Asura- Tale of the Vanquished

by Anand Neelakantan

  I was shaken from my musings by Sita’s laughter. I looked at her. She seemed so divinely beautiful. She had inherited her spirit and passion from me and her perfect face and body from Mandodari. How could I lose her now?

  “Oh! the King of Kings, the Emperor of the Asuras… have you come to pay me a visit? Ravana, count your hours. My Rama has come to finish you and your evil empire. You Rakshasas and all that you have built, all that you are proud of, will soon be ashes. My husband has come to deliver me and I can see your evil empire collapsing. If you value the life of your kin, go and fall at his feet. But I know you will not, you are too proud for that kind of wisdom. Mark my words, Rakshasa, your time has come.” She dissolved into a peal of laughter and looked positively loathsome in her hatred. Trijata looked at me, embarrassed and afraid.

  I turned back, dejected and abashed. ‘Why can’t I bring myself to tell her the truth that I am her father?’ I had been trying to rescue her from her husband. But how could I look at her face and justify my act of abandoning her because of some superstitions? And how I could ignore the burning love she had for her husband, the Deva prince Rama? W her facehy could she not see that her father loved her more than her husband? Why could she not see that I was staking everythin

  g I had, for her happiness? But then, why did not she know that she would never be happy with her husband and the moment my protection was gone, her suffering would start? Perhaps I fooled myself. Perhaps they would live on as the most idealized couple, the dark-skinned Deva prince and his lovely wife, and I would become the evil monster who tried to destroy their happiness. All the omens and astrological predictions indicated misery to come for her and a horrifying future for me and my people. Could Ravana change the future? Perhaps I was right in my youth after all and Astrology was just humbug. I decided my own future and not some remote stars sunk in the inky blackness of an indifferent sky. But why did my daughter hate me such vengeance? No father should be tortured like that. Perhaps my time had come. Why would I gamble my whole life for this woman? I was gambling not just my life, but also the future of a whole race, for my animal passion. Thousands were being killed at this moment – fathers, brothers, sons – families who had trusted me and were fighting for me. Maybe, it was only right that my time had come. I was a worthless king who had dragged his people into an unnecessary war, to death and destruction. But how could I hand over my daughter to Rama, knowing how he would treat her? Let fate take care of the future. I would fight to the last and maybe I would win.

  The war raged on outside the palace. The shadows grew long and a heavenly crimson hue spread over the city, bathing everything in an unearthly glow. My daughter’s words kept ringing in my ears, ‘All that you have built and your people will turn to ashes.’ I wanted to get drunk and forget everything. As I entered my palace, they brought in the still body of my commander, Rudraka. Maybe, my daughter had known better than me.

  51 A hero returns

  Bhadra

  I was sitting on the verandah of my thatched hut. The steaming hot porridge and mango pickle my wife had put down near me had grown cold and sticky. The flies had become bolder and lingered longer on the edges of the bowl. I did not have the will to shoo them away. The familiar but indecipherable clatter of vessels and the stirring of pots could be heard from the kitchen where my wife was busy with her chores. I had a mild headache – yesterday’s hangover. Business was dull. Who needed clothes washed now when tomorrow you might be dead?

  Though I had resigned myself to the fate of my son, I found myself looking out longingly for the appearance of that tall, bulky figure. Sometimes I hoped he would come home hurt, so that we could nurse him back to health. But I knew he would never leave the battlefield or his friend and brother, Meghanada. Death had come marching into our street many times since the war had begun. Many of the neighbours had already lost loved ones. There was a general numbness in the air now. Initially there had been emotional outbursts. The streets saw funeral processions of slain Asura warriors and emotions ran high. But when the body count increased, death lost its novelty and heroism became cheap and commonplace. A general indifference, except for the small pool of sadness in the immediate family, was the only thing the epic heroism of the slain warriors generated. It was as though the entire country had withdrawn into a shell to brace itself for the inevitable. Fathers placed the still and mangled remains of their sons on funeral pyres with sickening numbness. Mothers huddled together and shed silent tears, while widows withdrew into their holes of lonely bitterness. Over these blunted emotions hung the spectre of fear – of a Deva victory and the horribd tole future that awaited the poor, black Asuras under Rama’s rule, or worse, under Vibhishana.

  The streets had become deserted long ago. Many of the common Asuras had withdrawn into the forests and some had fled to the mainland in crude, country boats. However, the majority shut themselves in their homes, with their rickety front doors shut and barred. Before the nobles sensed it, the poor Asuras smelt defeat and destruction, although nobody spoke of it openly. The nights were scary. This war was different and every Asura knew in his bones that he was dealing with a ruthless and unscrupulous enemy led by generals who would, under the cover of night, set cities on fire. An enemy who was led by a prince who would hide behind a tree and shoot arrows to kill a noble king engaged in a duel with his brother. An enemy who was also led by a prince who had stooped to cutting off the ears and nose of a woman. The shadows lengthened and we were terrified as never before.

  It had been ten days since the war started and the losses were heavy on both sides. News of the enemy was scarce, but our ministers and generals like Rudraka, Vajradhamstra, Sumali and Malyavan, were all dead. The Asura army was running out of leaders. Only the gritty Prahastha, who kept Varuna at bay and had blocked Rama’s retreat by sea, and crown prince Meghanada, were the experienced warriors left. Old and bumbling Mayan was offered command, but we heard that he had declined it. The geriatric minister of finance, Jambumali, was too old to even walk. The situation must have been grave indeed if octogenarian scientists were being asked to command Asura armies. Ravana himself should have taken over the command, but perhaps the Emperor was too old for such a task. I had the impulse to walk towards the palace. Perhaps Athikaya was lying there somewhere, injured but alive. I could bring him back. Wiping my hand on my dirty dhothi, and without bothering to inform my wife, I walked towards the palace. For some time I was alone on the road. Then I saw men huddled together near small eateries, gossiping. Most of the houses were shut and looked deserted but some had defiantly opened their front doors and were putting up the pretence of normalcy. Muffled cries could be heard behind some of the closed doors. Perhaps a son was dead, or a husband.

  The sun was fierce over my head. Perspiration poured from me and I smelt and felt sick. I should have had a bath. As I neared the palace, the absurdity of imagining that Athikaya would be nursed inside the palace hit me. Athikaya was no prince. He was just the son of a poor, illiterate, black Asura. If he was injured, he would have been left for dead on the battlefield. When had the lives of such fools been valuable to the government? But, where did he spend the nights? He had stopped coming home long ago. ’Did he sleep outside Prince Meghanada’s chamber, or did he spend his nights in the guard’s quarters inside the fort?’ I was determined to see him today and persuade him to leave this stupid war of important men and come back home, though I knew it was futile.

  The palace loomed ahead, impregnable and sinister from a distance. Its golden dooms and spires glittered in the sun. ‘Gold – the Emperor uses gold to decorate his roof when men like us do not eat one square meal a day’. Maybe he deserved to go down. But at least he was not cruel and had tried his to uplift his people. I shuddered to think what Lanka would be like under Vibhishana. In Ravana’s kingdom, though there were nobles and commoners, in theory anyone could rise through sheer hard work and luck. Examples of men like Rudraka, who was a common butcher before he became a heartless daredevil, and Su
mali, who had been just a clerk in Kubera a cin d lucks spice export department but rose to be minister and commander, were quoted by people who glorified Ravana’s rule. But I was a non-entity, one among the millions of poor Asuras in a country that was being rapidly Brahminised. At the end of the war, I would end up an untouchable, the scum of the earth. I badly needed a drink but there was nothing nearby. I sat down to wait and catch the attention of some important official who might recognize and take me inside the palace. I had to see if my son was there.

  It was late evening when I was woken from my tired slumber by the clamour of the army marching back into the fortress after the day’s battle. Gravely injured or dead men, who had been important enough, were carried back. Ordinary soldiers were left for the vultures in the battlefield. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as I looked for my son in the army marching past. The soldiers were in high spirits. There he was! ‘No, that is not him. Was he dead and left in the field since he was just a black Asura?’ I desperately ran to the tired soldiers, seeking Athikaya among them. I tried to stop the march and called for my son. There were some jeers from the group and angry murmurs, but I didn’t give care. I kept running in and out of the marching columns, craning my neck to see the faces of the dead and injured. I got pushed and shoved but ignored it. With growing desperation I looked for my son. There, there he was – in the chariot, with Prince Meghanada. Tall, dark and bulky, Athikaya stood erect. The Prince bled from the wounds on his limbs and shoulders. Athikaya had a horrible gash on his chest which he had dressed crudely with a blood-soaked rag. I ran towards the chariot but was crudely shoved away by the bodyguards of the Prince.

  “Athikaya, my son…” My hoarse voice did not carry through the din the soldiers were making. I looked hopelessly short among the tall and bulky Asura warriors. ‘How tall the boys grow these days.’ I waved my hands frantically and jumped and shouted, desperately trying to catch his attention. Suddenly I caught his eye. I waved, trying hard to push myself towards the royal chariot. I saw his eyes grow wide with wonder and then the wonder turned to embarrassment. My son was having the time of his life riding along with the Asura Crown Prince and I, the poor washerman, a nobody, was trying to intrude into his high life. With that one look, he killed even the slightest hope I had dared to cherish within me. But then I was just his foster father. He did not belong to the shack of a poor, black Asura. He was of the Emperor’s blood, ill begotten yes, but a half prince nevertheless. He belonged to a world where worms like me did not exist. He belonged to a world of mighty men and legendary heroes, who would be talked about for thousands of years after their deaths. Men like Bhadra did not matter.

  Suddenly the Prince saw me. He gestured and the row of bodyguards parted. For a moment, I stood there dazed, then I walked towards the chariot apprehensively. ‘Had the entire column stopped for me? Would I be rebuffed once I got near?’ The Prince looked at me intently with a tired smile on his lips. I stood respectfully a few feet away. My son looked away from me, as if my old and worn out form caused him shame. I was growing increasingly ashamed of myself. I should have had a bath. I stank of liquor and decay. The prince beckoned but I stood rooted to the spot. A soldier near me barked, “You oaf! Don’t you see his Highness is calling you?”

  Nervously I moved towards the chariot. As I neared, the Prince held out his hand to me. I shrank from touching the royal fingers, but in a swift move, he pulled me into the chariot. A gasp went through the crowd. A À, th lowly, stinking beggar sharing a ride with the Asura Prince? I felt proud. Not once had his father, whom I had dared to think of as a friend, make any such gesture. Then I turned and saw the hatred in the eyes of my foster son. I shared his shame. The prince was scoring a political point by sharing his moment of glory with a lowly person. It was perhaps a noble gesture from a genuine heart, but I was so weighed down by my experiences in life that I could not bring myself to think benevolently. Everything the rich and the mighty did, even in charity, pity or generosity, smacked of selfishness. That was one of the hard lessons I had learnt in my useless life. I had seen pity in the eyes of the rich; I had seen pride in being nice to people like me; but above all, I had seen fear, even in the eyes of the mighty King Ravana. They were afraid of us, the docile, animalistic, ignorant, black, poor men and women of the world. The pity, patronization, charity, arrogance, pride, and indifference, were all part of the defense mechanism of the rich to escape their fear.

  Suddenly I felt I had power over the Asura prince – power of the mundane over the spectacular. It was all very clear. He would wilt away like a half-blossomed flower, in the war, still in his youth, but I would live. He would seep through the gaps in the pages of legend and history, but I would be there forever, scraping life from the streets, fighting my little everyday battles. No poet would ever sing songs about me, but who cared about poets? No one would deify me like a God but Gods were useless and who wanted to be one? This war would end soon and so would the life of heroes and villains. But my battle would continue, and millions like me would continue to wage their little wars in the different corners of the earth, for food, water, air, shelter, and a little dignity.

  I was still lost in my thoughts when the Prince said, “Your son saved my life today. You are a hero’s father. I bow to you, sir.” I felt sick. I did not want any part of this. I was angry at being used by the Prince as a political stunt. Had life made me so cynical that I suspected a truly noble Prince, one who had shared his royal chariot with a stinking tramp like me? I kept quiet, trying to hold down the tears filling my eyes. I tried valiantly to control the trembling of my lips, but I broke down and cried. The Prince hugged me compassionately and kissed my cheeks. My son looked away. I kept sobbing. The chariot started to roll and the soldiers cheered on either side.

  As the fortress gate opened, I saw the King and the Queen standing at the top of the steps that led to the palace. The balconies brimmed with courtesans, servants, and all those durbar creatures. They all cheered the Prince. The setting sun painted the Emperor red and Ravana looked every bit the mighty Asura Emperor he was. His silver mane blew in the breeze and he stood tall, erect and proud, as he welcomed his son home.

  It occurred to me then that this was a victory procession. ‘Was the war over?’ Ravana raised his hands and the crowd cheered. ‘Har Har Mahadev!’ ripped through the air and electrified every Asura. I caught a jubilant whisper from the crowd that both the Deva princes were dead, slain by Meghanada. Chendas beat furiously and flowers were showered on the victorious soldiers. A great weight fell from my heart. We were safe. My son was safe and alive. The Asuras would not bear the yoke of Brahminism and casteism. Untouchability, racial discrimination, and all the horrors associated with the Deva culture, would remain as the exotic cultures of the semi-civilized north Indians, to be talked about in jeering tones while feÀtion, aneling smug about the cultural superiority of the Asura civilization. Perhaps the Prince was indeed noble if he had saved the Asuras from imminent disaster. This was the beginning of a new era. Rama and all the Vedic atrocities he represented, were buried in the sea.

  And my son was a part of the victory. He was the hero of the victory. No wonder Meghanada had felt obliged to take me into his chariot. Actually, as the hero’s father, I should have been accorded much more respect. As the chariot came to a stop in front of the steps, the Emperor came running down. Before the proud father could get near his son, his mother ran to and hug him tight. Meghanada’s father stood a few feet away, irritated that he could not hug him and f

  eel the strength in the limbs of his young son. Athikaya stood clumsily a few feet behind, a dark shadow of the fair Crown Prince, a stupid and embarrassed grin on his plain face.

  Once Mandodari released her son, father and son eyed each other stiffly. After a few moments of tense silence, he hugged Meghanada tightly. The crowd roared in approval and Chendas were beaten furiously. Then they moved into the palace. Like a dog behind its master, my son followed them in. Not a word, not even an ackn
owledgement that I was here. I stood there stunned. The crowd beneath started their revelries. I did not know what to do. After a while a guard tapped my shoulder. “From the Prince.” he said, offering me a suspicious looking bundle. Tentatively I opened the cloth. There were odd things. Some used clothes – silk, but used – a few copper utensils, some sweets. Here was my reward for having fostered a hero – sent with love from the Asura Prince Meghanada, the vanquisher of Indra. This was the price the Prince had put on his own life. The guard watched me with envy and feigned indifference. He waited for his baksheesh. ‘This country will never change. Grab everything whenever you can – that’s the mantra.’ Greed was the basis of this rotten country.