by David Hair
The Darya-creature was alive!
Surpanakha fled on limbs still twisted and broken from her last encounter with Deepika. She conjured shadowy wings that blurred on her back, allowing her to bound in long floating strides, as she tore from the parking lot and ran into the first alley she could find. A boy on a bicycle appeared before her and she flung him against the wall, slammed over a water-stand and a motorbike, and leapt over a fence. She had to find a place, somewhere where she could gain thirty seconds respite and open a gateway out of this world.
Three seconds later, she heard someone vault the fence behind her.
She spun, and snapped off a shot. She knew even as she fired that it would miss. There was a blurred shape behind her, a deep ebony mass with wild hair and many arms, like a huge graceful bipedal spider matching her every stride.
Surpanakha ripped through a fence and into a trash-strewn garden, kicking a servant hanging clothes against a wall. She heard the washerwoman’s ribs snap, hoped against hope that her pitiless pursuer might stop to help the stricken woman, and leapt the next fence. A child looked up at her and screamed. She scooped it up and turned, pressing her savage nails into the child’s throat.
The fence behind her shattered in a hail of splintered wood, as a black shape burst through it.
‘Stop!’ she snarled. ‘Stop, or the child dies!’
A face carved in ebony with blazing eyes and almost luminous fangs contemplated her savagely. A nimbus of fiery hair glowed about her like a halo. When she opened her mouth, her voice rumbled like a great cat, a snarl with no words in it.
‘I mean it!’ Surpanakha snarled, though all she felt was terror. ‘Another step and I’ll rip the little brat’s throat out.’ Her voice sounded shrill and desperate to her ears. ‘Get that into your head, you insane bitch!’
That ghastly, gorgeous face spat at her. But she stopped advancing.
‘Deepika Choudhary,’ Surpanakha called, to the girl behind the goddess. ‘You have to control that monster inside you. I can show you! You and I, we can work together! You know we can! We’re so alike!’
The darkness drained from Deepika’s face.
Yes, loosen your grip on that hideous energy, and I can escape …. Or even take you down …
‘Remember your humanity, Deepika! For this innocent child’s sake. You must learn control!’ Surpanakha poised herself, trying to decide: fight or flee?
From behind her came a deep throaty coughing sound.
A tiger the size of a horse leapt the fence, and growled, making the ground tremble. It fixed on her, its glorious coat rippling in the sunlight, as it bared six-inch teeth and pawed the earth of the humble yard. The intelligence in its eyes shone, but the menace in its stance stole the strength from her limbs.
It isn’t possible.
When she turned back, Deepika Choudhary had changed again, into something else, another being. The madness was gone. But neither humanity nor pity had returned. There would be no escape. Surpanakha felt her knees wobble, had to hold on to the child hostage for support momentarily. But then she remembered herself.
I am sister of the Ravan himself …
The child in her grasp looked up at her. She contemplated its innocent, frightened face, and the future it may have. Pathetic. She flung it against the wall, and roared defiantly. ‘Kill me if you can!’
Dancing in the Rain
Lanka, May-June 2011
Rasita lay on her back tangled in silk sheets, gazing up at the painted couples on her ceiling mural as they played out their passions. The painting was in the eighteenth century style of the Hamzanana, and changed moment to moment, like an animated cartoon. Its current theme seemed to be the Kama Sutra. Where previously the painted people on her ceiling had been decorous and courtly, for the last few nights they had changed. It had begun since she talked to Ravindra last, and then woke after a steamy dream of herself as Sunita Ashoka with one of her men. When she woke, her ceiling was covered with painted lovers, twined about each other in dreamlike motion. Some nights she couldn’t sleep, could only lie in her sweat and try not to melt.
When she complained to Kaineskeya, the little maid had just given a throaty laugh. ‘You’re the one they take inspiration from, mistress.’ She had blushed scarlet, to the maid’s huge amusement.
Nothing she tried made them change. She began to dread looking up. She couldn’t make them go away. Nor would her dreams let her be, in which Sunita Ashoka’s romances kept replaying over and over again, and the actress had been anything but chaste. Rasita felt like she was drowning. The temperature of the palace was searing hot in the sun, and even in the shade, the heat seemed to linger oppressively. She asked for a ceiling fan, and instead was sent a muscular Asura servant with a huge punkah. She sent him away when she could no longer bear to stare at the servant’s muscles as they rippled whilst he plied his fan.
Ravindra is torturing me gently.
Her dinners with him had become a delicious torment. They were daily now, as he had despatched the other queens. As her longing for physical contact grew, Ravindra took every opportunity to kiss her cheek in greeting, to touch her hand whilst guiding her to a seat, and his clothing became looser, more revealing, as did the outfits he sent to her.
Only one conviction held her sane. And it wasn’t that she was waiting for Vikram—the hopes that he would save her were receding. She still seethed that he had kissed Sue Parker, and may have slept with her. It is all right for boys, she thought bitterly. For a boy to be experienced is seen as good—but for a woman it is wrong. It was unfair.
Nor did she hold herself back for lack of desire. She could not look at Ravindra now without aching to reach out. Her memories now included those of Halika’s who had always desired the Ravan. She caught herself allowing him to stroke her arm, or putting herself in his way. He was charming, he was knowledgeable. He was dangerous, but she might tame him. He was bad, but that was exciting. She drank more than she had previously allowed herself, some night weaving back to her chambers more than slightly tipsy.
But she kept herself strong for Deepika, still clinging to the faint, instinctive hope that she was alive.
She had been thinking it all through. The other queens had been used up—they had fulfilled their role in Ravindra’s Mandore ritual, and now their souls had been absorbed into hers: Halika’s twisted passions, Aruna’s earthiness, Jyoti’s wayward soul. Though physically she was whole now, mentally she was teetering on a precipice of insanity, drowning in a sea of other identities. She knew that the clock was running down—Dusshera was coming, yes, but more urgently, she could feel her rationality evaporating under the conflicting identities within her.
If Ravindra’s tales, and Halika’s memories were true, then she and Deepika were the final parts of the soul of the sorceress-queen Manda—the Mandodari of the Ramayana. They were more than sisters: they were parts of the same being. If she succumbed to Ravindra, would that destroy Deepika, her brother’s fiancée? She couldn’t imagine the implications of giving herself to Ravindra—they were too complex and far-reaching. But to risk the destruction of her brother’s true love was a line she would not cross.
Though she had seen Ravindra wound Deepika and then the earth swallow her up in Panchavati, Ras was increasingly convinced that Deepika was alive, and looking for her. It was just an instinct, but she believed in it. She would not give up until proven wrong.
The days and weeks wore on. She had lost track, but little Keke told her that it was early June. The monsoon would come soon, and there would be huge celebrations. The maid skipped gaily just at the thought. ‘You will have such fun, mistress. We must prepare a new sari for you, one that will win the heart of the king.’
She could never tell whether Keke was a wicked or an innocent thing. She was like a sly child that kept licking the honey spoon despite being told she couldn’t. She was feral yet girlish, her only friend here. Except for Ravindra.
One morning she woke from another languid dream,
naked in the damp sheets, and heard the sound of falling rain. Keke danced into her chamber, seized her hands and pulled her up. ‘Mistress, mistress, the monsoon has begun!’
She pulled on a kameez and Keke pulled her out on to their balcony, where she let the maid draw her into a dance. Keke’s honey eyes were glowing, her horns gleaming on her brow. All about the palace, she could see others dancing, half-naked Rakshasas prancing and laughing. Below in the city horns blew, the Asuras were thronging the squares in their thousands, tossing coloured powder like at the Holi festival.
The rain tumbled from the sky, and Keke cupped her hands, filling them with water. She gave a laugh, and tossed both handfuls into the air. Rasita gasped as the balls of water glowed from inside and remained formed, as the demon-maid juggled them, giggling mischievously. She added two more, her tongue stuck sideways from her mouth as she concentrated. Rasita backed away slightly, feeling a strange sense of wonder.
Keke tossed her a ball of glowing water and she caught it, more by instinct than thought. It felt like jelly. She tossed it in the air, and caught another Keke threw, and another, and tossed them in a circle. Her hands blurred, her mouth open, not quite believing. She felt suddenly giddy, frightened and joyous at once.
‘How are you doing this?’ Ras squealed.
‘I’m not, any more,’ Keke laughed. ‘You are!’
She froze. All four balls splashed to the wet slate floor. Ravindra stepped on to the balcony.
Ravindra ran his eye down her wet kameez, making her hug herself closer. ‘You look lovely, my dear,’ he smiled.
She ignored that. She had too much else to think about. With an imperious gesture, she flicked her hand so that droplets sprayed about her, and then with the slightest mental exertion, made the droplets hang in the air. She looked at them, pictured a circle, and they begun to spin about each other lazily.
The effort made her tremble.
‘Ahhh,’ said Ravindra. ‘I wondered when this would happen.’
She exhaled, and let the droplets plink to the wet floor. She stepped into her lounge, and slumped into a chair as dizziness threatened. ‘What do you mean “when this would happen”?’ she asked dazedly.
‘Your soul-sister Deepika was manifesting such abilities already, as we both know. Also, you have absorbed the essences of three other queens, including Halika who was a powerful sorceress. It was only a matter of time.’ His voice contained a rich thread of hope. ‘You are regaining yourself, my Manda, a little more every day.’
She pulled the wet tangle of hair from her face, and rubbed it, trying to clear her head. ‘You mean I can do magic now? How is that possible? It has never happened before.’
Ravindra sat down opposite her. He was naked to the waist and his golden skin was soaked and stained with a rainbow of vivid dyes. Evidently he had been dancing with his people. ‘In the past your soul has been too divided to function fully. Whereas I have reports down the ages of the Darya-soul manifesting such powers on occasions, though in an untutored and uncontrolled way.’
Rasita remembered Deepika as she had last seen her—a ferocious uncontrollable force akin to the Goddess Kali. She shuddered slightly. ‘Why does Deepika manifest that … thing … when you said she was the Protective Aspect?’
‘The Protective Aspect stands at the tipping point, the fulcrum between Creation and Destruction. When these are in harmony, life is preserved and maintained. Too much destruction and they fall apart. Too much creation and nothing changes. The result is stasis in either case. But Deepika’s internal harmony was destroyed by her soul’s suffering down the ages, thus she manifested destruction more keenly. It resembles Kali because she is a Hindu in this life—if she had believed in other gods, she would have manifest as them.’
‘You’re the one that made her lives miserable,’ Rasita reminded him sharply. This felt too cosy. She stood and backed away. ‘Now go, please. I must bathe before I catch a chill.’
Ravindra rose, and bowed ironically. ‘I acknowledge that it was I that made her suffer. But together, we can end that suffering. She was not a happy person. She was angry, frightened, and she longed to be whole just as you do.’
Rasita bowed her head miserably. Her belief that Deepika was somehow still alive seemed a childish hope. ‘How can I be made whole? Will I still be me?’
Ravindra paused, watching her carefully. ‘Once I have found the Darya spirit, it can be reunited with you. I need your heartstone, ideally, but perhaps we can make do without. We must … achieve consummation. This will make you whole. A new Manda who is all of you will emerge. You will still be you, Rasita, but better in every way.’
‘And you?’
He tilted his head curiously. ‘What are you asking?’
She leaned forward. ‘If Manda is made whole, need you and Vikram still fight? And what of my brother, who has lost his fiancée? What of him?’
Ravindra bit his lip. ‘The restoration of Manda will mean that the victor of Vikram and I will live forever, and the other perish forever. That is what I believe. As for your brother, I am sorry, it is too late. Deepika is already dead. Her ghost will come here, soon, as demanding as Padma. But you are promised to me, and so she will join with you as one. Any day, she will come. And remember this, lady. Manda was my eternal love, and we worshipped each other. Dasraiyat was a would-be-adulterer whom Manda worked with, but never loved.’
‘I have only your word on that. What if she loved him, and not you?’
He clenched his fists, and his breath went short. ‘I did not lie.’ Abruptly he turned and strode away.
She sat shivering on the chair, mourning Deepika anew.
That day the entire city danced, and in the evening there was a feast. Rasita was seated at Ravindra’s right hand and treated as a queen. The Rakshasa minstrels sang new songs to her, adaptations of Bollywood film songs, she was sure. She found herself enjoying the spectacle. But she still had the strength to go back to her own rooms that night. She had maybe a little too much wine, but she felt wide awake, and not at all tempted by Ravindra’s hungry looks. Well, not too much. She had other things in mind.
She stared up at the ceiling. The mural on the ceiling no longer depicted lovers.
It depicted magicians.
The next day, Keke took her to a tower she had never been to. Old books were clumped in corners and a dusty crystal ball glowed. A Baital watched from a perch hung from the ceiling, and decks of tarot cards were scattered about the huge oaken desk.
An old Rakshasa like a bipedal gecko in loose robes with insect eyes that reminded her of a disco ball crept slowly from the shadows. She knew him. ‘Hail, my Queen,’ Lavanasura lisped. ‘Ravan Aeshwaran has decreed—it is time for your training to begin.’
My Least Significant Life
Sri Lanka, June 2011
If Amanjit stood his ground he would be flattened.
If he didn’t, the rhinoceros Rakshasa would go right over Vikram.
An idea flashed through his mind—he could not say whether it was from an action movie or some residue of a past life, but the image and the idea were clear. He knelt and jammed an arrow fletching-first into the ground, and spoke a word. ‘Spear.’
It wasn’t a magic word, but that wasn’t the point. It was merely the vocalization of his will. The arrow grew into a spear instantly. He gripped it, lowering the point towards the charging demon-beast. The stone-skinned creature thundered towards him, nose down, the rhinoceros horn jutting wickedly. He crouched, and aligned the spear with the charging creature’s right shoulder. Then he jammed his right foot into the ground behind the butt of his weapon.
The Rakshasa steamed towards him, its eyes fixed like this was a deadly game of ‘chicken’. Amanjit gritted his teeth, resisting the instinct to evade. But at the last instant, it was the demon that jerked away. Amanjit followed its movement with the spear-tip, catching the thing inside the right shoulder. The spear punched through the heavy skin and found flesh. The demon screamed and wrenched
sideways, rolling in a storm of dirt and dust and torn-up grass. The spear was torn from Amanjit’s grasp. He cursed at not having thought to empower the spear further, but drew his bow and cautiously stalked the wounded demon.
It rose on hind legs shakily, and with an agonized effort, broke the spear shaft in its shoulder. The spearhead was left inside. Its breathing was laboured, as it swayed. ‘I will kill you before I die,’ it hissed wetly.
‘Sure you will.’ Amanjit glanced about. No other Rakshasa had followed them through the disintegration of the Sri Lankan mythland. Just this one. We don’t want it warning Ravindra that we’re free. He circled warily towards it, trying to assess its remaining threat.
Maybe I should just shoot it?
‘You could have killed us, when we passed out back in Vibhishana’s palace,’ he commented.
The stone-rhino spat blood. ‘We would have, if we could. But we could not get close enough. The myth-creatures would not let us get closer, even though they did not know our intention.’
‘Vibhishana didn’t know you were there?’
‘That imbecile was not Vibhishana. Not the real Vibhishana. That travesty you met was just a folk memory, a construct of the mythlands.’ The Rakshasa blew a bloody bubble from its mouth and staggered. ‘Your spearhead has lodged in my lungs. I am doomed.’ He eyed the bow. ‘Draw your sword. Kill me cleanly.’
‘Too risky,’ Amanjit said. He raised the bow.
‘Wait, wait! Don’t you want to know the name of he that you have slain?’
‘Why, are you famous?’ Amanjit searched his conscience, but felt no sympathy for the creature. He took aim, guessing where the stone-beast’s heart might be, and what arrow might be most effective. ‘Are you a rock star?’ he asked harshly. ‘One of the Rolling Stones, maybe? Or should I just call you “Pebbles”, from the Flintstones?’
The Rakshasa growled weakly. ‘Mock me not, human. I am of a nobler kind than thou! My name is—’