‘If that is his choice, then he is entitled to it. He may go anywhere his heart pleases. We must bid him farewell and wish him well in whatever he chooses to do.’ Rama paused, looking out at the great azure ocean. ‘But I do not think that is the way he will turn. I think your brother—for he is your brother still, have no doubt about that—will do the right thing. He is a great servant of dharma. He will do what dharma dictates.’
Sakra looked up at Rama silently, his large eyes soulful and open in a way that only the innocent-minded could be. Suddenly he craned his head upwards and licked Rama’s face.
‘What was that for?’ Rama asked, smiling.
‘For showing my brother the way to his own true self.’
‘But I did not do that, Sakra. It was Jambavan who told him the story of his true strength. I did not know the tale of Hanuman’s hidden power.’
‘But it was you who gave him his true strength. The strength to unlock his powers and become himself. You are the one who truly empowered him. He told me how, even at your first meeting, you spoke to him with love and kindness, and addressed him as a man. A man! No one had ever treated him so well before. He would speak of you often after he came back during the months he was watching you and your battles. But after that first meeting, he said that you were not only the greatest yoddha he had ever seen, you were a god upon earth.’
Rama was embarrassed, even though Sakra’s innocence made the gratuitous praise guileless and easy. ‘He was wrong, Sakra. I am just a man. It is Hanuman who is the son of a god living among us upon earth.’
Sakra raised his gaze to Rama’s face. ‘You treated him with great respect. The olduns say that the devas love us all equally. You love all of us, vanars and bears and mortals equally. You treated Hanuman as a man even back when he was no more than a humble vanar messenger. So you must be a deva too, Rama. I think one day some wise storyteller will tell your story too, that the whole world may know your greatness.’
Rama did not know what to say to that. He was silent for a long time.
Finally, he said, ‘Come, it is time to go back to work now, my friend. Let us go and help make Nala’s vision a reality.’
He put Sakra down and held his hand. The vanar’s head barely reached up to his hip.
‘Yes, Rama,’ Sakra said solemnly. ‘Let us go and build the bridge to Lanka. We will do it together, you and I.’
They went down the mountain together, hand in hand.
EIGHT
He woke in the early watches of the morning, those hours called bhor-suvah considered most auspicious for meditation, prayer and penance. He sat up slowly, unwilling to disturb his companions, and sat breathing shallowly. He had dreamed of his father, standing on the beach, calling his name. He looked around, trying to rub the weariness and grit from his vision.
The beach was covered for as far as the eye could see with what seemed like irregularly shaped stones that he knew were the sleeping forms of bears and vanars. It was not quiet. The combined sound of all the bears snoring and the vanars calling out occasionally in their sleep, still uneasy from the proximity to the ocean, made for an unmusical cacophony of sounds. But as far as he could see, there was no standing form. Certainly nothing that looked like a stocky human male.
The sand felt gritty and faintly damp under his body: a combination of dew and spray, settling slowly every night, usually drying by morning. The land was dark and shadowy; the faint telltale glow over the north-western horizon confirmed that there had been a moon but it had only just set. There were no watchfires kept burning in this camp, for the crackling flames and windblown sparks were more terrifying to both races than any intruders. Sentries were posted, at Rama’s orders, but they were on the high points, watching the sea. He craned his head, trying to make out their silhouettes atop the mountain, but it was futile in this light. Up there, they had the benefit of the empty ocean upon which even the smallest skiff would be noticeable. There had been a couple of false warnings that turned out to be sea monsters; those immense grey-black elephantine beasts that rolled and churned in the foaming waters, issuing spouts of spray from holes in their heads. Their appearance had caused much consternation but ultimately they had seemed benign. The bears spoke fearfully of the great serpents and other vile beasts that lived in the deep reaches beneath the ocean but nothing anyone had ever heard of corresponded to those spume-blowing sea elephants. Rama thought they were like their land counterparts: dangerous only if threatened or maddened, otherwise content to live peacefully and spend their days incessantly feeding those immense bodies.
He could not fall asleep again. The dream or vision, or whatever it had been, had been too vivid and unsettling. He rose and carefully picked out a path through the mass of huddled bodies. Going up the beach would be impossible, there were bodies clustered for miles and miles. It would be morning before he reached a clear area, and if he disturbed even one of the sleeping forms, the ensuing chaos would be no less than an invasion. This way there were only a few hundred to get past, and then he was just above the hightide line, walking down to the oceanside buffeted by a brisk sea breeze that carried more than a promise of chill. The vanars claimed that autumn was mild in these coastal parts, but winter would be freezing, the absence of snow more than compensated for by the deathly chill winds that blew non-stop. Already, he could feel the first warning in this sea breeze. They must cross before winter set in fully, or Devi alone knew how they would endure.
The gravelly wet sand of the lower beach crunched under his bare feet—the tide was out—and he felt the faint scurrying of sand crabs underfoot, though he could not see them. The surf ran up and fell back a few yards to his left, but he was making toward the right, towards the promontory. He leaped the last yard, landing nimbly on the smooth slab placed to improve access. The stone was surprisingly warm and dry to the touch, and he stood there a moment, looking out at the darkened ocean, trying to make out the long finger of the bridge. Yesterday, work had gone exceedingly well. Despite much confusion ensuing mainly from the coordination of tasks and some hilarious errors in direction— some of the lines had ended up carrying stones down to the beach and most of the way back in a circuitous semicircular fashion before they realised their mistake—the new plan was working brilliantly well. Even though he strained, he could not quite see the end of the bridge, but his mind’s eye retained the last view he had of it in fading daylight, as Nala brought him and the others the wonderful news that they had extended by over fifty yards that day.
‘Fifty yards!’ Lakshman had repeated. And even his normally surly face had cracked into a wide grin. It was almost as much as they had achieved since they had begun, and all in half a day. There was no question that Nala’s change of approach had been a stroke of sheer brilliance. Everyone had broken work filled with new hope, looking forward to the next day’s labour.
‘Give me five days, my lord,’ Nala had said confidently. ‘And your bridge will be ready.’
Rama made his way slowly across the unfinished line of stone, treading carefully for fear of crabs. The bears delighted in breaking the shells off the scuttling things and slurping out the pale fishlike meat while the claws still scrabbled hopelessly. They claimed that the flesh was sweetest when ‘fresh’. Rama had declined politely. He had no desire to eat anything that still moved. If that was fresh, he was quite content with ‘stale’ food, relatively speaking.
When he reached the end of the large boulder portion and stepped onto the small stone part of the bridge, he was surprised once more by how firm and solid it felt. Nala had been proved right about this as well. Far from being crumbly and liable to dissipate in the pounding ocean, the use of smaller stones in place of large boulders had actually proved more stable to walk upon. The surface here was almost as flat as a road. Rama could almost envision riding a chariot over such a surface. Whereas over the large boulders, the path sloped and rose and fell so abruptly, even the sure-footed vanars sometimes slipped, and the bears were constantly in danger of
cracking their skulls open, like the crabs they loved so much.
Someone was standing at the end of the bridge.
Rama stopped still. He touched his waist, reaching instinctively for his sword. It was back at the beach, at the spot where he had lain. So was his bow and quiver. He was unarmed and defenceless. When one moved with a force of over a million strong bodies, one seldom felt the need to remain armed at all times.
But now there was someone on the bridge, at the farthermost end, where no vanar or bear would dare venture out in the dark. It was hard enough to make them come out here by day, where the ocean pressed in on three sides, and only a few sturdy ones had overcome their fear of the open sea and elected to work this part of the chain. They were mainly bears at that. As for mortals, there was only one other apart from himself, and Lakshman was lying fast asleep a yard from his own sleeping spot.
Whoever or whatever was out there, it was neither vanar, bear, nor mortal.
Yet somehow he did not feel alarmed or afraid.
He felt as if he had been expecting to meet someone out here. As if this was the reason why he had awakened—or been awakened—and had come upon the bridge.
He walked the last twenty yards slowly but without fear. The ocean was very loud and encompassing here. It filled one’s senses completely: the wind so powerful it felt as if with one impatient gust it could throw you over into the brine. The waves rolling by on their way to the beach with such relentless strength, unstoppable by even a giant vanar. The sound itself, so eternal and omnipresent, godlike in that it had been here for millennia before the first living beings crawled upon this world and would be here for millennia after the death of the last one. It filled him completely, wiping out all thought, all fear, all anticipation.
He walked to the end of the bridge.
As he approached, the figure standing there turned slowly. He saw a shadowy profile of a familiar face. And a voice that brought back a torrent of memories, said warmly, ‘My son.’
*** They came in the dead of night. Or perhaps it was mid-afternoon outside, or morning, or evening, but in here it was always night, always the dead of night, and the very sameness of it was unnerving, depressing, a literal night without end. The rakshasis had been unusually vicious since the death of their companion. Their ranting and railing had turned obscene and ugly beyond belief. Her arms and back and the sides of her legs were scored with countless scratches and gouges and slashes. Staying curled up and silently motionless had become a fine art of which she was a master now. Blood had dried on a hundred little nicks and cuts, none deep enough to leave a scar or cause much harm, but all expertly inflicted to cause pain. Pain, that was her lot now. Endless pain. And monsters taunting and tormenting her night and … night and … She laughed miserably. She could not even say night and day anymore, nor think it. For there was no day anymore for her. Only an endless night among rakshasas. A while back, they had left her suddenly, departing without a word, as if recalled by some mental command that could not
be disobeyed. She had heard nothing, felt nothing, but she knew that in this strange, unnatural place, thoughts were often conveyed wordlessly, objects appeared at the slightest thought. She herself had seen it done, when the rakshasis willed food into appearing, or wine, or jewels to ornament their grotesque bodies. It was all provided in the blink of an eye. What had Ravana called it? Pushpak? The Tower? She no longer remembered clearly. Whatever it was, it was bewitched, the stuff of asura maya. That was how they made it appear to be night always.
She waited for the visitors to come. She could hear them making their way through the forest, their heels crunching on the dried leaves underfoot. Apparently, the illusion being maintained was that it was late autumn in this place. That would correspond with the outside, real world, although she had no idea whether Lanka’s climate corresponded to that of the rest of the mortal realm. Was Lanka even a part of the mortal realm? From what she knew, which was very little, it was indeed a real place, a sizeable island-kingdom that had existed and flourished before Ravana took it over, but his sorcery had altered it somehow, making it a suitable place for the asura races who followed him. And most of all, for the rakshasas.
She regretted not having been more responsive to the rakshasa male. The one who had visited her the day before. Or was it the night before? Anyway, the one who had visited some time back, the one with the strange caste-marks on his forehead, black thread around his chest, and white garments, just like any mortal Brahmin. Were there Brahmins among rakshasas? She had heard there were. After all, even the asura races were created by the One God, the same supreme being who had created the holy trimurti and the rest of the devas, mortals and the three worlds. She had heard her father speak of rakshasas who were devout and pious, celibate and honourable. Rakshasas who adhered scrupulously to dharma. It had seemed like a contradiction in terms to her then, but she wondered now, perhaps it was conceivable. Anything seemed possible now. Even Ravana had seemed so suave and gentle and noble … but that was almost certainly a ploy. Look at how she had been maltreated after that. Unless it was the work of his wife, that shrew who had said all those nauseating lies about Rama. She did not know anymore: the incessant hammering away of the rakshasis had taken its toll. She hardly knew if she was sane or insane anymore. But she wished now that she had allowed herself to trust the rakshasa Brahmin, to speak a word or two. He had seemed to genuinely care for her welfare, had sounded outraged at how she had been treated. And yet, she had gotten the impression that he was Ravana’s … brother? Surely that was impossible.
The bushes parted and they emerged into the clearing where she sat. The two of them.
‘Sita devi, we meet again,’ Ravana said. ‘I believe you have already met my wife Mandodhari? She is the one I entrusted with your charge. I am sorry to say, it appears that you have abused her excellent hospitality and repaid her by committing a grievous crime. I have come to ascertain if this is true.’
The queen of rakshasis stepped forward, her eyes flashing in the eerie, glaucous light. ‘There is nothing to ascertain. She killed one of my sakhis. And she must be punished for it. The penalty I demand is her life.’
***
‘My son,’ the dark figure said. ‘My eyes have thirsted so long for a sight of you.’
‘Father?’ Rama said doubtfully. ‘Is it really you?’
The figure held out his hands, the sky behind him just slightly lighter than his dark silhouette, enough to let Rama see his outline, that familiar hulking, bearlike form that his father had become in his last years. He was not sure of it but he thought he could see a beard as well, a great bushy beard, something he had seen only in the lifesize royal portraits in Suryavansha Hall. He recalled reading or being told that his father had been in the habit of growing his beard only when he went to war. Since the last asura war had ended seven years before Rama’s birth, he had grown up always seeing his father clean shaven, groomed every morning by one of the royal barbers who had been practising their hereditary trade for as long as the Suryavansha dynasty had been in power, which was some eight centuries. The portraits that had recorded that imperial facial growth had all depicted his father in younger, fitter days, hard, muscled body plated with armour, bearing gleaming weapons of war, always astride his chariot, which had been his trademark, for a king’s prowess with his chariot was a family tradition in their line, and it was in expectation of his excellence in that art that he had been named Dasaratha at birth: He Who Rides Ten Chariots At Once.
He brushed aside these useless facts and focussed on the outstretched arms of the figure standing before him.
‘Come to me, my son. Let me feel your heart against mine.’
Rama went forward unhesitatingly. With all his being he desired to embrace his father too. He had never been able to accept the fact that Maharaja Dasaratha had died only hours after he had gone into exile, had never stopped wishing he had put off his departure by one night. Perhaps then Dasaratha would have put off his own departure
too …
At the very last moment, something flared in his mind, a bright and fluorescent flame of doubt. He paused abruptly. ‘But, Father, you are no longer of this world. How is it possible then that you stand here as flesh and blood, able to embrace me heart-to-heart?’
Dasaratha sighed. He lowered his hands slowly, reluctantly, but with a decline of his leonine head that suggested he had known Rama would not accept his embrace. That some things were just not meant to be. ‘You speak wisely, Rama. The dead are dead. They cannot walk this world again. For their bodies are ash, and their souls, the eternal spark of Brahman that burns within every living creature, must move on to its next birth. The only exceptions are those rare souls who have achieved moksha, freedom from the endless cycle of birth, death and rebirth. And I have not yet achieved that exalted state of infinite freedom.’
He sighed again. ‘The truth is, Rama, I have not come to share a warm moment of reunion with you. Much as I would desire to enjoy that stolen treasure, yet it is not for my own selfish satisfaction that I was sent back here to speak with you. You are not wrong in deciding not to embrace me. I am but a thing of shadow and essence, no more substantial than the curling smoke rising from a funeral pyre. I am garbed in this form and given the power of speech only long enough to communicate the urgent missive I have been given to pass on to you. So, listen carefully, my beloved son. For once my message is delivered, I will vanish, and you will not see me again evermore.’
Rama started forward, regretting his moment of indecision, desiring to embrace this dark, shadowy form, to see for himself if he was substantial or not. How could he have been so foolish as to deny himself the heaven-sent opportunity to enjoy one last paternal embrace?
But the ghost was speaking again. ‘Heed me well, my son. I will say this but once, then I am gone. You must go to her with utmost speed and haste. She is in dire distress.’
Rama knew at once that he was speaking of Sita. ‘We are building this bridge as fast as we can,’ he blurted. ‘In another five days … ’
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 23