RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Mandodhari looked at him, as if considering his words seriously. ‘It’s true I did storm in, but—’

  ‘But if you had chosen to speak to me privately, in your usual quiet and dignified manner, I would have gladly explained all to you. As I am willing to do now.’

  Mandodhari exchanged a glance with her brother-in-law. Even Vibhisena seemed taken in by Ravana’s charm. Supanakha marvelled at her cousin’s ability to turn two potential betrayers back into allies. She found herself intrigued too.

  ‘Very well, then,’ Mandodhari said quietly. ‘I will give you a few moments to explain yourself.’

  ‘And in those few moments, my love, you will learn more than you could learn in a thousand hours of skulking around behind my back and gossiping in gardens!’ Ravana’s central head smiled balefully at Vibhisena. ‘Come, my brother dearest, let us repair to the comfort of my chambers and I will tell you the real reason why I brought the lady Sita here to our island-kingdom, and why Supanakha’s simplistic scheme for avenging herself upon Rama fit in so well with my own plans for restoring Lanka to her former glory.’

  And with a gesture and a mantra, uttered too softly to be heard by even Supanakha’s cat-sharp ears, he transported them away.

  THIRTEEN

  Sita heard the sound of approaching voices and looked around frantically for a place to hide. Then she realised how futile it would be. No matter where she fled in this forest of illusions, she would still be Ravana’s captive. She looked around the little enclave where she had been sitting. A small waterfall tumbled over rocks nearby, spilling its waters into a small pool. Early this morning, shortly after Ravana’s departure, his rakshasi minions had arrived and led her to this spot, indicating that she could bathe and cleanse herself here, then change into the fresh garments they had brought. She had spoken not a word to them, and they had left quickly, no doubt instructed by their master not to offend or assault her in any manner. But even hours after their departure, she still sat here, barely having moved. The garments still lay untouched on a rock beneath a tree, as did the fruit and meat they had brought. She had no intention of eating any of Ravana’s food, or of enjoying his hospitality. She had not touched so much as a drop of water, but had only sat hugging her knees tightly, the sound of falling water soothing her after the horrors of the past days.

  She stood now, sensing the approach of visitors. There were many voices speaking at once, strange, harsh rakshasa voices using that guttural rakshasa language. She knew they were most likely the same rakshasi guards, sent to replenish her food and drink and check on her, but a feeling of unease passed through her, like a fine needle inserted into her right side and pulled out through her left. She put a hand to her belly and shivered, feeling vulnerable and defenceless and hating the feeling. For a moment, she felt what a doe must feel at the approach of a pack of lions, paralysed with fear and fascination and self-disgust at her own frozen state. Then, with a soft prayer to the Devi, she willed herself to have confidence. Rama would come. This would end. All she had to do was retain her dignity and her composure and show no weakness to these Lankan swine. She was a princess of Mithila, a future queen of Ayodhya, a mother-in-waiting of princes and princesses of Arya. She need fear nothing and no one. She stood, straightening her back, lifting her chin, folding her arms across her chest and assuming a deliberate attitude of callous indifference. It had been most effective when the rakshasis visited earlier, and they had left in obvious awe at the human female who stood as straight and silent as a queen even in this state of captivity. They had probably expected her to behave as mortals did when subjugated; as a girl, she had heard tales at her father’s court of northern white-skinned folk who went down on their knees before their captors and put grass between their teeth to show their allegiance. She would put no grass between her teeth.

  The visitors broke through the shrubbery at the other end of the little glade, on the far side of the pool. They came into the dappled shade and looked around, seeking her out. The pattern of light and shadow through the leafy trees overhead and the reflections of sunlight from the falling water camouflaged her effectively, and it took them a moment to see and recognise her. When they did, they nudged each other and pointed with their stubby six-fingered rakshasa claws, whispering to one another. At least one of them opened her mouth wide, baring a mouthful of shattered yellow fangs in an universal gesture of threat.

  Sita resisted the urge to react.

  She had seen rakshasis before, as ugly and menacing and large as these. But of course, on all those previous occasions, she had been fed, and rested, and armed, and secure in the knowledge that there were others supporting her. And those encounters had been on land that was only wild and unexplored, not tainted by foul asura sorcery.

  Never before had she been utterly defenceless, unarmed and isolated, captive in a strange land, weak from hunger and thirst, faint from the residual effect of the poppy drugs administered by the shapeshifter. Even so, she held her ground and her stance, meeting the rakshasis eye for eye, ready to defend herself against them by any means should they attempt to assault her. Ready to fight to the death, if need be. Although a small voice within her, a timid and humble voice, prayed that she would not need to sacrifice herself. Not because she loved life too dearly to lay hers down with dignity, but because she cherished the unborn life growing within her womb so much, wished to give that delicate one at least the chance to properly enter the world it had been conceived in.

  There were a half dozen of them. The largest seemed the most belligerent, showing Sita her bared, broken fangs before turning to the others and barking a series of commands. Then she turned and made her way around the side of the water, issuing what seemed to be curses when her own clumsy gait caused one of her feet to splash into the pool. Sita recalled what she knew of rakshasas and their loathing of fresh water and toyed with the idea of using the vine hanging above her to propel herself forward, kicking the approaching rakshasi and knocking her into the waterfall pool. Then, with a mental flicker of regret, she suppressed the urge. All that would achieve was to enrage the rakshasis and perhaps cause them to take their wrath out upon her. It would be a poor bargain just to dunk one in a little harmless water, however much the creatures feared the innocuous substance.

  The rakshasi stopped a few yards from Sita and barked a harsh command. Sita had no idea what the creature was saying and even if she had understood every word, she would not have cared. She met the creature’s fierce, red-eyed, animalistic glare with a cold, quiet stare, refusing to yield in the battle of wills. But she had not expected what came next.

  Instead of yelling in frustration or repeating her insistence that Sita eat the given food, or wear the clothes, or whatever other instruction she had assumed the creature had been given to fulfil, the rakshasi lurched forward with shocking speed, and before Sita could react or move, she had landed a resounding smack on Sita’s left cheek. The blow was hard enough to knock her off her feet, and when she blinked, she found herself on the ground, her hip throbbing where she had landed on her side, her mouth filled with dust and dry leaf fragments. She spat them out and turned her head quickly to face her enemy, fearing that the rakshasi would land upon her, using her immense weight advantage to crush her—and the delicate life growing within her belly.

  But the beast was still standing, leering down at Sita with those cracked yellow fangs, hands on her own ample hips. She said something in her tongue, eliciting peals of raucous laughter from all the other rakshasis but one, and hawked and spat into the pool, mere inches from Sita’s outstretched feet. Sita pulled her feet up closer, trying to adjust her position to brace herself in the event of another assault. But the rakshasi seemed contented with the one blow and stood laughing and spitting and saying incomprehensible, offensive-sounding things.

  One of the other rakshasis came forward at a half-run, blabbering something equally incomprehensible. This one was short and squat and evidently much older than the others. Her long, white hair
streamed out around her thick, flat-topped head like a garment, its leathery strands as thick as hide-strings. She screamed in a hysterical tone at the other larger rakshasi, who leered in her face and said something challenging which made the older one shrink away hastily. The larger rakshasi laughed and called out something to the others who roared with a fresh burst of laughter.

  The older rakshasi came towards Sita cautiously, crouching over and peering as if her vision were partially impaired. As she came closer, Sita saw that her eyes were covered with milky white patches and guessed that she suffered from some rakshasa variation of old-age blindness. She pulled her legs up and dragged herself back until her head and back struck the trunk of a weeping willow that hung over the pool, its branches dripping into the water. She reached back, grabbing the sinuous trunk, and pulled herself up, glaring a warning at the approaching rakshasi. She would not allow herself to be taken by surprise a second time. She glanced around quickly for a tree branch she could snap off, a stone, anything to be used as a weapon in her defense. The old rakshasi paused, as if sensing her hostility and said something in a placating tone. Behind her, the larger rakshasi echoed her words, mocking her tone, and was rewarded with more sniggers from her well-entertained audience. The old rakshasi ignored them all and repeated her words, speaking very slowly and gently, as if by doing so, Sita would be able to understand her better.

  Sita wished she could understand her, if only to know when one of them intended harm to her so she could prepare herself. No sooner had she thought this, than the quality of light in the glade altered fractionally, like a blinking of an eye, and suddenly she was shocked to find that she could understand every syllable as clearly as Arya commonspeak or Sanskrit highspeech.

  ‘Forgive us, my lady,’ the old rakshasi was saying. ‘Vikata does not know what she does and to whom. I beg your pardon for the way she treated you.’

  Sita swallowed, struggling to comprehend whether she was imagining things or whether she had suddenly gained perfect knowledge of the language of rakshasas. She remained silent, watching the old rakshasi carefully, ready to leap aside if the old demoness made any sudden hostile move. She could go into the water, where the rakshasis would be loathe to follow her. It would buy her a few precious moments of prolonged life at least. There was little else she could do. Running was out of the question. She was backed up against the waterfall on one side and this weeping willow behind her, and the large, bullying rakshasi was blocking the only other avenue of escape. In any case, where would she run?

  ‘My name is Trijata,’ the old one said, folding her hands together in a namaskaram, ‘and I am greatly honoured to make your acquaintance, wife of Rama. I pray, do not curse us for our foolish actions. We are all victims of the same celestial plan.’

  ‘Daughter of a whore,’ roared the large rakshasi, ‘speak for yourself! We are princesses of Lanka, all. We have no need to debase ourselves before puny mortals. They are food on our table, no more. A few choice morsels to fill our bellies, a little entertainment for our beds perhaps, maybe even slaves to work our farms and clean our sewers. We do not need to fold our hands or bend our heads before them! Get away from her, you old hag!’

  The one who had called herself Trijata turned her milky eyes up to her associate. ‘Curb your tongue, Vikata. Do you not recall my vision of last night? If we do not have care for how we treat this lady, she will bring about the end of all rakshasakind! I have seen it in my dream and my dreams are never wrong.’

  The yellow-fanged rakshasi hawked throatily and spat at the older one, the disgusting effusion almost striking the crouched rakshasi’s thigh. ‘I spit on your dreams and visions. Debase yourself before the mortal if you will, I would rather cut off my own head than bend it before her.’

  ‘There will be no bending of heads, nor cutting off.’

  The voice came from the far side of the pool, behind the other rakshasis who had been watching the exchange between their two companions with unmitigated glee. At the sound of the new rakshasi’s voice, they stopped laughing at once and turned to bow their heads, greeting the new arrival with a show of respect. From this, and from the manner in which the large rakshasi scowled, Sita deduced that the new visitor was a rakshasi of high rank.

  She was tall and slender, but full-bodied, her curves well delineated in the flowing, silken, white robes she wore. At a glance, she could almost have passed for a human female. Except for the two white horns growing from the top of her head, curved backwards in an almost feminine way, less threatening than ornamental. Her skin was pale, almost as white as the colouring of the emissaries from foreign lands that oftentimes had visited Sita’s father’s court at Mithila, people from strange, distant lands where they ate cheese and wheatcakes and drank red grape-wine and spoke of philosophy all day long. But her skin was much thicker than any of those foreigners, so thick that it appeared almost milky,

  like the hide of some albino beast. Her features were unmistakably rakshasi, but were much finer and delicately shaped than the coarse bluntness of the others. She bore herself with a manner that was imperious and haughty, like a queen secure in her power.

  ‘So this is the she-devil who seduced my husband,’ she said now, staring at Sita from across the pool of water with a barely banked resentment seething in her pale, sky-blue eyes.

  Sita started. Not at the hatred in the look cast by the rakshasi, but at her words. Seduced my husband? Who was this creature? What did she mean?

  The white-clad rakshasi walked slowly around the pool, the others moving aside to make way for her. Even the large rakshasi stepped back, albeit with another scowl, and the older one moved back to allow her mistress to approach Sita.

  Sita stared defiantly into the pale eyes.

  ‘See how she stares at me,’ said the rakshasi. ‘As if she would drive her claws into my breast and pull out my heart.’

  If I did possess claws, I wouldn’t be averse to putting them to such use, you demoness. But within her own breast, Sita’s heart pounded relentlessly, the unease she had felt earlier grown into a full-blown terror now. In a way, she sensed, this person was more dangerous than Ravana himself. Her hatred of Sita glowed in her eyes, reflecting in the murderous stares of the other rakshasis—all except the old white-haired one who crouched now beside her mistress.

  ‘Do you know who I am, mortal wench?’ asked the rakshasi disdainfully. ‘I am she whose husband you desire to possess. The queen you seek to replace. But you will never succeed in your foul scheme. I have just come from my husband’s chambers, where he informed me of all your machinations and manipulations. Surely, only a human could act so dishonourably. You have been exposed and your fiendish plot laid bare.’

  FOURTEEN

  Sita stared at the pale, haughty rakshasi in astonishment. What was the rakshasi talking about? The only sense she could glean from the rakshasi’s inane words was that she was probably Ravana’s wife. Who else could she be referring to? But what did she mean by all those other accusations? Still, Sita kept her silence.

  The rakshasi went on disdainfully, her hatred evident in her word. ‘I admit that at first I too was deceived by your apparent plight. An innocent mortal woman, abducted from her husband’s house and brought here by force against her will. Which honourable rakshasi would not have sympathy for such a one. When Trijata told me of her nightmarish vision of the downfall of Lanka and the rakshasa race, I thought it must be due to his transgression against you. But my eyes are opened now. He has told me the full tale of your devilish plan. Never have I heard of such a fiendish plot, hatched by a woman against her own husband!’

  Sita’s head was throbbing. For a brief moment, she wished that she could be blessed with ignorance of the rakshasi tongue once more—and at once, her wish was granted, the rakshasi’s next words turning into incomprehensible gibberish. But then she knew that she must listen, for it was better to possess knowledge than to live in animal ignorance. So she willed the asura sorcery that enabled her to understand their
tongue to grant her understanding once more, and listened with sick horror as the rakshasi’s monologue continued.

  ‘The seer-mage Vishwamitra had long since prophesied the destruction of the asura races, and had promised that he himself would play a significant part in their decimation. So, when he interrupted his own long tapasya in the Southwoods, my husband Ravana knew that the time had come at last. From compatriots of the asura cause within Ayodhya, he learned of Vishwamitra’s recruitment of the young prince Rama Chandra and his brother. Later, Vishwamitra used magic to imbue the two brothers with superhuman powers, and fielded them against the unsuspecting yaksi Taraka in the Bhayanak-van. They massacred the innocent Taraka and every last one of her blameless children, then laid waste to the entire forest, which was all asura land since ages past. This was no less than an act of declaration of war against the asura races, who had lain quiet since winning the last war, some two decades past. Ravana marshalled a great army of asura races, and marched towards the mortal kingdoms, believing offence to be the best defence. But he was honourable enough to attempt one last time to bridge the divide. He attended the swayamvara of the daughter of King Janak of the Vaideha kingdom in the capital city of Mithila, knowing that King Janak was renowned for his pacifism and unswerving adherence to dharma. By winning the hand of Janak’s daughter, namely yourself, Ravana hoped to forge an alliance between the mortal and asura races, and put an end once and for all to the endless warfare. His plan was a good one. He triumphed in the challenge posed at the swayamvara and by rights, you should have been given to him in matrimony. But there your deceptions began. Instead of doing the honourable thing, and accepting him as your rightful husband, you allowed Rama to intervene by force, and through the use of Vishwamitra’s vile sorcery, Rama equalled Ravana in the challenge. This was patently unfair and immoral, violating all social laws as well as the premise of the swayamvara ritual. When Ravana saw that justice would not be done at that venue, he understood that he had lost more than a richly deserved bride; this was the mortals’ way of spurning the asura offer of peace and brotherhood. Ravana returned to his waiting armies and led them on a charge towards Mithila. But again, Vishwamitra’s magic enabled Rama to unleash the terrible brahm-astra, the forbidden weapon of the Creator Himself. And genocide was committed.’