56 While they pray
Ravana
I was fuming at Mandodari. I wanted to finish off my son. Fool! I did not know what to make of him. Sometimes he showed great valour; he thought and behaved maturely and showed real leadership; at other times he made an ass of himself. The reports I received were clear. It had been this fool’s bravado that had lost us the best general in the war. Kumbha’s death hurt me much more than Prahastha’s and Maricha’s.
Twice in the last two days, my son had fritted away the chance to win. And the fool always rushed to the safety of his mother. And what was that black rascal doing in the King’s chamber? He stood discretely, trying to hide his huge frame. I rushed towards Meghanada but once again Mandodari intervened, “Leave the boys alone, Ravana.”
“Leave the boys, leave the boys, indeed! When will this idiot grow up? It is the company he keeps that has made him thick-headed.” I glared at Athikaya, who seemed strangely hurt.
“Ravana, do not make me say things I will regret later. Do you really want me to remind you why this war began? Do you want me to say that the entire Asura race is being destroyed because of your adamancy and pride? Please do not let my tongue speak.”
I felt helpless in my anger. It hurt because it was true. “Mandodari, mind your words. You are speaking to the Emperor of the Asuras.” The words sounded ridiculous even to me.
She just glared at me, “Ravana, it would be best if you go and rest.”
I stood there for some time not knowing what to do. Then I walked away. I felt lonely and let down, bitter and angry. Why did such terrible things have to happen to me? Why was I so unhappy and unlucky in life? Why did I have to struggle for everything? I would never have committed the stupid mistakes that my pampered son had done. He would one day inherit the largest empire the world had ever seen.
Kumbha, my brother, I forsook you long ago. I never tried to stop your slide. Maybe I even encouraged it as it suited me. I was afraid of you. I could see the ambition fluttering in your mind and feel your envy. You wanted to be King. Little did you know the perils of kingship or how power corrupts and corrodes the soul. You drowned your ambitions in opium and wine, but the opium of power I took, was far more potent than anything you had. Your intoxications fed on constant intake of poison, mine in many acts of tyranny. You were a giant asleep in your ignorance, I was a little man wide awake in my power. Your ambition was raw and your feelings always transparent. You made me afraid for I loved my throne more than you. I loved power even more than myself. I feared that one day you would wake up and plot behind my back for my throne. When wine claimed you, I was relieved. Yet I kept a watch, I ensured that you remain intoxicated and asleep.
You Kumbha, were the one who disturbed my sleep. But when treachery came, it did not come from you. It came from the little brother we were all fond of. How we used to pull his leg, laugh behind his back, and make up amusing stories about the Asura boy who desperately tried to be a Brahminer we wer. Now the joke is on us. The enemy is at our gates and our little brother is leading them in with a torch. He is about to steal our dreams and turn them into nightmares. My mistake brother, my mistake. Forgive me, for I thought you were the dangerous one and forgot to keep an eye on the snake.
Kumbha, you were always right. I remember that you had expressed doubts about Vibhishana’s sincerity long ago. But I was naïve and thought you were plotting behind my back, trying to make me fight the younger one so that your path to the power would be smooth. But when I needed you, when this godforsaken Asura race needed direction, I sought your help. You were courageous enough to point out my folly, but desisted from advising me too much. Now I realize who you were, but it is too late. The war is turning against us. Soon, the civilization that we reclaimed, the ideals of equality for all men, the beautiful cities and palaces, the majestic temples and royal highways, the ports where merchant ships waited for the finest spices and cloths, the art and theatre, will all be crushed under the feet of a Deva tyrant. You are lucky. You won’t be there when the great Asura dream vanishes without a trace. You will not be there when Brahmins will be the brain; Deva warriors the limbs; and crooked men like Kubera, the torso of our grand society. A society our little brother wishes to build on our corpses. Brother, you have gone beyond the misfortunes of mere mortals. I might soon follow you. My only fear is, when I meet you again, will I be able to look you in the eye?
Mandodari came and stood near me. Her touch broke my thoughts. “Ravana, the boy is heartbroken by what happened to his uncle and thinks it is his fault.”
“It is his fault. War is not a place to show off his daredevilry to impress people. Losing Kumbha is the biggest setback for us and I am ashamed that my son was the cause of it. I do not want him in the battlefield anymore. The Asuras cannot afford such mistakes.”
“Ravana, the boy is already devastated. . . can’t you forgive him?”
My anger was roused again. “It is the company he keeps. What business does he have to tow that black servant along with him. . .” I faltered before the look in Mandodari’s eyes.
“Enough Ravana, enough. Why continue this war? Why don’t we compromise? Why not give Rama his wife back?” She was almost sobbing.
“You think I don’t have any honour or pride? After losing my best men, my brother, my friends, you want me to fall at Rama’s feet? You want the Emperor of the Asuras to beg for mercy from a small time adventurer and prince of a tiny barbarian vassal kingdom?”
“The barbarian prince of a tiny vassal kingdom has swallowed more than half of the Asura empire now. How many men do you want to lose before you stop this stupid war? For whose sake are you fighting this. . .”
“This war is for the honour of the Asuras. A war to stop the spread casteism and Brahmin hierarchy. . .”
“Save your political speeches to fool the masses. You are fighting this war for your own selfish reasons.”
“Mandodari, you are forgetting that this is the same Prince who insulted my sister and disfigured her. Are you saying I should swallow that?”
“The same sister who you made a widow. . .”
“Enough! What do women understand about. . .”
“I understand well enough, Ravana. Spare me the noble face that you want to project to your foolish subjects. You are a creature of passion. Irreverent, arrogant and lustful. You want to project yourself as a rational man who is not swayed by the superstitions and irrational beliefs that plague the common Asura. But in your h뀀ou areart, you are as superstitious, as afraid as anyone in the street. What prevented you from bringing back our daughter from Janaka when you regained your power? How many hours would Mithila have lasted, had you launched an invasion? But you were afraid. You were afraid that if our little daughter came back, she would bring destruction in her wake, the end of the Asura dream. So you denied her a mother’s love. You denied her a father’s affection. You were drunk with power and loved your crown more than your family. You were afraid of the prediction. But when Soorpanakha was disfigured, it was a mighty blow to your pride and you chose to steal your daughter from her husband. What shame! You should have fought Rama instead of stealing his wife, even if she is our daughter. Now, when the enemy is at our gates and the predictions are about to come true, you hold onto your stupid pride and ego and forget that you are a king first and a father later.”
“I’ve remained silent and suffered your arrogance and ego. I remained silent when you raped my maid and made her pregnant. I remained silent when I heard that you were fooling around with that Brahmin woman. I suffered silently when you mourned her death. I was silent when I heard you muttering Vedavathi’s name in your sleep. I have lived in silence when you left me for years, busy building your empire, fighting violent wars, doing the same cruel things that you people accuse the Devas of, running long campaigns in far-away lands. I, like the other women, have been silent while you foolish men painted the earth red with the blood. And see what you have brought us to. Just this once, listen to me my belove
d. . . give Sita back to her husband.”
“Shut your mouth, woman!” I exploded, “you are talking too much.”
I didn’t know what to say. It was as if I stood naked on the road. My innermost thoughts had been laid bare and they were not pretty.
“Do you think I relish the thought of sending Sita to Rama? But Ravana, I love you more than I love our daughter. I do not want to lose you. We will lose this war, Ravana, we will lose this. The moment you brought her to Lanka, I was afraid - for her, for myself and for you. I wanted you to send her back to her husband. But before I could do anything, you started the war. Thousands have been slain. Have you ever thought how we women suffer? I have lost a son. But I am just one of so many poor woman who have lost sons, husbands, fathers, brothers; their homes, their honour and their pride. Only you have pride? You know what your enemies did to me. And what did you do? Did you even go to the battlefield? No! You sent your son, your brother, your friends, your ministers. But you hid here like a coward…”
“Be silent. . .” I grabbed her by her throat.
“Go on. Kill me!”
I threw her down in disgust and stormed out of the room. I fumed with impotent rage. I felt worthless and sick. Involuntarily I turned towards the Ashoka tree where Sita sat. I could see the hunched figure in the darkness. A small lamp threw rays of feeble light. As I moved near, she looked up and turned her back towards me. I wanted to touch her, to hug her and say, ‘See, how much I am sacrificing for you.” But something held me back. I stood there for a long time, trying to pick up the courage to talk to my daughter. Then, in a voice that was barely audible, I said, “Daughter. . .”
There was no reaction for some time and I did not have the courage to call her once more. Then I saw that her little body was trembling and I could hear her faint sobs.
“Sita, you are my daughter. . . I loved your mother more than anyone else in my life. But now I love you more than I love myself.” Except for her sobs, nothing c뀀moreould be heard. I did not know how to continue but said, “Will you stay here with your father, as Princess of Lanka? If you say so. . . I shall ask for a truce. . . Rama does not deserve to be your husband. Stay with your father always.”
There was no answer from her. She did not even turn.
“Please. . .please do not go with your husband. . . He is a barbarian.”
With a flash of anger, she turned and said, “I love him. . . I am his wedded wife.”
I was taken aback by this sudden display of fury. I did not know what to say but I made a final attempt. “Sita, I am your father and-”
“My father is King Janaka, and my husband is Lord Rama.”
I stood there, utterly helpless. Pain gnawed at my soul as I turned back.
“Uncle. . .” It was then that I noticed Trijata. I did not want to face her now. She would have heard about her father. “Uncle, did my father fight like a brave Asura warrior today?”
“I am sorry, Trijata. . .” I had no words left for her.
“I have heard from my mother that my father was always a great warrior, better even than you, before wine claimed him. But, while I was growing up, he had already wasted away. It was not easy for me to grow up with the tag of being a drunkard’s daughter. How I wished he would be sober and normal like the fathers of my friends. I hated him. But now, when. . .”
“Trijata, your father was a brave man, a better man than many. . .” I hugged my niece as she wept against my shoulder. As it was dark and there were no one else to see, I too cried. Honour and pride can cause so much misery. This wretched war, this wretched life, and the eulogizing of heroism and violence – I was sick of everything.
I was woken from my indulgent self-pity by a messenger who came panting up to me. After that, everything that happened was meaningless. Nothing mattered anymore. I had become a cog in the wheel of time. I became a stepping stone for somebody’s climb to greatness and godhood. After that I was just a minor player in Rama’s heroic epic. In that moment, everything changed.
“Your highness!” The poor man was sweating profusely and one look at his face made me stagger. The blood drained out of me.
“Your Highness, something has happened to Prince Meghanada…” He stood staring at the ground. I pushed Trijata away and ran past the messenger, who followed me.
“Where is he? What happened?!” I did not wait for his answer. I feared the worst, but kept denying it in my mind. I rushed past the sentry post and grabbed a horse. The fort doors opened and I rode towards the hill fort like a mad man. I heard the roar of fire as I passed the city borders. I turned back to see my city in flames but did not stop to watch. ‘Let the city burn, let entire humankind perish. Where was my son? Meghanada. Oh Shiva, let nothing happen to the boy.’ I could smell the sticky sweat from the frothing horse, yet I seemed to be riding all too slowly. As I neared the fort, I could see that its gates were wide open. I rode past the slain soldiers, lying lifelessly in their own blood. The fort was sunk in deathly silence. I dismounted and walked with dragging feet towards the palace. I did not want to go there. I knew what lay in store for me. Yet I walked past headless bodies, limbless torsos, and blood stained walls.
“Your Highness!” The voice startled me. My minister of finance and the keeper of the fort, Jambumali, was sitting on the floor, with his back supported by a pillar. He was covered in blood and the old man was trying to stand up.
“Where is Meghanada?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be. He pointed towards the prayer room where my son used to pray before a huge idol of dancing Shiva, Nataraja. A glimmer of hope fluttered in my mind. “Meghanda! Meghanada! Son! “ I called out, half expecting him to come out with his sheepish grin. With trembling hands I pushed open the door. There lay my son, dead. I collapsed on the floor, averting my eyes from the horrible sight, yet strangely drawn towards it. Meghanda’s head rested on the foot of Shiva, severed from his body which lay a few feet away. Four arrows had pierced his back. It was evident my boy had died before he knew what was happening. He has been shot from the back. After he had collapsed, they had hacked him into pieces.
“It was Lakshmana who broke into the fort. There were almost forty men. No one knew how they came and entered the fort or how they knew that the Prince was here, praying.” The old man sobbed uncontrollably. “The prince was in very low spirits when he came here. He told me that he had lost the war and had been responsible for his uncle’s death. He wanted to pray. . . but. . .see how. . .he. . .”
“Where is the other boy?” I had grown almost numb.
“Killed, perhaps lying somewhere outside. Everyone was killed. They spared me, maybe because I am an old man.”
A small movement behind the huge Nataraja idol caught my attention. But I did not have the courage to go there because I would h
ave had to walk around the hacked body of my Meghanada. A huge black hand clutched the idol and slowly, the black body of Athikaya stood up. He was covered in blood, but he tried to walk towards us. He saw Meghanada and a piteous animal cry rose from his lips. He looked at me blankly and then at Jambumali. Athikaya’s face contorted into a ferocious scowl. I looked at my old minister. He had grown pale. Athikaya rushed towards Jambumali with all his strength as Jambumali ran. Before he could move further, I grabbed him by his arms and held him still. But before Athikaya could reach us, he collapsed onto the floor, his face hitting the wet surface. He tried to rise once more but fell back. I pushed Jambumali towards the opposite corner, from where he could not run out without passing me. He sat in the corner with his body trembling with fear. I moved towards Athikaya and turned his face towards me.
“It was he. . .he opened. . .the gates. . .I tried to save the Prince. . .forgive me. . .I could not. . .I tried. . .I really tried. . . Lakshmana had come and. . . Jambumali guided them here. . .I was outside and saw it. . .Prince. . .wanted to be. . .alone. . .so I left him and. . .was outside. . .near the gate. . .when I came back. . .I saw him. . .standing over the body of. . .I fought. . .but the
y. . .escaped. . .I tried. . .I tried. . .” His life was ebbing fast. I tried to lift him but it was difficult to raise his huge body. Slowly, as I watched, my illegitimate son died in my arms. I put him down gently. I wanted to cry out aloud but I slowly stood up. The old man Jambumali sat quivering in the corner like a rat. I went near and kicked him between his legs. He screamed as he grabbed my foot. “Mercy. . .mercy. . .your Highness.” he squeaked. I took out my dagger and hacked him into pieces, slowly, very slowly, taking my own sweet time. Now I had all the time in the world. I was undecided at first, but then I started with his eyes and worked downwards. And I relished the task. His screams were music to my ears.
57 Funeral of martyrs
Bhadra
I rushed to the palace when I heard the news I had feared most. It was very early in the morning. It was finally over. My son, the ce whefool, had got himself killed along with the Prince. I knew it was bound to happen one day. And I could not do a thing about it. The love of a father for his son is always one-sided. When I reached there I cried aloud and beat my breast and rolled in the street. I could not help myself. I told anyone who would listen, that my son had been killed for the sake of the Prince. But no one cared. They were all rushing to mourn the death of the Prince and enjoy a grand funeral. There was a huge crowd on both sides of the street. I wondered why there was no war today. It had become routine now, so it seemed strange that a day could dawn without a battle. They blocked my way into the palace. I pleaded with them and tried to bribe my way through, but the guards were rougher than usual and pushed me away.
“My son has been killed. My son has been killed for the Prince. My son. . .”
“You beggar, move out of the way.” A guard pushed me away with such great force that I lost balance and fell on my face. But I stood up angrily. My son had become a martyr for the country, and instead of treating me with the respect due to a martyrs father, they were treating me like a beggar.
Asura- Tale of the Vanquished Page 43