Sita stared at the wife of Ravana with rapt horror. All she could do was listen and learn, with indescribable dread, how events that she had thought she knew so well could be perceived in such dramatically different fashion by these people. Not people, rakshasas, she reminded herself fiercely. But still, that did not change the pain it caused her to hear of herself, her father, her husband, even the venerated Brahmarishi Vishwamitra spoken of in such terms.
‘As a result of his war crime and adharma, Rama was punished by the devas and spurned by his people, even his own family disowning him, and banished to the wilds for a long forest exile, deprived of the crown of Ayodhya he coveted so desperately. The devas did this in order to allow the rakshasa race which had been wronged so heinously, to recover and replenish itself. Even then, Rama’s evil war against our people continued. First he insulted the modesty of our cousin Supanakha, then his brother mutilated her and left her in a condition that among our kind is considered worse than crippling. When she appealed to her tribe-brothers for protection, Rama raised a force of likeminded rakshasa-haters, and waged unceasing battle upon them. He slaughtered fourteen thousand more of our people, wiping out the last of them at the brutal battle of Janasthana, only a season or two ago. And even then, this was not sufficient to slake his bloodlust.
‘Rama knew that in a few seasons, his exile would end and he would return home to Ayodhya, where at the very least he would face further humiliation from his own people and bitter infighting within his own family over the rightful successor to the throne. At worst, he would not be permitted back into Ayodhya at all, or into any Arya nation. For as you well know, daughter of Janak, your husband had not only insulted his dying father and refused to abide by his last wishes, but had also defied the moral code of dharma by unleashing the brahm-astra which exterminated the asura armies—and to make amends now, Rama felt the need to bring home some kind of trophy that would make him indispensable to his people, compelling them to grant him, however reluctantly, the throne of Ayodhya. So his gaze fell upon Lanka. Assuming it already depleted of its great asura hordes and the rakshasas cowed and submissive after their defeat at Mithila, Rama thought it would make an easy target for conquest. By conquering Lanka, he would be able to return home and claim that he had single-handedly rid the mortal realm of all asura threat. But to achieve this goal, he still needed an army, and since no mortal army would follow his command—even the outlaw bands had fled him the minute the battle of Janasthana ended—he fell back on desperate measures.’
Sita could barely breathe, so sickly fascinating was the rakshasi queen’s story. Yet she was compelled to listen. To hear this litany of shame and horror being heaped upon her honourable, noble, self-sacrificing Rama. He who was all but a deva in human form was being demonised. It broke her heart to hear such things said of him, but she wished to hear this out in order to take the full measure of this monstrous mountain of lies.
The rakshasi went on, her loathing of the events she was relating unequivocal. Whatever her husband had told her, and it was Ravana who had fed her this pack of lies, Sita reminded herself, he had done a very thorough job. Every angle was secured, every nail hammered in airtight. The rakshasi clearly believed what she said, and considered her husband the honourable one for being pitted against such a foe. Sita clenched her fists into balls, tightly enough that the nails of her fingers dug into her own palms deep enough to draw blood, and forced herself to listen. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done.
‘Everyone knows that the vanars are great in number and inclined to war. Even though their battle skills are laughable, they more than make up for their lack of knowledge by their sheer numbers alone. And Kiskindha is the greatest vanar city of all. Rama heard of the civil conflict in Kiskindha from some wandering exiled vanar and saw an opportunity waiting to be exploited. By murdering the rightful king Vali and staining the throne of Kiskindha, Rama gained an uneasy alliance with King Sugreeva the Usurper. He convinced the vanars that in aiding him in his conquest of Lanka, they would gain rich booty as well, besides rising in the scheme of things considerably. Vanars would forever be regarded with awe and respect after ridding the world of the last rakshasas. The scheme he proposed was to march south with the vanar forces, bridge the ocean and invade Lanka.
‘And that is what he is now doing, even as we speak, preparing to build a bridge across the narrowest strait. Once that bridge is ready, he will lead his unsuspecting vanars across the sea to Lanka, expecting to find a rich kingdom languishing for want of a leader. He surely knows of the celestial device Pushpak and its fabulous powers, as well as other great wealth my husband possesses, which he received in past times from his brother Kubera, the lord of worldly wealth appointed by the devas. He intends to wipe out the surviving rakshasa clans, and take command of Lanka for himself. No doubt, he intends to place some surrogate upon the throne, while he returns to Ayodhya and uses his newfound glory to inveigle his way back to the Sunwood throne. It is a fine plan he has schemed up, and were it not for my husband being rejuvenated and in full possession of his powers, it is a plan that would have succeeded. Rama would have committed genocide once more, wiping out the last of the asura races, and wresting a rich kingdom for his own.’
She paused, her proud mouth parting in the semblance of a sneer. ‘No doubt, he hoped to enjoy the other spoils of such a conquest. I hear that ever since his ravishment and subsequent betrayal of Supanakha, he has developed a taste for rakshasi bodies that—’
Sita’s hand shot out and slammed into the jaw of the rakshasi queen. The blow was so fast and filled with such fury, for it came instinctively and without any predetermination, that it rocked the rakshasi, nearly twice Sita’s size, upon her heels, then caused her to lose her balance. She would have fallen but for the Ashoka tree beside her, which she caught hold of just in time. The other rakshasis, standing and sitting around, listening with rapt attention to their mistress’s tale, were shocked at the sudden assault. In the br ief moment that they were incapacitated by the sheer suddenness of the blow, Sita could have leaped upon the rakshasi queen and torn her throat out—with her own teeth if need be. But instead, she only stood over the fallen rakshasi and spoke down to her in measured words that came out like arrowheads from a wound, so painful was the act of defending what ought not to have needed defending in the first place.
‘Rama is no less than a deva,’ she said. ‘It is your husband who is the demon! He has warped the truth and fed it to you as a sheaf of lies and you are foolish enough to have believed him. Rama and I were at the end of our exile and on our way home in a few moons. Your husband came and abducted me by using force and trickery. If Rama does come here with an army now, he is justified in doing so. But he has no designs on your damnable kingdom, nor on you or your other ugly-mouthed rakshasis. Rama is a warrior of dharma. It is the only thing that drives him. How could you ever hope to understand that, you creature of hell!’
She would have gone on, but by then the first of the rakshasis had reached her and pulled her back, away from their queen. She was slammed back against the weeping willow, a rakshasi hand pressing her throat until she choked, and the foul breath of the one whom they called Vikata washed over her. ‘Let me kill her, mistress. I shall kill her and then we shall all eat her, piece by piece. Or, if you prefer, we can tear chunks out of her body and eat her while she still lives. They taste much better when the blood still flows through the flesh.’
‘No!’ screeched the old one named Trijata. ‘If you harm her then the gods will rain destruction upon us all!’
‘Kill her! Kill her! Kill her and eat her!’ cried the other rakshasis in an irregular chorus.
‘Silence,’ said their mistress, regaining her feet shakily. The side of her face was discoloured from the blow. Sita’s fist ached as well, but she hardly cared. She would rather be beaten and tortured than listen to any more lies defaming Rama. Even now, she struggled defiantly against the large rakshasi’s iron grasp. The queen looked at her
with a strange equanimity, as if Sita’s outburst had only confirmed her worst beliefs about mortals. ‘There will be no killing and no eating. She is a valuable source of information to my husband. And a hostage of war. That is the only reason he agreed to her request to bring her here to Lanka, and keeps her fed and cared for. When the time comes, she may provide him with important information about Rama’s war tactics. And when her information runs out, then she may be usable as a hostage. Not that a warlord as evil as Rama would care what happens to one of his many trifles. No doubt, he has found a dozen to replace her already. But still, until then, she will not be harmed physically.’
Vikata turned her head back to Sita, her fangs dripping saliva onto Sita’s shoulders. ‘Hear that, puny mortal? If not for my mistress, you would be meat in my belly now. But someday your day will come, and then Vikata will be here to take her pound of flesh—and liver. I relish mortal livers. But for now … Go! Live!’
She shoved Sita backwards, hard enough to make her fall against some unseen object forcefully enough to make the world turn black for a moment.
When she was able to see again, she saw the rakshasi queen standing over her, the other rakshasis close enough to defend her if Sita attempted another assault.
‘Would that Ravana had never set eyes on your husband Rama. Would that their paths had never crossed. Would that Ravana had not agreed to your demand for asylum and brought you here. But all that is done. It is written in the books of karma now. And so we must play the game that is dealt to us. I shall honour my husband’s wish. You shall be kept alive and unharmed. He has given me the responsibility of your care, and these companions of mine, my own sakhis, will be entrusted with the task of guarding you night and day.’ She started to raise her hand to her injured jaw, then stopped, too proud to show her pain before her enemy. ‘But know this. The devas watch us every minute. And though they do not judge us, yet we are judged by our own selves, for each word we say and deed we commit adds to the weight of our karma, for better or worse. And your evil husband Rama will not succeed in his plans. If we need to take your help for that, so be it. We will do what we must, and we shall prevail, as we have, for so many millennia.’
She turned and walked away, calling out instructions to her minions. ‘Stay with her. Watch her closely. But do not lay hands on her or harm her in any fashion. I shall not tolerate any who disobey. Vikata?’
‘I hear you well,’ said the hulking rakshasi, hawking and spitting angrily into the waterfall pond.
Sita sat up. ‘Wait!’ she called out. ‘Listen to me. You have been wrongly informed. My husband is not what you say he is. Rama is the most honourable man alive. You must believe me.’
The rakshasi queen paused and turned her head. ‘What is the mortal woman blabbering?’
One of the others, an enormously fat, big-bellied rakshasi, shrugged. ‘Who knows, mistress. She yelled some gibberish earlier too, when she attacked you. No doubt she is cursing us all in her own tongue. These mortals cannot speak without uttering the vilest blasphemies and oaths. I hear that the first words a mortal babe utters are insults against her own mother and father! They have no shame or morality.’
‘No!’ Sita cried, and there were tears running down her cheeks now. ‘Why do you not understand me? I can follow every word you say. Use your magic to translate my words as well. You must hear what I say. Rama is innocent! He is blameless of the crimes you accuse him of. He is the one wronged and maltreated. It is your husband Ravana that is the perpetrator of this whole plot. Please, in the name of the Goddess our Mother, heed my words!’
One of the other rakshasis cocked her head to one side. ‘It sounds so ugly, their talk, does it not?’
‘Like crows squabbling over scraps,’ said the fifth and last one.
The rakshasi queen gazed at Sita a moment longer. ‘I will pray that you find peace here,’ she said quietly. ‘That you repent for the error of your ways and ask forgiveness. When and if you are ready to do prayaschitt for your sins, I will be there to help you. We are honourable followers of dharma. That is why we will triumph in the end over your evil husband.’
And with those last words, she turned and was gone.
‘Wait!’ Sita cried out again. ‘Hear me!’
But nobody understood her. Her words remained incomprehensible to them, the blasphemous blabbering of a heathen pagan mortal, from their point of view. It was the supreme irony and Sita knew now that this was Ravana’s doing as well, the perfect way to perpetrate his jaundiced version of things and suppress all other versions, including the truth which only he and Sita knew. He had used his sorcery, or the sorcery of this place, to translate their words for Sita’s benefit, but not the other way around. For all Sita knew, even the rakshasi queen had spoken her long tirade only to unburden her own heavy mind, not caring if Sita truly followed every word or not.
Their mistress gone, the other rakshasis looked at each other and suddenly broke out in a clamour. They converged on Sita. She drew herself up, striking and bruising her shoulder against the tree, not the willow this time, but the Ashoka tree, the one which the queen had caught hold of. There was a whole grove of them here, neat perfect rows upon rows of Ashokas, and at one time, she had loved to see groves of the tree. Loved the way they bent over in the strongest wind, but never broke. She leaned against one now, and stared with throbbing head and watering eyes at the clutch of demonesses surrounding her, laughing and gesturing.
‘We cannot touch her,’ the one named Vikata reminded them all, flashing her yellow fangs. ‘But our mistress laid no bar against our calling her names. Let us tell her what we think of females like her. Mortal women who assault our queen and attempt to seduce our king. Let us show her how language itself can be an instrument of torture.’
Vikata grinned at them all, then turned to Sita, grinning even wider, showing her rotting, pus-suppurating gums. ‘She can scream as loud as she likes. She has no champions here.’
KAAND 2
ONE
Rama heard the scream across the ocean and looked up. Squinting against the dazzling late morning sunlight, he saw the silhouette of a bird far in the distance, floating above the ocean, its wings parted to catch the high air currents. It called out again, a distant mournful screel and this time he recognised it for the bird’s cry. But for an instant, just a brief heart-stopping moment, it had sounded like …
He shook his head and turned away. Hanuman was watching him intently. ‘What is it, Rama?’
Rama exhaled slowly. ‘Nothing, my friend. Only the ears playing tricks on the mind.’
Hanuman looked at him as if he wished to ask a question. The vanar was about to speak when a cry alerted them both. They turned and looked up.
They were standing on the far end of the crescent shaped beach below Mount Mahendra, upon a cluster of large blackrock boulders that framed this end of the sandy strip. The ocean lay to their right, receded several dozen yards as the tide was out. Across the strip, the sand rose in undulating dunes to the foot of the mountain, then ran up at a sharp concave angle, up to the jutting lip of the mountain’s flat top. The top of the mountain was crowded with hundreds upon hundreds of vanars and bears, all intent upon their work. Rama could see Lakshman shouting orders to the vanars, gesturing animatedly. Jambavan’s distinctive head was visible too, looming above the vanars and even visible above his fellow bears. The bear king’s ears were twitching furiously, which meant he was agitated. They were both superseded by Nala, a Kiskindha vanar known for his prowess at building and architecture, who was officially the master-builder in charge of constructing the bridge to Lanka.
The lines of vanars and bears extended to the right, disappearing briefly where the cliff face of the mountain twisted briefly, then appeared again, running down the side of the range, and further back out of sight. Rama and Hanuman had only just come from there, and he strained to see how the work was going. It was hard to tell: all he could see right now were vanars and bears milling about in what seeme
d to be outright chaos. But he knew that there was purpose in that chaotic milling, and that each person was performing a pre-designated task. After much trial and effort, they had come to this division of labour, and it was only today that Nala had politely but firmly suggested to Rama and Hanuman that they take charge of the beach detail.
Rama looked to the left, seeking out the vanars and bears that were under his and Hanuman’s command. They were lined up along the dunes, extending back over the edge, the majority of them following the order to keep the beach itself clear. But it had been a long, searing hot morning, with little to do but wait, and several dozen had trickled down to the beach, some to gain a better view of the work atop Mahendra, others, vanars mostly, to get a closer glimpse of the feared salt desert. Some of these, emboldened by having stayed successfully unharmed for so many hours, had plonked themselves down on the sand and were reclining in attitudes of bold indifference, demonstrating their courage to their less confident fellows up on the dunes. Rama saw one vanar sitting on the sand only a few feet from the foamy lip of the receding tide, dipping his tail into the froth, then raising it high, eliciting hoos and haas from the watching vanars on the dunes. It was Sakra, of course. Hanuman’s half-brother seemed to find new and innovative ways of causing mischief each day. The little vanar was so clumsy that Nala had begged Hanuman to take him off the mountain, and put him anywhere, just to keep him out of his way. Hanuman had found some make-work task for the fellow to do—ferrying fresh water skins to slake the thirst of the bridge-builders as they worked. Right now, Sakra’s skinbags of water lay beside him, as he played the dip-the-tail game to show off his lack of fear of the sea-desert. No doubt, he hoped to impress the females on the dunes by this antic.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 16