RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Mandodhari led the shaking rakshasi to the eastern wall, where the Pushpak had anticipated her need by producing a variety of seating arrangements, all as soft, comfortable and luxuriant as the rest of the apartment. Mandodhari deliberately ignored them all and seated herself on the soft pelt-covered floor itself, seating Trijata before her.

  ‘There, there,’ she said. ‘Calm down, little mother.’ Among rakshasis, a sakhi played a multitude of roles: starting as daimaas at the princess’s birth, then acting as playmates, companions, chaperones, aunts to her children, and even surrogate mothers when required. A rakshasa was given free choice of all his wife’s sakhis—just as she was given free choice of all his brothers as well as friends. It was yet another mark of Trijata’s uniqueness that she had never been touched by the prolific Ravana, otherwise so generous with his seed. Vikata, of course, was a favourite. Of all her sakhis, Trijata was the only one who had been in place even before Mandodhari’s birth, a daimaa—wet nurse, nanny and governess—to her and later, when her mother died prematurely in a battle against mortals, all but a mother.

  ‘It was a very bad one, was it?’

  ‘That it was, milady,’ Trijata said between gasps, for Mandodhari’s touch and kind words had provoked a fresh outburst of the tears that the ageing sakhi always had a plentiful supply of. ‘But it was not so much the fearsomeness of the dream-vision that affrighted me. It was the fact that it concerned you.’

  Mandodhari’s throat clenched. ‘Me?’ she managed to say aloud. ‘You have seen visions concerning me before, little mother. What could be so fearsome about this one?’

  ‘It was a dream of the ending, milady. The ending of Lanka.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Mandodhari’s heart eased a little. She thought she knew what Trijata’s dream was about. ‘It has been a long time since you saw that dream again. But it is past now, my dear one. Thirteen years have elapsed since Lanka’s ending. This is the new Lanka now. A better, brighter Lanka.’

  ‘Nay, milady,’ the old rakshasi said. ‘You mistake my words. I do not speak of the old burning, the destruction that happened thirteen years ago. That was naught compared to this new ending that is soon to befall us.’

  ‘A new ending?’ Mandodhari looked at each of the other sakhis. None of them had said very much since entering, except to whisper soothing words and sounds to their companion. Only Vikata stood with her back to them all, staring angrily at the lotus bed, as if it was somehow to blame for this whole mess. To Vikata, everything was a mess and would remain that way forever.

  Trijata’s voice was little more than a whisper, growing softer with each sentence, as if the old rakshasi was running out of breath. ‘Aye, milady, a new ending. This new ending will be the last one. An end of days. When it comes upon us, the Lanka of the rakshasa races will be gone forever.’ She paused to gasp for breath, as if remembering that she required air to sustain herself.

  ‘And it will be brought about by the new wife your husband has taken for himself.’

  ‘New wife?’ Mandodhari stared at the old sakhi. ‘What are you talking about? What new wife?’

  Vikata made a sound of exasperation, hawked and spat into the lotus pool. Mandodhari hardly noticed. Her full attention was riveted to Trijata. The sakhi’s last words had chilled her to the bone. Even the touch of the morning sunrise falling upon her skin felt suddenly ashen and icy.

  Trijata turned her eyes away, as if unable to meet Mandodhari’s gaze. ‘The mortal woman he keeps in the top of the tower,’ she said. Her eyes were gazing upwards, not avoiding Mandodhari’s, but pointing. ‘The mortal woman—’ she said. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she went into a trance. Mandodhari had seen this happen before and braced herself. Trijata’s hands shot out, gripping Mandodhari’s wrist and forearm in a vice-like grip. Despite her weakened condition and age, the withered hands were very strong, strong enough to snap Mandodhari’s strong, healthy arm. But the old sakhi meant her mistress no harm; the grasping was a means to communicate her vision to Mandodhari. Usually when this happened, the sakhi’s voice spoke directly into Mandodhari’s head. But this time it was different. This time, instead of a voice speaking words, Mandodhari began seeing the vision itself. It began with flashes of shocking lucidity, electrifying in their sharpness and immediacy. It was as if she were the one having the vision. Not a dream, for that suggested a bleary, dimly glimpsed suggestion of some inscrutable picture. No, this was like seeing the future unfold before her very eyes, experiencing it with all her senses. She could hear things, sounds, voices … smell the odours … it was real enough to touch, if she only reached out and caught …

  TEN

  She was standing on the peak of Mount Nikumbhila, before the ancient mandir, the Shiva temple that she had visited so

  religiously all the days of her life since coming here to Lanka. She had her back to the temple entrance but within its dark stone interior, the bells were ringing madly, furiously, continually. As if the end of the world had come and the Destroyer had assumed his final avatar of Nataraj the Dancer. And was dancing the final dance at the end of time, the Tandav. She could hear the bells on his ankles chiming as his feet stamped the stone floor, hear the dumroo-drums clattering and the larger dhol-drums pounding, pounding like the swollen heart within her breast, sending blood fleeing through her veins. She could feel the grass beneath her naked feet, wet and splintery, the blades cutting her bare soles like a bed of knives, feel the earth writhing underfoot, as if worms and insects were abandoning their nests within the soil in a hopeless attempt to flee the coming destruction of the universe. The scent of marigold flowers hung thick and cloying in the still morning air.

  The time of day was before dawn, so early enough that the sun had not yet appeared on the eastern horizon, but its arrival was imminent. The island of Lanka lay sprawled before her like a great green rug, rolling and undulating over its many hills and valleys, forests and dales, brooks and lakes, all wreathed in a fine porous mist, like steam rising from a dish of boiled rice. Behind her, the drums pounded, the bells rang incessantly like a maddened bull in heat, and the Destroyer’s feet thumped and slapped the stone floor in that final dance at the end of time.

  A light rose in the sky and she thought it must be daybreak. Something was obstructing her vision and she tried to brush it away, then was surprised to find that it was a ghunghat, a bride’s veil, hanging over her brow. She happened to glance down and was surprised to find that she was bedecked in full bridal garb. She felt the weight of heavy jewellery upon her limbs, jewellery that had not been there a moment ago, the same traditionally ornamented gold jewellery that she had worn on her marriage day to Ravana, those many years past. A chill ran through her body. If this was Trijata’s dream, and Mandodhari only an observer of that dream, then how could she, Mandodhari, have changed her garb to this wedding jewellery and trousseau outfit?

  But the vision commanded her full attention and rational thought fled her like a bird in a gale. After that she gave herself over to the dream and thought no more.

  Clouds boiled and rolled in the sky before her, above the Nikumbhila valley, and within the seething firmament was something that emitted a blazing white light. A light so fierce, she had to shield her eyes. Just as she did so, the clouds parted, and a great chariot stood revealed, riding across the sky itself. Not like the Pushpak, for the celestial vehicle was a sky-chariot in name more than form, but a normal wheeled chariot drawn by horses.

  It was carved entirely of ivory, pristine white and intricately patterned but still unmistakably a war chariot, a vehicle designed to carry a monarch into battle. The face of the sun god, Suryadeva, was carved into each side of the chariot, and the chattri, the overhanging cupola above the chariot well, was shaped like a sun whose rays descended to the four corners of the earth. The chariot was driven by a mortal male, a man neither very young nor old, his face displaying great strength of character and purpose, and a hint of cruelty. Standing beside him, holding a great bow in one hand
and bearing a sword in a scabbard at his waist, was a man with skin so dark it was almost blueish in tint. This man’s face was wondrous to behold, like that of a great enlightened seer or of Lord Vishnu the Preserver portrayed in Lankan religious artworks with his customary nidra-yoga gaze, neither asleep nor awake. His skin caught the light in a manner that gave the illusion of light issuing from his very being. She could almost see motes of light floating from the pores of his blue skin.

  There was a slight resemblance between the two men, and she at once knew, as one knows in dreams, that they were the brothers Rama Chandra and Lakshman, sons of the late King Dasaratha, princes of Ayodhya. The chariot rode on, turning in the sky like any ordinary chariot might turn at a bend in the road, and continued in the direction of Ayodhya. A conchshell trumpet sounded from somewhere nearby, issuing an alarum that was taken up and repeated by other unseen conches near and far, and she saw the blue-skinned, effulgent Rama take up the bow and fix an arrow to it, aiming directly at the white tower that rose above the city. From somewhere far below, the sound of an unseen army rose, roaring an unfamiliar battle cry. It was not a mortal army, she knew that from the sound itself, but neither could she could tell what manner of soldiers it comprised. All she knew was that it was vast in number and was pressed to action for a righteous cause.

  Abruptly then, as happens in dreams, the vista before her changed. Suddenly she was gazing upon a white mountain rising above the ocean. Atop the mountain’s peak was a mortal woman dressed all in white, in the fashion that Mandodhari herself favoured, flowing silks in undulating layers. The mortal woman was very beautiful but very sad. Then a mortal male appeared from nowhere, stepping out of thin air onto the mountain. First his foot appeared, then his entire leg, then the rest of him became visible. It was the same mortal who had been riding the ivory chariot, leading the army against Lanka. Rama. He came to the woman and they embraced with great passion, and dazzling white light blazed out at their union, blinding her.

  When she could see again, Rama, Lakshman and Sita were standing before an enormous, white four-tusked elephant that stood in the empty sky. They were all clad in brilliant white now. Rama helped Sita mount the enormous, four-tusked elephant that was standing in the sky, then climbed on beside her. Lakshman took his place behind his brother and sister-inlaw. The elephant carried them up through the heavens. Sita rose up in her seat and stroked first the sun and then the moon reverentially, the way one might stroke a stone idol while bathing it with milk-kheer and curds. The elephant took them to Lanka, and somehow it transformed into the ivory chariot that had appeared before, but Mandodhari saw now that it had the sun carved onto one side and the moon on the other, and it was drawn not by white horses but by eight white bulls.

  Then, without a break, she saw Ravana. He had been riding in the Pushpak and she saw him at the moment that he fell from the celestial vehicle. He fell to the ground, and she saw that he was dressed all in black and was unconscious. A woman began dragging him away. Before she could see who the woman was, the scene changed and she saw Ravana, this time bearing a garland of red flowers and riding a ramshackle chariot drawn by asses. The chariot’s wheels were mired in mud and it was struggling to make its way southwards. Then she saw a dark-skinned woman clad in red ochre, smeared in mud and dirt as if she had just wrestled with Ravana and won, dragging the lord of Lanka by a cord strung around his thick neck. Then, in quick succession, she saw Ravana riding a boar, her eldest son Indrajit riding a crocodile, and her brother-in-law Kumbhakarna on a camel, all riding south. Of her younger son Akshay Kumar, there was no sign.

  She saw Lanka, resplendent and beautiful as it had become under her regency, filled with its rakshasa inhabitants enjoying a great celebration. There was music everywhere and flowers, everyone wore garlands and drank the oils of intoxication and danced gaily. All the rakshasis of Lanka were drunk on oil. They danced and danced and laughed drunkenly, hysterically, and suddenly Lanka was all ablaze, the proud, beautiful structures turning to ash instantly. To escape, Kumbhakarna and the other rakshasa leaders of Ravana’s court ran howling and jumped wildly—falling into a giant pit of dung. The rakshasis screamed and tore their breasts and pulled their hair out in bloody clumps while the entire island crumpled and sank into the ocean and was swallowed up entirely.

  And then she was back on the pelt-carpeted floor of her bower, her hand clutched tight by Trijata, the smell of her own nausea filling her nostrils and throat. She tore her hand away and lurched back, almost falling over. The sakhis caught her and held her upright, soothing her . Behind her, by the bed, she heard Vikata hawk and spit again into the lotus pool. ‘Dreams and omens, portents and plagues. Bah!’

  ***

  She found Ravana in his sabha hall. It was the first time she had a reason to enter the place since his resurrection. The contrast between the new hall and the old court in which he once presided

  over the kingdom’s governance was immense: from what was indisputably a place designed for rakshasas and other asuras, he had transformed it into a chamber that would not have seemed out of place in any Arya palace. She felt as if she had left Lanka and stepped into Ayodhya all of a sudden, or Mithila or Gandahar, or any of the seven great Arya nations. She recovered from the shock and walked on without letting her surprise show.

  The Pushpak deliberately let her in at the far end, forcing her to walk the entire length of the hall under the watchful, almost leering gaze of the bustling sabha. The clan-chiefs were present, all two hundred of them, reposing on the kind of decorative high-backed seats previously seen only in mortal palaces. The enormous chamber, some two hundred yards long and fifty yards wide, and lined with numerous carved pillars in the Arya fashion, was filled to capacity, and hundreds of rakshasa eyes watched as she walked the long carpetway to the throne at the far end. Ravana sat on the large white-and-gold throne at the head, his five closest generals seated in a semicircle around him: Bhasakarna, Virupaksa, Duradura, Yupaksa, and Praghasa. Four additional seats on either side of his own seat were reserved for herself, their two sons, and Vibhisena. Kumbhakarna, despite being the eldest, was too large to be accommodated in this hall, let alone on any seat! And in any case, he was in one of his endless sleep cycles. Two of the four seats were empty. One was her’s, of course. The other empty seat belonged to Akshay Kumar, who was conspicuous by his absence. Vibhisena, in his seat, seemed to have been speaking just as she entered. His voice died away as he turned to see what had caused the commotion. Ravana himself was reclining languidly on his great throne, his rack of heads apparently watching everything and everyone at once as always. She distinctly saw a head turn to watch her enter through the portal and follow her progress intently as she approached.

  Pillars. There were so many pillars, she felt like a chariot riding along a tree-lined forest marg. It seemed unlikely that the Pushpak required pillars to provide stability, which meant that they had been deliberately included for some other purpose.

  From the efficient way in which they separated the clans and obscured a direct view of the throne, it was obvious that the intent was to create distance and command respect for the lord of the kingdom. She fumed silently as she walked the long carpeted runway upto the throne, feeling the lascivious eyes of the rakshasas undressing her, ravishing her. Much had changed in Ravana’s court in the new Lanka. No more unbridled displays of lust or anger or violence. No weapons were permitted here. Nor were outbursts tolerated. With the Pushpak at his command, Ravana could dispatch any dissident with only a mental command, a hole in the floor swallowing up the offender and whisking him down a chute that deposited him on his back in the avenue outside the tower—or, if so desired, simply cause him to disappear into the bowels of the celestial device. But rakshasas could still lust, even if they were not permitted to pursue the object of their lust. And the mate of the highest-ranking rakshasa was always the most lusted after rakshasi. The more so in her case because she was monogamous to a fault, an unheard of breach in their race. She could
not begin to count the number of lascivious faces in this sabha, belonging to rakshasa chiefs who had tried in vain to seduce, overpower and sexually assault her during the ‘lost years’, as the period of Ravana’s incapacitation was now referred to.

  Her son Indrajit rose to greet her as she finally approached the upper hall, but the generals made a show of remaining seated. Turncoats. Only months earlier, with Ravana still imprisoned in his bed of redstone, they had kowtowed to her as if she were the queen of air and darkness. Now, they treated her as if she were just one of Ravana’s many concubines, although when pressed they would perfunctorily mumble the usual formalities, as they did now, before turning their faces back to their king, making it clear where their loyalties now lay. Offended by their manner, she brushed away her son Indrajit’s greeting with a clipped response of her own, and went straight up to Ravana’s throne. He was reclining easily on the stone seat, clad in simple white anga-vastra and dhoti, and sporting the gold armlets and other decorative ornaments of an Arya king. With his fair buttermilk complexion, he might have actually passed for Arya, were it not for the ten heads and six arms. She found it laughable, this masquerading at being the very thing he claimed to despise: mortal.