone cried out and then the entire crowd responded in unison, “Har Har Mahadev!”

  “We will follow you unto death sir!” someone yelled.

  “Death to the Devas. . .” another voice joined in.

  “Lead the Asuras to victory. . .we shall avenge the brutal attack sir. We shall build the city back with our hands; brick by brick.”

  “Har Har Mahadev!” shouted a hundred voices. “Death to Rama and death to the monkey-men.”

  I could feel the energy flood into my veins as I climbed up to my citadel. I was no longer afraid of Prahastha. I could see the streets full of my people. The crowd was electric. Thousands of swords glistened in the sun. I waved my hands and a huge uproar went through the crowd.

  “Let us rebuild Lanka!” I cried and was greeted by another uproar of Har Har Mahadeva! “By Shiva, we shall avenge this brutal attack of the monkey-men and the Devas.”

  “Yes we shall!” answered the crowd.

  Prahastha stood smiling beside me. I whispered to him, “Let us start rebuilding the city.” He bowed and left my side to make arrangements in his usual efficient manner. The bumbling but brilliant Professor Mayan, the minister of city administration and engineering, was summoned and he came running like a happy child being offered a treat. As the cities had grown and developed, he had been left with the monotonous job of administrating them efficiently. Now he was being again given another chance to rebuild the burnt city and return it to its past glory. I left my two ministers busy in consultation.

  The palace was in darkness and I returned to the reality of my dead son and my personal loss. The energy I had built from the cries of thousands of my citizens and their never-say-die spirit, left me at the doorway to my palace. Noises of a city walking from the dead filtered through the dark and gloomy curtains of my palace, but sitting alone, buried in my personal tragedy, I became just a grieving father who had lost his little one. Even the love of my subjects, looked frivolous to me. Everything seemed a pretence, even my grief before the woman in the street. ‘Had I really felt empathy towards that grieving woman? Or was it an instinctive reaction to save myself from the angry crowd itching to lynch me to death? Have I led many people to misery and death, just to achieve my personal ambitions?’ the doubts lingered. My mind felt numb. ‘I loved my people. Had I not built an empire out of nothing? And had I not given back self-respect and pride to a battered and oppressed people?But, what if it was all guided by selfishness and not by ideals?’ Why I am thinking in this way? Had I not glorified selfishness and greed as the two great pillars of human progress? But then, why was I feeling like scum? Why was I am feeling like a charlatan who had led his people to gloom and hell?

  The door creaked and after a moment of pregnant silence, the tall silhouette of my Queen appeared in the slanting sunlight at the door. Slowly, she walked to me and sat down. I did not dare to stir and look at her. I knew my eyes were moist and any movement on my part would expose the tears waiting to flow over the rims of my eyes. She put her hands on my shoulders and tears began to trickle down my cheeks.

  “I will be with you always. Do not leave Sita to her husband. We do not know how he will treat her. Whatever may come, we shall face it together. She is our daughter. I understand you, Ravana.”

  I shook my head. ‘If my daughter did not want my protection, why should I sacrifice everything for her?’ Till then, I hadn’t thought of returning her to her barbarian husband, but as Mandodari raised the issue, I began to think of returning her to her fate and continuing with my life. ‘Who am I to bring destruction to my own people for the selfish reason of saving my daughter?’ I may not have been a perfect human being or a perfect king, but I did not want the curse of mothers who had lost their children and their dignity, to haunt me forever. Enough! I would call Vibhishana and ask him to return Sita to Rama.

  As if reading my thoughts, Mandodari said, “No, Ravana, no. We know how Devas treat women. Now that she has lived among us, they would consider her impure. We have already lost one child.” She squeezed my shoulders hard. “Let us not lose another.”

  “Prahastha seeks audience in the durbar,” announced a guard. I stood up without looking at my wife, went to the be child.asin and washed my face. In the cold water, I allowed my tears to flow freely. When I looked into the mirror, I saw an old man staring back at me. He had grey hair and stubble. The dark circles around his puffy eyes and wrinkles, gave him the appearance of a broken man. Where had youth gone? Where was the Ravana who had challenged the Gods? Where was that King who had wanted to achieve so much in life that he had not cared about the feelings of others? Where was the fiery youth who had led battles after battles and destroyed cities, slaughtered men and woman, and built an empire that stretched from this Pearl Island to the southern banks of the Narmada on the mainland, the man who gave the Asuras self-respect and more glory than the legendry King Mahabali? And where had the love for nature, music, art and life, vanished? Where was Ravana?

  The answer stood at the door, with his head held high, his bearing proud and manly. Ravana, with the fire to conquer and the hunger to live, Ravana in his youthful glory and a million dreams, Ravana of the unquenchable zest for all the good things in life. The Ravana missing in the mirror stood at the door, beckoning me back to life. It was Meghanada. “Father, the Council of Ministers are waiting for you.”

  I turned and adjusting my angavastra, put a hand on Meghanada’s shoulder. I could not afford to wallow in self-pity, I had a country to rule. Drawing energy from the youthful fire of my son, I walked to my durbar leaning on him a little, to take on my life again. I left my sobbing wife behind and listened to the sounds carried in by the breeze – the sound of the Asuras, my beloved people, rebuilding their city and their lives after a brutal terrorist attack. Hope began to sprout again. I left my son behind and entered the durbar. As I sat on my throne, I could not help but notice that the repair work was shoddy. Brushing away this little irritation, I began the proceedings. And in my mind, once again, I became the Emperor and the greatest monarch on earth. There were many more battles to be won.

  We sat discussing war plans. I personally itched for revenge. Though I wanted Rama to be captured alive for the sa

  ke of my daughter, I wanted to slit Lakshmana’s throat for what he had done to my sister and kill Hanuman with my bare hands. I was impatient with the endless war planning and strategy. I could see the same impatience in Meghanada too. Nevertheless, Vibhishana pitched for one last peace effort. He said that he would personally go as an emissary and reason with Rama. Prahastha was of the opinion that it would be dangerous for a prince of Lanka to go to the barbarians for peace talks. They could hold him hostage and demand Sita’s release in return. Finally, it was decided that Vibhishana would go with a sizable army and Varuna’s navy would protect him from the sea. Vibhishana also assured us that if required, he would use force and ca
pture Rama, if he did not see reason.

  Prahastha was dead against any such move. “We should move fast and finish off Rama’s puny little army. We shouldn’t lose the advantage of surprise. Regular rules of war are not applicable this time as they began the offensive by first deforming an Asura princess and indulging in terrorist activities against the Asura empire.” Vibhishana didn’t agree. I grew tired and told Vibhishana he could go as an emissary. I also instructed Varuna to stand by as a back-up if Rama tried any of his ignoble Deva tricks.

  Prahastha was furious, but once I had made my decision, he carried out the arrangements to ensure that Prince Vibhishana got the best trained platoons to accompany him on his mission. Wearily, I disbanded the court and returned to my room. I was tird platooed and needed to sleep after having cremated my little son just hours before.

  45 Looming war

  Bhadra

  The siege began. Essentials disappeared from the market. Prices shot through the roof. Bad times had come. But people like me, with our calloused hands and coarse dress – invisible, irrelevant and silent, we suffered even during good times. In bad times we starved and died. We discussed the impending war in hushed tones. Many of the younger generations had never seen even small skirmishes, let alone wars. True, some had accompanied Meghanada on his northern campaigns, but those were wars fought in other people’s countries. The men and women who were killed, raped and looted, were like us, the poor and the hungry of other countries, another race and another skin colour. But the battle was now coming home. Fear hung in the air like a nasty winter mist that never goes away.

  We had a fool for a king. Otherwise how could one explain such stupidity? Ask any common man on the road and he would say what a hypocrite and how evil Prince Vibhishana was. Only a gullible and naïve king like Ravana would have trusted such a mission to Vibhishana and Varuna. A few days ago, the public had sent off Prince Vibhishana after a grand public function. Thousands assembled on the beach with Asura flags. Forty-two warships carrying the entire royal navy and almost three fourths of the Asura army, set sail towards the mainland to capture Rama and crush his monkeys. Everyone knew that talk of peace was only a ruse. We waited for the ships to come back in a fortnight with the barbarian Deva prince, Rama, in chains.