The crowd gawked at this scene, enjoying the drama. They would talk about this for a long time. Before I reached the chariot, I heard the whip fall on the poor horses’ backs with vengeance and the chariot shot forward to the safety of the palace walls. I stood there coughing and choking in the swirling dust that had arisen in the wake of the royal chariot. I was drenched in sweat and stooped by the weight of the dharma that was crushing us. The crowd melted away. I collapsed on the dusty, red earth and cried for a long time. I cried for my little boy and his parents, for my other son whom I had adopted as my own, but who was claimed by Kings and Gods for their own glory. But more than anything, I cried for my blasted country. I clenched the earth in both fists and screamed, “Cry my mother, for the kind of rulers you beget. . .worse. . .cry my mother, for the kind of men you breed. . .
Someone kicked me in the ribs. I tried to get up but he kicked me again. He kicked me into the open drain. “Drunken beggar, I would have run over you, you idiot. Why have you chosen my cart to commit suicide? Son of a low caste.” It was a merchant hurrying to the market to make more money and I was lying in his way and trying to reform my country. He kicked me into the place that I deserved. . .the stinking drain. I lay in an open drain of Ayodhya and watched the world go by without bothering about anything that had happened. I also watched them carry away the body of my little Shambuka to the Ghat to cremate.
It was past midnight when the merriments in the palace and in the homes of the noble and the rich ended and I reached my tiny hut. I imagined for a moment my little one coming out with a song on his lips. But then, had he not gone to the land of nothing, for saving dharma? Perhaps, in his next birth, he would be born as a high caste boy so that he could torment others born from darker wombs. There was something soothing about that thought. I did not have the courage to enter the house and walked towards the river and lay down on a fallen tree.
As I drifted in and out of sleep, I could hear a faint tune that the breeze carried across the dark waters of the Sarayu. Some naïve idiot, maybe that rascal Brahmin Guru of Shambuka’s, was singing about a world that did not have borders, a tomorrow without wars, a society that did not discriminate, and other such nonsense. I wished someone would choke that idealistic fool to death so that no more innocent ones would be corrupted by such implausible dreams and sacrifice their precious lives for nothing. There was no escaping from the idealists of the world. They breed like rat and infest the world like plague. When they die, they take so many lives with them. To my growing irritation, the song picked up in temper and vigour and when it became too bothersome with its idiotic themes of equality, I walked to my hut and hugged its deep darkness to find oblivion.
65 The beginning
Bhadra
I had been walking for the better part of the year but still there were miles to go before I reached the village of my birth. Decades ago, I had started my journey with a young man who promised us a new world. He gave us hope and filled our dreams with new yearnings. He built an empire and lost it. He had gone to join so many others who dared, achieved and lost. I gave my youth for his achievements. I was gullible enough to be taken for a ride by smooth talking people like Ravana, who promptly made me into a sucker. Later, when I had lost my innocence and the world had taught me a sufficient number of lessons, I buried what was lost in the soil of Lanka, and bundled whatever little I had left and dared to venture again. I reached somewhere I did not intend to be in the first place, but I started my life again. What was life in this land without Gods and their whims? The arms of the Gods caught up with my puny little life and shook it, squeezed it, and trampled on it, until the very last drop of blood oozed out.
After Shambuka’s death, life became a living hell in Ayodhya. Shiva tried to drown his sorrows in liquor and the family fell apart as families do when their shared dreams wither away. I would also get drunk and create a scene on most days. The drinking bouts began as an excuse to mourn for a dead child, but later became its own end. Both Shiva and I would get drunk and then vent out our frustrations on the poor women of the house. We would beat our spouses mercilessly and the neighbours would gather to gawk and pass lewd comments. It was during one of those stupid drunken bouts that something occurred which changed history. My old hag hit me back when I became too drunk and I knew the people in the colony relished this. I wanted to get even for the insults I had suffered. One day, I was not as drunk as I seemed and as the old woman started her tricks, I kicked her down. I screamed her entire past history for the whole world to hear. Her entire life story as a whore in Lanka, her past lovers, her being raped by Ravana, were all laid bare for my neighbors to drool over. I dragged her out of my compound and pushed her into the street saying that, I was neither Rama or Ravana, to accept a soiled wife as I did not belong to the high class who swapped wives. I thumped my chest and said that I belonged to a good middle class family that valued morality and honour above all and ignored the jeering laughter all around me as I kicked my screaming wife again. Then I left for the wine tavern for another round of drinks.
I was arrested two hours later. I was scared when they dragged me to the royal palace. They took me before Rama himself as he sat in his full glory on the throne of India. I did not know what particular laws of the Vedas I had inadvertently broken and what punishment awaited me. I bowed deeply, my nose almost touching the ground. One of the soldiers prodded me to stand up and face the King.
Rama frowned at me and gestured for one of his ministers to question me. That same fat, dark Brahmin minister came forward and stood exactly as far as he was supposed to stand from an untouchable. Then he asked me about my comment on Rama. I denied everything related to the King, but soon the pressure became too great. I did not dare mention Ravana’s name in the court of his sworn enemy and so I said that I was not as large hearted as Rama to accept a wife whose chastity was suspect. It was a twisted truth, but that was the best I could manage in those circumstances. The durbar went silent and there were many accusing faces and Rama turned red with embarrassment.
To my surprise, I was let off without any punishment. I left Rama’s cabinet huddled together in deep discussion, as if the future of the world depended on one dhobi’s drunken comment. It was more than an hour later when I reached the shrine where Ravana’s old flying machine was kept. I stood at a distance to watch the amusing sight of pious people bowing down with great reverence before the Pushaka Vimana, when suddenly a chariot clattered past me at great speed. A distraught Sita sat in the rear seat and a scowling Lakshmana whipped the horses with terrifying violence. I did not think about it then and walked to the tavern for another drink. It was only later, when the neighbours accused us of having shattered the royal family, did I come to know the chain of events my drunken comment had set in motion. The Pundits had decided that Sita was impure and that whatever test and penance she had undergone to prove her chastity in Lanka was not valid in Ayodhya. They advised Rama to get rid of this blot from his stainless life and he decided to send his pregnant wife into the forest. The King’s wife had to be above suspicion. His logic worked in curious ways. The palace parasites claimed that the King was abiding by the wishes of his subjects as he had always done.
Life became more miserable day by day, with the family situation deteriorating beyond hope. We were almost excommunicated from our caste and the laundry jobs that came our way were few and far between. Whatever we could scrape together, Shiva and I spend on liquor. The women suffered and were sick most of the time, but we did not care. Ten years passed, with life getting bleaker and bleaker.
It was then that our King thought that he ought to proclaim his suzerainty over the whole of India. His advisors told him to conduct an Aswamedha Yajna, when they would release a horse to roam free. Wherever the horse went, that place would belong to the King and those who contested this, would have to fight and defeat Rama. There were many wars with the surrounding petty kingdoms and they each surrendered as Rama succeeded in establishing himself as the avatar
of Vishnu. Indra, the titular king of the Devas, had taken refuge in an obscure hill kingdom in the Himalayas and was soon forgotten by all. It was when the horse entered a nearby jungle that the farce of palace politics came to life.
The horse was stopped by two young boys who happened to be the twins borne by Sita in her exile in the forest. Everyone knew it and proclaimed the twins were invincible. The news went to a pleased King, who condescended to go to the spot. The royal family was reunited as the King found that his banished wife had given birth to twin sons. She had been living in the hermitage of the poet-saint, Valmiki. But what should have been a happy reunion, turned into a tragic tale, due to the handiwork of Rama’s advisors. They declared Sita to be impure and her chastity was cast in doubt since she had lived under the same roof as the poet Valmiki. Valmiki was the most saintly person I had ever seen and it was evident that he treated Sita like his own daughter. But there was no questioning the learned men’s logic. Another fire was lit on a cliff overlooking the Sarayu river and people flocked to witness Sita proving her chastity again by entering the flames.
I was sitting in my usual tavern when the news reached us that the King had found his exiled wife and asked her to jump into a fire to prove her chastity again. I picked a fight with a bald, old man who irritated me by singing paeans to Rama. I shouted questions at him. “Why did the King go into exile for fourteen years at the whim of his step-mother when the whole city wanted him to stay? Was he not aware of the wishes of his subjects then? Why did he kill Bali through deceit? What was the justification for sending his pregnant wife away when she had committed no wrong? Why was he pushing her again and again into the fire? Why did he kill Shambuka? It soon developed into a heated row with people joining in on both sides and violently beating and pummelling each other with abandon. The tavern toughies kicked all of us out and I cursed myself for my foolish outburst that had ended in my missing a drink. After a while I returned to the tavern for another round, but the bouncers threw me out. Desperate, I walked towards the cliff where the preparations for the trial-by-fire for Sita were going on.
It seemed like the usual circus, with hangers-on, sweetmeat vendors, wooden toy peddlers, and palmists, jostling for space with excited men and women who wanted to witness the miracle. I was directed towards a space allotted to my caste men and I joined them to enjoy the drama. The sun blazed with a vengeance and we were getting baked. People howled and screamed in excitement each time the chariot of some official passed by. The scene in Lanka, where a similar farce had been played out, kept coming vividly back to my mind. The only difference was that instead of tropical humidity and rain, a dry, dusty wind blew from the west, turning us into ghosts.
The sun had moved deep into the western horizon when the chariot carrying the King reached the spot. He waved at the cheering crowd and ascended onto the elevated platform. Sycophants fell over each other to make themselves indispensable to the King, who ignored them. A huge fire was kept burning and it was almost ten feet high now. Servants poured ghee and oil and fanned it to make it burn more fiercely. Then they brought Sita. Two ten-year old boys followed, perhaps not comprehending the fact that their mother was to be burnt alive.
The fat Brahmin priest began his usual long-winded speech, but mercifully, sensing the mood of the irritated and impatient public, ended it sooner than he would have otherwise. Some enthusiastic and ambitious wannabe politicians cheered Rama and the crowd took up the cheers with enthusiasm. Sita stood without showing any emotion, silently suffering the humiliation once again. Time froze.
Then everything happened quickly. Sita performed a quick circumambulation of the raging fire and stood still for a moment. Slowly she looked at her husband’s face. We all stood with bated breath. Then, with a quickness that took everyone by surprise, she ran towards the river, away from the fire, and vanished beyond the edge of the cliff. After a moment of shocked silence, some people ran towards the cliff where Sita had vanished. Rama collapsed onto his seat in shock.
I ran with all the strength I could pump into my old legs. I ran against the pushing crowd, I ran past the wailing women, I ran through the street where the cloth shops were quickly shutting up and bracing for a riot. I ran past the market where men had overcome the initial shock and were hurrying back to the safety of their homes, fearing the earthquake that follows in India when a large tree falls.
Perhaps I had succeeded in saving the little Asura princess at last from the clutches of a cruel world. As I left the walled city, I wanted to jump in the air and shout in triumph. I wanted to cry out to my old friend and master, Ravana, that I had done my work. I had not planned it, I had not thought about it, but I remembered that it had been one of my drunken bouts that had led to this chain of events. My revenge may have lacked the glamour of violence, yet it had been more effective. No books would be written about me, no poet would compose an epic in my name – I did not wish for such glory. I danced on the street and rolled in the road. I kicked a sleeping dog and it yelped and scurried away in agony. By the time I reached home, I was totally exhausted by my joy. I hugged my old wife and she pushed me away, but I persisted, and after years of deprivation, I had my way that night.
Riots followed and many people died for no reason in the following fortnight. They could not find the body of Sita at all. It was believed that she had been swallowed by the thick mud at the bottom of the Sarayu. I thought that it was appropriate that the last Asura princess lay at rest in the lap of mother earth. There was no King Janaka now to snatch the prize from the river Sarayu, and the river kept her daughter close to her heart. I wondered how differently things would have been had I killed the little girl as I had been asked to do by Prahastha so long ago. Perhaps there was nothing called free will and events happened as fated, as the Devas say they are. Whatever did happen must be one’s fate. Who knows?
We were afraid to move out of our shack and watched the red skies at the night in horror. Then it subsided as quickly as it had begun and we were relieved that we had come out of it safe. Rama was a broken man now, without the will to rule. His sycophants started ruling in his name and day by day, the situation became bleaker. The King remained shut up in his chamber, praying and fasting, perhaps begging forgiveness of his beloved Sita. The irony was that he was successful in getting Sita back from the most powerful king in the world, and yet was powerless to save his wife from the clutch of orthodoxy. I grudgingly admit that he genuinely cared about people. As long as his subjects did not stray from the straightlaced path of caste duties, they could lead a peaceful life under his rule. But the moment someone like Shambuka aimed to take their destiny into their own hands, the long sword of dharma would catch up with them. It was difficult to be a just ruler when the entire system was based on discriminations and privileges based on the accident of birth. As long as Rama had some control, there was an uneasy coexistence between the various castes, since he commanded the respect of the people. But after Sita's death, Rama became withdrawn and depressed and the orthodox caucus of priests took over the reins of the kingdom. Oppression and caste rules grew more rigid and when it became unbearable, one by one, families migrated out of the city. We held on for some time as business had slightly improved due to the fact that many families belonging to the dhobi caste had vanished and we had less competition. But with the slight increase in finances, Shiva and I revived our drinking habits with vigour and succeeded in making our life miserable again. One day, Shiva stabbed his wife in one of their usual quarrels and two days later, she died. They took Shiva away and threw him into jail. Thus, the only relationship that bound us to Rama’s kingdom snapped. After lingering for a few months, with a heavy heart, we decided to leave the city and walk southwards. The euphoria I had felt when I had seen Rama’s distress, vanished, and all that was left was a terrible sadness. Everything appeared meaningless. We bundled our humble belongings together and started our long walk.
We travelled through thick jungles and barren wastelands. There were many f
amilies migrating south and twice we were attacked by bandits and those who had something to lose, lost that. We reached Heheya, on the banks of the Narmada, near the Sahya mountains – the capital of Karthyaveerarjuna, and the city seemed prosperous enough. The old King was dead, killed by Parasurama’s militant Brahmin group. His son ruled the kingdom now. We stayed for one year, as the caste system was not so rigid and we found work. But the local population began to resent the migrants and soon thugs with long sticks and narrow minds began to target all newcomers. What had once been a booming city, soon became stagnant. A gang of thugs once caught me in the street and beat me, calling me a black south Indian. To escape, I tried speaking in the Sanskrit I had picked up in Ayodhya. That proved to be even more dangerous. I was made painfully aware that they hated north Indians even more than south Indians. The city crumbled due to this rampant regionalism and the King seemed helpless.
Once again we journeyed on, and when we reached Gokarna, the city where Mayan had designed and built the grand Shiva temple at the behest of Ravana, we were too tired to move. We decided to stay there for some time, at the edge of a jungle, far away from the city which, as outcastes, we were not allowed to enter. We eked out a living and had slowly got our rhythm back, when Mala caught a fever and died. It was sudden and unexpected, though she had past seventy years. It left a huge void in my heart. I buried her by the river and resumed my walk. I was near Gokarna when I heard the news that the priests had made Rama order the execution of Lakshmana. The younger prince had begun to question many of the rigid and absurd practices decreed by the priests. He had begun to take an interest in governance and found that many of the rules were bizarre and caused sufferings to the common people. The economy was crumbling as skilled labour and artisans began migrating away. The priests waited for their chance to get even with Lakshmana. One day, to their delight, Rama himself gave them the opportunity. A group of holy men had sought a private interview with the King. Lakshmana was instructed by Rama not to allow anyone into his chamber as he had granted an interview to one set of Brahmins. Another Maharishi insisted that he be allowed in. He threatened to curse the entire clan of Rama. Terrified, Lakshmana allowed him in and so angered the other group. They quoted at length from various scriptures and the end result was that Rama ordered the execution of his brother for this ‘grave crime’. Thus ended Lakshmana, the great warrior and slayer of Meghanada; the man who had left his young wife in order to follow his brother into exile for 14 long years; the man who had served his brother with utmost devotion since childhood. All his sacrifice, devotion and love lay at the feet of a man obsessed with his image as a perfect ruler; a man in the control of his advisors; a man who suffered silently and gravely, yet did not dare to cross the lines drawn by his priests.
Asura- Tale of the Vanquished Page 51