Breaking the Bow: Speculative Fiction Inspired by the Ramayana

by Edited by Anil Menon

  Strange how Zero had never heard Surpanakha calling out to Earth Mother. You had to remember to say “Earth Mother! Please take me in!” the moment you landed on this last of all the squares. If you forgot, it all got cancelled out and you found yourself back to square one. (This ridiculous calling out idea was stolen, as you might have guessed, from Uno). Zero concluded that she must have been asleep at the time when Surpanakha had called out. Unless of course it was Detention Square or Drugs Square that the woman had vanished into. No point wondering really. No point hurling questions at the wilderness. It never felt up to answering.

  Zero cuts the Morrisons’ baguette into three small sections so it would last for three days. This means, of course, that she owns a knife. A small kitchen knife. She owns other things too—after all, she is a queen. Or used to be. Before she became a player. What had she left behind in that empire of hers?

  They had got her the game so she could keep herself amused. She had stepped out with a rucksack and wiped her brow clean of memory. Ever since that bright summer afternoon with its dangerous shadows, she had been inching her way towards the Earth mother’s embrace. Taking mindful little steps. Two steps forward, two steps back, a wee snail with her rucksack. Playing a zero-sum game.

  The wilderness is not a place for women, but this version of the game is. That said, you were at a tremendous advantage if you got to Gender-Shedding Square. It was not essential for the dice to roll that way. But it did make things easier, as it must have for Surpanakha. Clinging on to gender while playing the game was a bit like jumping into a pool with a six-yard saree on. Zero sees that. Zero is smart. One thing she has going for her is the fact that she has made it to Desire-Shedding Square. But greater hope lay in androgyny. Once you had achieved that, you would not, for instance, be stuck in Rape Square. (This was one square that the men’s version did not have—though they must have made up for the lack in other ways.)

  In her rucksack, Zero carries a kitchen knife whose use we have already noted, a ragged man’s jacket rescued from the garbage bin, a file with papers, an empty water bottle and a rope she is not sure of never needing. If something goes wrong with the game and the dice fails to oblige. If she never gets to Earth mother Square. Not that such a thing is likely to happen. But it is best to be prepared for all the what-ifs.

  Someone has scratched the words You are dead on the flattened card board box Zero uses to sleep on. She remembers, just in time, to laugh at the joke. To play along.

  Rain is falling through the canopies of drainpipes and steel frames. You don’t cast shadows in the falling rain. It is great for the game. Zero is worried about her invisibility skills. There is some way to go before she attains perfection. As yet, the tendency to cast shadows and to step out of them, persists.

  There are other aspects of the game that Zero has more or less mastered, certain squares, for instance, she can handle like a pro. Like Finding a Sleeping Place for the Night Square. The women’s version is harder when it comes to this one. Zero has her three favourite places and she rotates them depending on the weather. When she had just started on the game, she would sleep on the floor of a friend’s house or in the garage. But such cocooning is a luxury allowed only to novices and Zero is well past that stage.

  She had found Place One—a mosque—fairly quickly. Very useful when there was heavy snow. Dressed in the man’s jacket (we know where that came from), Zero would join the worshippers for the last prayers, slipping away quietly to shut herself up in a toilet cubicle. Once the lights were off and the building was locked up, it was like being back in her palace. But of course she can’t do that too often. Cross-dressing is risky and so is locking oneself up in a toilet used by those of a sex the opposite of yours. Not the sort of thing for a former queen to be doing. But that is part of the fun.

  Place two was a stairway in a block of flats. That “You are dead” cardboard box is stashed away there.

  Place three was somewhat outdoorsy, located as it is by the outer hedge of a park where Zero keeps a sleeping bag marked “Please don’t take this. Homeless”. In the evenings, the park fills up with teenagers on drugs. Which means that respectable folks give it a wide berth. That is good for Zero.

  The Living Without Money Square is unbeatable as a logistical challenge. And Zero enjoys a logistical challenge just as much as anybody else. Tomorrow she will have to take a bus for her monthly registration with the Home Office. (Or she is out of the game.) But for this, she will need three pounds fifty—the cost of the bus fare. She will have to spend half the value of the voucher before the cashiers at Morrisons’ will give her the change. There is no other way she can lay her hands on cash. Unless Zero chooses to beg, steal or work—but that is against the rules.

  And then there are over a dozen Loneliness Squares. She copes by creating another being inside the cave of her mind, a being with whom she can chatter non-stop. Sometimes the being is a woman. At other times, it is a man. Sometimes it is someone Zero had assumed she had left behind in her empire… Sometimes, it is Surpanakha, her old rival turned co-player. Most often, it is Him—the man who had said those terrible, cold words.

  The square Zero is absolutely terrified of is Dog Square. The dogs in the park are used to her. They leave her alone. It is the other ones -the domestic pets of respectable folks—that she fears. Those ones can sniff out an asylum seeker from miles away.

  Suicide Square is not exactly pleasant either. When you got there, a great urge came over you to do away with yourself. As urges went, it was best to resist this one. If you succumbed, you got thrown out right away. Debarred from the game for life. (It must be emphasized that Suicide Square is altogether different from Earth Mother Square, the few striking similarities notwithstanding.)

  About Toilet Square, the less said the better. This was one thing each player figured for herself. The women’s version was uncompromisingly tough.

  If you had to rank squares in order of difficulty, the Disbelief and Contempt Square would be up there on top. You said persecution. You said rape. You said abuse. The Home office said Tell us about it. And show us: Where are the scars, the wounds, the semen? Or we will just assume you are here to make money or trouble. And of course you no longer had the adjectives and the verbs to tell them about any of that. And may be there were no scars, no wounds, no semen.

  If the Home Office turned you down, you were back to square one.

  Not that Zero was a stranger to Disbelief and Contempt Square. There was the time He had said those terrible, cold words to her:

  “So I have won you back by defeating my enemy; I have acted as a man should, wiped out the insult to my honour, revealed my prowess… Go then with my permission, wherever you may wish. The world is open before you; but I will have nothing to do with you, nor have I any attachment to you any more. How could I take you back, straight from Ravana’s lap?”

  There was the time He had spat the words in her face:

  “You took pleasure in food,

  You didn’t die,

  for all your disgrace

  in the great palace of the devious demon.

  You stayed there, submissive,

  wholly without fear.

  What thought has brought you here?

  Did you imagine that I

  could want you?”

  But that of course had been an older version, pre-dating the Uttara Kanda. Yuddhakanda—that was the name of that game. Its Disbelief and Contempt Square had involved the nuisance of an agnipariksha.

  Back then, the players or the Sitas were expected to walk straight into the flames and emerge unharmed. The best of the Sitas had later claimed that the flames had felt as cool as water. It was a game with no dull moments.

  The good thing about landing in Disbelief and Contempt Square was that you were just two tantalizing squares away from Earth Mother Square. Sooner or later, the dice was bound to roll out the right numbers. And that was you—all saf
e and dry and taken care of.

  Sooner or later, Zero would be safe and dry and taken care of. If not, if the dice did not behave as it ought and if she never made it to Earth Mother Square, there was always the comforting thought of the rope that lay coiled and twisted in the depths of her rucksack.

  It was an unbeatably sexy, roller- coaster ride of a game. A game with a last square. Or a rope. A game that ended. A story that never did.

  Notes:

  Quotes are from (respectively):

  Chinnaswami Sastrigal and V.H. Subrahmanyam eds. Srimad Valmiki Ramayana (Madras: N. Ramaratnam, 1958) 118. 2–5.

  Kopala Kirusnamacariyar Vai. Mu Kamparamayanam. VI. 37. 62. Madras. 1971.

  Day of the Deer

  Lavanya Karthik

  On her last day in hiding, she steps out of the hut she has called home for eleven years, to find Lakshmana weeping in his sleep. He lies by the threshold on a thin reed mat, arms folded close to his body, his face wet with tears. What does he see, she wonders; what demons confront him?

  Outside, the forest celebrates dawn. Birds go about their noisy business, monkeys chatter overhead. A cool breeze makes the tree spirits hum in contentment, and the air holds the promise of rain. Inside, Rama seems happy, a smile grazing his lips as he sleeps. She gazes at this face she has loved for so long, these arms that have held her these long hard years, this chest that has cradled her head, and thinks of the war that is to come.

  It begins with a deer.

  She is five on that hot day in grishma, and alone in the Dandaka forest, where her father has brought her on his annual visit to the hermitage. She has endured a day of discourses, meditation and lessons, and finds herself rewarded with momentary freedom as the heat and the midday meal take their toll on everyone. In quick succession, her father, the sages and even her maids slip into slumber. When the deer appears, she is ready.

  Its pelt is a glimmer of gold between the trees as it leads her deep into the forest. Does she notice how the trees lean towards her as she passes, caressing her gently with their limbs? Does she know that the forest creatures flock to the trees along her path just to watch her? Does she know that the man who waits for her under the ancient banyan is rumoured to have ten heads and is feared in three worlds?

  “Greetings, devi,” Ravana says, rising to meet her. “I know who you really are.”

  What do you do when you are five and a complete stranger tells you that your whole life is a lie? That your parents are not your own, your history mere fiction, your very appearance an illusion? And what do you do when he tells you of the subterfuge he will help you maintain for the first half of your life?

  You smile in relief that someone finally shares your secret.

  Someone stirs behind her. It is Lakshmana, already washed and cleansed of the night’s grime.

  She watches him go through the rigours of his morning exercise, then complete the chores he has set for himself—the collecting of firewood, the milking of the cow, the weeding of the vegetable garden he lovingly tends behind the hut. Then, when he is bathed and his brother beside him—only then will he eat his morning meal.

  This boy I will miss, she thinks. This man who has been like a son to me.

  But what of his brother?

  Now she is married. She stays with her adoptive parents until she is of age, then moves to Ayodhya. She likes this boy she must call husband—Prince Rama, beautiful as the forest in spring, calm as the afternoon sea. And she worries for what she must do now.

  “I am afraid,” she whimpers.

  “I will be alone.”

  “You will not,” Ravana smiles. “We have our allies everywhere.”

  “But you won’t be there!” she whines. “How will you train me for battle? How will I know what to do when the time comes?”

  “Be patient, devi,” says Ravana. “Time is like the ocean. Stay steady on the shore, and your destiny will be washed right to your feet.”

  She is dutiful wife and cherished daughter-in-law, adored by the kingdom and blessed by the gods. She learns the ways of the people she now belongs to, listens in on conversations and waits. Most of all, she studies the man she is meant to vanquish in battle.

  Her mothers-in-law—for she has three—love her. It is in one of them that she finds an ally, one who tells her the old stories, of a time when the earth was a free- spirited young woman and the sky and sea vied for her attention. She tells of a time when the forest folk—the true people—shepherded the earth, tending to her forests and waters, in return for her generous bounty.

  “But then the invaders came,” the woman says. “With their brick cities, their armies and their crafty gods. And they pillaged the earth—razed her forests, sullied her waters, and drove the forest folk out of their homes.”

  She recounts the story of the Samudra Manthan—the great churning of the ocean to draw forth nectar. “It was supposed to have been shared by their gods and ours, as a symbol of their equality. But again—trickery. Our people were turned away, cheated of what was rightfully theirs.”

  “Why didn’t the earth help?” She is indignant. “Why didn’t the sky and the sea and the tree spirits gather together and drive out these invaders?”

  “Because war was not—is not—in their nature. Nor the cunning that the invaders’ gods possess.” The woman stops and smiles. “Until now.”

  “Tell me the story again.”

  “The earth has gifted a saviour to her true people, one who will lead them in victory against the invaders. Only she knows better than to make this gift openly, in front of the scheming pantheon that they cherish. No, this is a gift that will stay in safekeeping, waiting and learning, until it is ready to fulfill its destiny. “

  “Where?” How she loves this story, its well-worn strands her only tie to the rich and mysterious—yet fragile -legacy she has been sent to defend.

  “The last place the invaders will think to look for her. Among their own kind.”

  She prepares their mid day meal, though she knows it will stay un eaten. She sweeps the house and courtyard, mends a crack in the mud wall and feeds the chickens.

  She waits.

  She cannot help but wonder if she is mistaken.

  “He is gentle and wise, mother,” she confides. “He does not share the cruel nature of his people. What if we are wrong? What if we could change his mind, and that of his people without war?”

  “Give him time, devi. His true nature will surface when called upon.”

  “What then? I am far from prepared. You expect me to lead my people against him in battle? How?”

  A year later, she finds herself banished from the kingdom with Rama and Lakshmana, so that their brother might rule.

  “Thank you, mother,” she says to her friend, who has single-handedly orchestrated this move. “But people will hate you for this. And your son will never forgive you.”

  “I do it for you, devi,” mother Kaikeyi replies. “For you and our mother, and all her true children.”

  Rama seems happy today. He sits in the courtyard, stringing his bow and humming to himself. He talks of the fruit trees he plans for the backyard, of the rain he smells in the air, the bear cubs he saw the other day on his way back from the hermitage.

  He catches her watching him and smiles. “I dreamt of Ayodhya,” he says. “I saw her become the mightiest kingdom in the world, her roads paved with gold, her boundaries stretching from the mountains to the sea.” He looks out across the courtyard at the magnificent vision he describes. “I shall make it my dharma to make this dream come true.”

  She turns away, unable to bear what lurks in his face.

  They are a great team, the two brothers and she; they set up house in Dandaka with enthusiasm, and begin the long wait for their exile to end.

  The forest welcomes her. She feels renewed, replenished, as she has ever been in the city. She finds, in the steady hum of t
he earth, the unvarying rhythms of the seasons, the clockwork lives of the forest creatures, a reaffirmation of her ties to the earth.

  One night, as her companions sleep, a golden deer leads her back to her teacher.

  “You fight like a girl,” he teases after their first session. “Didn’t I teach you anything?”

  “I am softened by the palace, Ravana” she complains as her body resists the rigors of martial training.

  “Combat,” he replies, “is as much here as here.” He points to his forehead, then his arm. “Now lift that elbow, devi, plant your foot square and try not to trip on your sword again.”

  This becomes her life, this unending sequence of placid days and furtive nights and she enjoys it at first. She slips a sleeping draught into the brothers’ food each evening before she sets out to meet her teacher. She understands her role in this great game that she is a part of; plays it well, covers her tracks with ease. She reminds herself of the oppression she will end, the destruction she will stem. She looks at Rama and sees the ones who came before—Manu, maker of laws that had made her people all but invisible; Ikshvaku, crazed marauder and slayer of rakshasas; Dasaratha. Invaders.

  Yet, there are moments—when Rama smiles into her eyes or laughs his boyish laugh; when the two brothers banter or play pranks on her; when Rama sits up all night with her head in his lap as she fights a fever—yes, there are moments when she wants to be wrong.

  “Your love is your only hurdle,” Ravana observes when she voices her doubts. “But it is a hurdle you must cross alone.”

  “He is no monster.”

  “Give him time and reason,” he says, eerily echoing Kaikeyi. “He will be.”

  Lakshmana seems pensive. He keeps to himself; perhaps his dream troubles him. Any other day, she would have coaxed his worries out of him, teased, cajoled and bullied him until he broke into a smile. Today, she desists.