‘What are a few days when we are going to be together for eternity, my love?’ he said, wiping away her tears. ‘Wear my ruby ring, look into its red heart and know that my heart beats for you, wherever I may be.’
Devasena nodded, gathering all her inner strength to stop weeping and to send him forth with a smile on her lips. She clenched her hands tightly and felt the ruby press into her flesh, helping her focus her mind. She placed a vermilion tilak on his forehead and waved a lamp before him to ward off evil. ‘Go, glorious warrior, and return to me victorious!’ she said. ‘No destiny or demon can separate us. I understand that you are like an arrow that cannot be called back once released. Complete your task and return to me, my love,’ she said.
Kartikeya gazed at his troops, a conglomeration of devas, ganas, humans and beasts, all of whom had sworn loyalty to him. So many had assembled under his rooster banner, ready to bleed and die for their cause. It was his duty to bring them back home safely to their wives, mothers, sons and daughters.
‘Brave ones!’ he said to them. ‘We have come together to fight for freedom from fear and to preserve the dharmic order. We have vowed to protect our loved ones from the tyranny of the asura regardless of the price we are forced to pay. Your faith in me binds us into an indomitable force, and I swear that I will not let you down. Our army symbolizes humanity’s hope in the future. Our battle will win us a place in the annals of history and in the heroic tales sung by bards. The asura hordes are numberless but we can defeat them with the force of our body and will. Surapadma has remained invincible only because he has not faced this army before. We will show the world that even the demon king can bleed and fall, for he has revealed a fatal weakness—a monstrous ego. This makes him easy to provoke, easy to fool. Let us fight for the innocent, for love and for hope.’
His troops raised fierce war cries and shook their fists and banners over their heads. They clanged their swords against their shields and sounded their war conches.
‘Forward for Muruga! Forward for Kartikeya! Forward for victory against the demon!’
Jagadbhaya’s army streamed out of the fortress like a mighty ocean, brandishing their weapons over their heads. With their numberless chariots, elephants and cavalry, they appeared to cover all of earth’s surface. Simhamukha and Bhanugopa led the asuras in two divisions. Veerabahu and his brothers took on their foes, who exhibited fearsome shapes and mounted a furious attack on the deva army, with tridents, clubs and huge boulders. Veera released his own arrows that assailed the asura prince and destroyed his chariot. Undeterred, Bhanugopa acquired another chariot and unleashed mighty astras against his enemies. Seeing that the battle could not be easily won, Veera boldly jumped onto the enemy’s chariot and pulled it to the ground. But his foe managed to strike Veera’s head with his club before he fell from the chariot. Veera cried out in pain but rose again to fight Bhanugopa, this time supported by four of his brothers. Sura’s son spun like a whirlwind and fought all five, forcing them to exercise every sinew merely to defend themselves. ‘Five of you have joined together in a cowardly attack!’ scoffed Bhanugopa. ‘And your senapati is yet to be seen, perhaps hiding from my might!’
The brothers were forced to retreat when Bhanugopa’s commanders rushed to his aid, bearing banners with emblems of the crocodile, jackal, vulture and wolf. The asura chariots were drawn by swift panthers and were followed by fierce pishachas. Howling and dancing with murderous glee, the asura soldiers attacked with axes, maces, clubs and iron-tipped arrows. They were numerous like the sinners in naraka, and advanced relentlessly to decimate the deva sena. The earth was covered with fallen elephants, horses and soldiers, their bodies crushed, their heads smashed.
The devas could be weakened, wounded, worsted in battle, but not killed, as long as they could revive themselves with amrit. Not so the men who fought for them, led by righteous kings who chose death over dishonour. Their servants and some of the wives had followed in their train, to provide for them, to support them and to tend to the wounded. Now they came running, weeping, breathless in anxiety, looking for the soldiers who had not returned to camp at dusk. However brave they were, however warlike and skilled with weapons, they were blown away like pieces of hay in a whirlwind when confronted by monstrous asuras several times their size. They lay in sodden pools of blood, crushed underfoot like ants in the path of an elephant herd, destroyed beyond recognition. Exhausted, bleeding from a hundred wounds, the deva army stood bewildered and browbeaten. ‘Alas, if Sura’s army is so powerful, how much more potent will he be?’ they moaned. ‘Not a single soldier will survive this war.’
Dusk had brought them a reprieve. The asura army tossed their dead into the seas, turning it murky and red. They retreated to their fortress, lighting torches made of burning bones. The deva sena too retired to their camp to recoup their spirits and tend to their wounds as best as they could. Unlike the asuras, they would send out men to gather their dead and give them a burial or lay them side by side and light makeshift funeral pyres. The battlefield stretched out bleak and barren in the light of the dying sun. Here and there glinted broken shields and clubs, torn banners and flags, and jewels fallen from shattered chests and arms.
The mountain chieftains who had fallen were carried away with much mourning, with bards enshrining their heroism in poetic praise. ‘O king, great father!’ they sang. ‘Your sword was deadly, your chest widened by the many times you pulled your bow taut. The moon shone then, full and glorious, upon our protector who ruled unconquered over our hill. The same moon shines now, a wasted crescent, over our jubilant foes planting their flags on our hill. And we have lost our father.’
The commoners mourned their gallant kings who had feared evil and lived without a taint on their honour. They had fought for their people, not for wealth or fame. Their citizens had prospered, guarded by their ruler’s righteous sceptre. ‘O noble one,’ his subjects wept. ‘You were so brave that not one king would greet you with his sword. You never swore an unjust oath, never feared anyone. Even when Saturn, floating like a giant in the skies, grew dark with clouds, or when comets flamed down to earth, our land stayed green, crops flourished, cows gave birth to beautiful calves. And white jasmine gleamed amidst green leaves. Alas, now no woman will pluck the flower and no dancer will wear it, for they have no joy in their hearts. They have lost their warrior king who mastered men with his valour and his sword. Why do you still bloom, jasmine, wasting your fragrance in our desolate land? Our king’s palace will soon be overrun by bushes, becoming home to wild peacocks and serpents. His golden chariots will lie broken, more numerous than the tears his queens shed.’
‘Our Annadaata never ate alone, not even if he had received the ambrosia of the gods,’ the poor wept. ‘If he had just a little, he shared it with many. If he had more he shared it with many more. But where is he now? Where there was compassion and valour, our lord was there too. He would not bow to the bully or persecute the weak. He never sought a favour or refused one. With him died our hopes and our dreams. Whether he is buried now or burned, it matters not. For we have lost a good man. Because he lived, the world lived.’
Muruga wept with them, his tender heart assailed by grief. Why? Why could the asura not accept their hand in friendship? Why did Surapadma not see that no good could come of this battle? So many righteous men had fallen because of his greed for power, for absolute dominance! Had he forgotten his piety of a thousand years? Did no vestige of goodness remain in his heart now?
He heard his mother’s reply, borne to him by the winds. ‘Alas, the judgement of asuras and gods alike is weakened before disaster strikes. Why else would Ravana steal another’s wife, that too the wife of the avatar? Why would Rama fail to understand that the golden deer he pursued was not real? How could Yudhishthira, son of Dharma, not know that gambling was to be shunned?’
Muruga saw a woman crying over a dying warrior. ‘Your horse did not come back from the battle, though many others did. I knew then that you had fallen, my husban
d. I knew that I would never see you again, blessing our son, touching his head with its curly tuft of hair!’ she wept. ‘I am afraid to cry loudly, fearful that my cries will bring the wolves with bloody fangs rushing to tear out your throat. I yearn to carry you to safety, but alas, your handsome chest is too wide for me to hold or to lift. O Yama, who has taken my man too soon, may you suffer for your injustice. Dear husband, help me so that I can help you. Clasp my arm, it matters not if my bangles break. Let us leave this gory field, away from the mad dance of death. Get up, my beloved, try and walk a little.’ Muruga’s eyes flooded with tears as he summoned his men to bring a litter to carry the soldier to the medicine men who were part of his retinue. They would ease his death even if they could not prevent it. ‘Make sure that none of our wounded lie here, helpless, at the mercy of hyenas and birds of prey,’ he told them.
He saw a mother hobbling to her son, a proud woman whose womb had once been a lair for the tiger that now lay with his chest split open. ‘O Death, come to me,’ she cried, holding his broken body in her arms. ‘O potter, make an urn for his burial. And make it large enough to hold me too.’
He heard the dirges sung by the women who had lost everything they held dear. ‘The jungle spreads and dark plants overrun our homes. Our village is but a desert, bereft of its brave men, and cactus grows where once we raised crops and goats. Nothing is left of our loved ones now, except smouldering ash and bones that we quench with our tears.’
Kartikeya’s soul was in torment. Was it only the asura who had sinned? Had he too not offended heaven by causing so much death and suffering? But Vishnu had told him that sometimes sacrifices were necessary to achieve a noble purpose. But here the sacrifice was being made by numberless innocents who had followed him blindly. And tomorrow . . .
Their spies had told them that Sura himself would lead the asura army the next day. ‘We will make the mooncalf regret the day he strayed into the lion’s den. We will hoist him on the walls of our rampart for the whole world to see!’ Sura had vowed.
A terrible heat engulfed Muruga and he woke up with a start. His tent was burning. Sizzling flames had already burned through the top to show the midnight sky. He ran from his bed to find that the whole camp was on fire. The asuras had shown their vile nature right at the beginning, by killing their enemies while they slept. This had always been the way of the wicked. Had not the Kurus killed all the sleeping warriors in the Pandava camp, and slashed the throats of Draupadi’s five young sons? Muruga heard the dreadful shrieks of burning men and the crazed whinnying of horses trying to break free and flee. War elephants tore through the camp, driven mad by fear, dragging broken chains behind them and trampling the stampeding men. Where were his generals? Why was no one putting out the fire? Muruga ran towards a soldier burning like a torch, beating at the flames with his bare hands in an attempt to put them out. He would save this one man at least, even if it meant that he would be burned too. Alas, he had lost the war, sacrificed his men—all to no avail! This was not the magnificent battle he had imagined. It was instead a slaughter of the innocent . . .
‘Wake up, wake up!’ The voice was shouting in his ear. Frantic arms were shaking his shoulders. Muruga opened his eyes to see Veerabahu bending over him, anxiety writ large on his face. He was lying down . . . why was he on the ground? Had he fainted? What had happened to the soldier who had been on fire? He sat up swiftly and looked around. He was still in his tent and it was not aflame. Rather, it was clear that it had never been touched by fire. There were no tortured cries, no smell of burning bodies, and no smoke choking his throat. It must have been a nightmare conjured up by his oppressed mind. His deepest fears had come to the fore when he was asleep and weakened his spirit.
Muruga hastened out of his tent and saw that all was quiet; his men were asleep, resting their bodies before the fight ahead. But he could not sleep, nor could he shake off the gloom that enveloped him. ‘The asuras are monstrous and will stop at nothing to win,’ he said to Veera, his voice low. ‘They have defeated Yama and Indra in battle and wield occult weapons. If Bhanugopa could not be brought down even by you and your brothers, imagine how powerful his father must be! Sura’s boons from the crescent-wearing god make him invincible. What do we gain by fighting him? Why have we come here to confront him? Is it so that more of our people may lose their fathers, brothers and sons? I toss and turn, unable to sleep, troubled by guilt. A wise leader is one who can see what lies ahead. Perhaps it would be wise at this stage to abandon this ill-fated battle. I have been carried away, perhaps, by the praises of the devas and loyal men like you, and begun to believe that I can win this war. I have been misled into thinking that I am the saviour born to free the earth from evil. But I am not fierce Shiva or Vishnu. I am but a warrior newly minted, who has won a war or two, that too due to the conditions of Brahma’s boon. It is my ego that led me to believe that I could redeem the gods and humanity from Sura’s rule. It is time for us to decide our destiny before it is too late.’ He stared with dull eyes at the wolves and hyenas feasting on the remains that lay on the killing fields.
‘What ails you, dauntless one?’ asked Veera, looking closely at Muruga’s face. ‘This is not the warrior I have seen, the one who killed the demon Krauncha. Or the one who wielded his lance with such aplomb to destroy Taraka. I fear that the Soul Stealer has intruded into your mind, Kartikeya.’
Does he doubt my capacity to win? wondered Muruga. Does he fear that they have placed too great a burden on shoulders too weak to support it? He set aside his doubts and nodded to Veera. He would not allow Sura to affect his mind, already weakened by the losses he had witnessed that day. ‘We will conquer our foes. We can do it together,’ he said, regaining control over himself. As they had planned earlier, he would stay out of the battle until he was needed, allowing the deva army to weaken their foes and minimize their numbers.
It was not yet dawn, but war drums and conches proclaimed that Surapadma had emerged from his fortress with his army of monsters. On his two sides were Atisura and Asurendra, the sons of Taraka and Simhamukha, burning with the desire to avenge Taraka’s death. With him also were the warriors of the one thousand and eight kingdoms under his domain. The soldiers fighting for the devas froze at the sight of fearsome Sura and his multitude. How could they hope to even make a dent in this indomitable force?
Asurendra let fly a thousand arrows that took out the enemies in a crimson swathe. His asura horde shrugged off clubs and maces with impunity and danced forward, hacking off heads and tossing them in the air in play. Veera saw that his men were fleeing before them and threw a huge hill on his foes in retaliation. ‘Stand firm!’ he shouted. ‘Fight for Muruga! Fight for the lord with the rooster banner!’ Focusing his fury on Simhamukha’s son, he weakened him with a shower of astras and arrows. Then he jumped on to Asurendra’s chariot and slashed his arm clean from his shoulder. The asura brought down his mace on Veera’s head but he stepped nimbly to one side and brought down his own mace to smash the asura’s head. In another corner of the battlefield, Atisura met his end at the hands of Shiva’s ganas, led by the mighty bull Nandi.
Veerabahu now turned his attention to Bhanugopa who had evaded him and his brothers the previous day. He invoked the Shivastra, which came to his hand glinting with fierce power. Knowing that he could not counter its ferocity, Bhanugopa fled from the field. The ganas began to chase him, jeering at his retreat, but Veera stopped them. ‘Let us not demean ourselves by attacking him from behind,’ he said.
Then Simhamukha was upon them, burning with the desire to avenge the death of his son and Taraka’s. He attacked Muruga’s generals with his trident, whirled soldiers above his head and smashed them to the ground. He trampled them under his giant feet, crushed them in his mammoth arms and tossed huge boulders to kill the others. His fierce roars made the elephants and horses of his enemies run amuck, causing terror and chaos. When he tired of these attacks, he immobilized them with his sorcery, so they stood helpless before him. Then
he sent forth his luminous noose like a silver snake racing through the air. It bound the devas and their commanders hand and foot and imprisoned them in deep caves atop a hill. Nandi hastened to Kartikeya. ‘Our men are held captive by Sura’s brother and his occult powers. You must rescue them or we will lose the battle today!’
Muruga rushed forth on his chariot, with Vayu as his charioteer. Some of his arrows rained fire on the asuras. Others were serpent astras that twisted around them, biting them and blinding them until they fled in terror. Simhamukha stood alone, wielding weapons in his many hands. But his potency was ineffective against Shiva’s son who destroyed his chariot and sarathi and savaged him with his arrows. Rendered weaponless, bleeding from a thousand wounds, Simhamukha fell at Muruga’s feet and sang praises of the divine Devi, causing Muruga to look upon him with compassion. ‘I will grant you your life, Simha!’ he said. ‘Your devotion to Shakti when you are staring at death gladdens my heart. May you serve as the vaahana of Bhadrakali, my mother’s fierce form.’ At once, Simha was transformed into a glorious lion and he hastened to Kailasa to serve the Devi he had worshipped all his life. Muruga then freed the captive devas and soldiers from the caves so that they could fight once more against their foes.
Surapadma was enraged on seeing his nephews killed and his brother Simha seeking mercy at Muruga’s feet. ‘I will kill this upstart today!’ he swore. ‘I will bring this battle to a gory end, with the heads of the enemies carpeting my path to Mahendrapuri.’ He twanged his bowstring so that it sounded like Shiva’s drums signalling the day of annihilation. The devas shivered as the Soul Stealer devoured their spirit, reducing them to empty husks. But Veerabahu was dauntless and directed the commanders of hundred and eight divisions to attack Sura from all sides. But they fell back screaming as Sura’s occult weapons surrounded them with fierce blue flames. Those who were farther away were still affected by horrifying visions. They saw their wives and children collapsing around them, vomiting blood. Their comrades appeared to them as their enemies and they began attacking one another with rods and clubs. Veerabahu alone stood defiant, sending forth his Shivastra against Sura. But the asura countered it with his own Shivastra. The two weapons collided in the air, and unable to defeat one another, they returned to Shiva. Sura hurled an occult club that struck Veera’s chest and stunned him. His charioteer swiftly carried him away to safety.
Kartikeya and His Battle with the Soul Stealer Page 20