A figure moved up past her, stepping before the dais and bowing formally. ‘Vibhisena of the Pulastyas, my lord.’
Ravana offered an ingratiating smile from a head or two, while the rest remained preoccupied with inscrutable expressions, but Queen Mandodhari’s eyes blazed liquid fire at the rakshasa clad like a Brahmin standing beside Sita. Clearly the queen of Lanka was less than pleased at her brother-in-law’s volunteering. She turned her gaze back to Sita and narrowed her eyes sharply, lowering her head, as if to say: It makes no difference, you will not escape me. If she had her way, I would be a mauled, half-eaten carcass just like that poor old rakshasi they tore apart.
‘Very well,’ Ravana said, in a tone that suggested he was almost bored with the proceedings. ‘Let the matter proceed quickly. The court has more important issues to debate today. My queen, you may start by telling us the facts of the matter at hand.’
Sita noted his phrasing with wry bitterness: the facts of the matter. Not a point of view or observations, but the facts themselves. Despite all the trappings, this was a very poor imitation of Ayodhya’s legendary court of dharma. She ought to feel alarmed, she knew. Terrified, even. She was perilously close to being branded a murderer and executed summarily. Instead, she felt almost detached from it all. Above this entire farce of a proceeding.
She barely listened as Mandodhari outlined a predictably biased and distorted version of the events that had led to the rakshasi’s death. According to the queen of Lanka, the rakshasi’s kindness had been rewarded with brutal betrayal. It was the duty of Lanka to see that their guest was treated with due right, but the mortal had been stubborn, fasting deliberately to harm herself, no doubt to give her some cause to lay false blame upon her hosts. And when the elderly sakhi Trijata had brought her the food and drink, the mortal had leaped upon her and attacked her savagely. Taken by surprise, the rakshasi had made no attempt to defend herself, and had succumbed mercifully quickly. And then, as if to mock the very kindness shown by the poor, unfortunate victim, the mortal had fed on the rakshasi’s still-warm flesh. She had been discovered pawing at Trijata’s steaming innards by the other sakhis who arrived scant moments too late to save their beloved colleague.
Sita’s head grew dizzy for a moment, and she blanked out while still on her feet, losing track of the next several moments. It was all she could do to stay upright. When she regained her senses, the queen was summarising the ‘facts’ in the case. Mandodhari ended by registering a strong demand that the mortal’s vicious behaviour be repaid with like treatment, and proposed the traditional rakshasa sentence for such a heinous crime. ‘She must be given to the companions of the murdered sakhi, and they must eat her flesh and organs while she still lives, and they must continue feeding on her until she is dead and reduced to bone and gristle. It is the only meet fate for such a brutal abuse of hospitality.’
Vibhisena was then invited to step forward and present his side of the matter. Sita had no expectation of his testimony making any difference in this ludicruous staging, but she saw that it mattered to him. He spoke briefly but eloquently, describing how he himself had visited Sita and seen with his own eyes her maltreatment at the hands of the rakshasis who were ostensibly to be her ‘sakhis’ or friends in distress. In fact, they were tormenting her and abusing her both mentally and physically. When they left her alone to go pursue their own pleasures, he had used the opportunity to entreat the rakshasi Trijata, who seemed the only humane one of them all, to at least allow the mortal to partake of some nourishment. She had done so, and had been taking food and drink to Sita, who was in great need of it. When the other rakshasis saw her doing this, they flew into a rage, and instigated by Vikata, they had attacked their own fellow-rakshasi, and had killed her. Their biting and mauling of her flesh and innards had been typical of their brutal nature. If anyone ought to be punished, it was Vikata and the other rakshasis, not Sita, who was completely blameless and innocent of any wrongdoing.
There was much disgruntled murmuring and grunts of disapproval during Vibhisena’s speech, reaching a crescendo by the end. This was in stark contrast to the respectful silence that had prevailed during the queen’s testimony. After Vibhisena bowed at the end, the disgruntlement turned into outraged cries of ‘traitor!’ and ‘mortal-lover!’ which, Sita noted, Ravana did little to curb.
The final verdict, when it came, was also no surprise.
Ravana spoke with a languid voice, conveying an air of near-boredom at the whole proceeding. A few of his heads were actually asleep, Sita saw, their eyes shut and a mouth or two parted slightly, breathing softly. She had no way to tell if this lack of interest was feigned or genuine but it seemed real. She tried to stare at him until he felt the power of her gaze but was unsuccessful. Ravana barely seemed to be aware of her presence. So much for all his noble dignity earlier. But she remained uncertain: had that been an act or was this?
‘Upon hearing all the facts in the matter, and weighing both sides equally, it is the opinion of the throne that the assailant is guilty as charged. Since we are now a democratic nation, as representatives of the clans and tribes of the new republic of Lanka, I leave the final decision to your able minds. Speak, Lanka. What is your decision? Is the mortal guilty of her crime or no?’
‘GUILTY!’ came the resounding roar.
Ravana sighed softly, as if it pained him that his hospitality and friendship could have been repaid so brutally. He turned one head to look at Sita. Another head yawned and its eyes flickered briefly before it returned to contented slumber.
‘And what is your verdict on the manner of punishment to be granted for this crime?’
‘Death,’ came the exultant response. ‘Death by eating alive.’
Ravana gestured imperiously. ‘So be it. The sentence will be carried out tonight at midnight as is usual. It will be held publicly, that all of Lanka may witness how justice is dispensed in our glorious republic. Take the prisoner away and see that she is treated appropriately until it is time. Now let us proceed with other matters of the court.’
As Sita was led away, she saw Mandodhari, seated on her throne, smiling with triumph. Vibhisena sat with his head hanging, miserable. The princes of Lanka—they had been addressed as such in passing—sat watching her with lustful regard, as if debating whether it would be more exciting to ravish her themselves or to see her being eaten alive by rakshasis. Ravana was not even looking at her—she could see none of his heads so much as glancing in her direction. It was as if she had been some unknown harlot dragged in off the streets and brought before him to be tried and sentenced. The rakshasis holding her yanked on the chains hard, almost dislocating her right shoulder, and forced her to turn away. Even as she did so, she caught out of the corner of her eyes the sight of Ravana winking at her. Winking! So he had been observing her all along, but concealing his observations.
At that, her simmering impotent anger, long suppressed out of concern for the life growing within her womb, flared and blew into full-bloom rage.
She grasped the chains that bound her fists, wrapping them around her hands and yanked them hard. The rakshasis holding them had become so accustomed to their prisoner’s docility, they were ill-prepared for this outburst. The ends of the fetters flew out of their grasp. Sita whirled the chains in a sweeping arc, lashing out at each of her tormentors. It struck one on the waist, another across the chest, the third on a hip, the fourth one on the front of her thighs. They all shrieked, less with pain than with surprise. Sita swung the fetters in a full circle, building up momentum, forcing them to retreat back, limping and sniffling, and making clear that she was willing and able to inflict bodily harm.
The sabha hall exploded with a flurry of roars of outrage, howls of anger, cries of glee. Sentries rushed forward, seeking to bar the prisoner’s access to the throne dais and the royal family. Sita saw the smile of triumph in Mandodhari’s eyes fade to a dull look of venomous anger. The princes watched with arched eyebrows and greater interest than before: the vixen
had shown her claws. Fiestier was more attractive to them, no doubt. At the edge of her vision, she saw the sentries she had noticed earlier, posted one at every pillar, rush forward in concerted efficiency, their purple-black uniforms so much like the PF uniforms of Ayodhya that she almost thought she saw Captain Drishti Kumar leading them. She focussed her energies and looked back at the dais.
Ravana was giving her his full attention. All ten heads were turned towards her, watching intently. A few babbled to one another, but for at least that moment, all his considerable power was directed at her alone.
The sentries rushed forward, weapons lowered and ready to skewer her like a rann of meat for the cookfire. She was, after all, a condemned murderer, awaiting only her sentence. Even her whirling circle of chains would not keep them away for more than a moment, and she was weakening already, the days of starvation and thirst taking a heavy toll.
But as they came to the periphery, ready to slip through and pierce her with their evil-looking weapons, the king of Lanka’s voice boomed out.
‘Do not harm her! She is not to be touched. Step back.’
At once the sentries fell back.
The rakshasis, recovered from the shock of her unexpected turnaround, snarled sonorously, flashing their yellow fangs and teeth, showing their eagerness to carry out her death sentence here and now. She allowed the chains to slow in their spining arc but kept them turning still for a moment.
Ravana rose from his throne and stepped across the dais. Mandodhari stood as well, seeking to accompany him and no doubt wreak new penalties upon Sita for this bold, new transgression. He spoke a few brief words to her, and she stepped back to her throne, bright spots of colour rising on her high cheekbones. Her eyes glared like rubies in a cave wall, reflecting the light of mashaals. A cobra whose eggs I squashed would not be more malevolent towards me, Sita thought.
The court hall had become a rabble of noise and commotion. A single gesture from the lord of Lanka and dead silence fell upon the entire chamber. The carpet-muffled footfalls of Ravana’s boots sounded as he strode down the dais steps and across the dozen or so yards to where she stood. She lowered the chains, knowing that if she were fighting this opponent, they would hardly be effective weapons. But she kept them wrapped around her fists, if only to give herself psychological strength. It was all the strength she had.
‘So,’ Ravana said in a quiet tone. The same tone he had used when he first spoke to her after her regaining consciousness in the tower-forest. ‘Do you wish to add a murder attempt to your crimes?’
‘I am innocent,’ she said. ‘I committed no murder. This so-called justice of yours is a travesty. I was not even permitted to speak in my defence.’
Ravana’s heads examined her with interest.
From somewhere in the depths of the ranks of watching representatives, a voice rang out rudely, ‘You had the mortal-lover speak for you! What more did you expect? A full pardon and the king’s bed to boot?’
Sita ignored the heckler. Instead, she raised her voice and addressed not just Ravana but the entire assembly. ‘I was abducted by deceit, stealth and force. I was brought here against my power, against my will. I have been subjected to inhumane treatment, tormented and taunted, threatened and badgered. I am starved and neglected. And when a rakshasi wiser than all the rest of them combined attempted to give me some little nourishment, she was struck down and brutally killed by her own so-called companions. These four,’ she pointed a hand wound about with chains at the four rakshasis, snarling and bloody-eyed, ‘murdered the one named Trijata, not me. I did not lay a hand on her or anyone else. I am barely able to survive my imprisonment. And now, I am brought before this mockery of an Arya court and made to participate in a charade of Ayodhyan justice. But whether or not I survive is no longer the issue. You can kill me tonight as your lord has decreed. You can rip my flesh and tear me apart and eat me like a meal for demons. But know this: retribution is coming. A great and terrible vengeance is upon you all. Trijata saw it coming, saw the end of your city-kingdom, and the end of your entire race. That end approaches fast. And when that day comes, there will be an accounting for all these wrongful doings, and every one of you will be called upon to pay the butcher’s bill. On that day of reckoning, being eaten alive will seem like a mercy in comparison with what you will experience. My husband is a soldier of dharma, a great wielder of the sword of truth and justice. When he comes, and he comes swiftly now on wings of fire, he will dispense true justice. And even the devas will not hear your pleas of mercy on that day. This, I promise you one and all.’
She let the ends of the chains drop from her hands. They fell with a clattering that was very loud in the silent, stunned hall.
‘Now do with me as you will. As you act, so shall you be judged.’
ELEVEN
He stood on the crest of the dunes, his muscled body gleaming like a freshly oiled wrestler about to step into the akhada for a bout. Never as profusely hirsute as his vanar brethren, his newfound vigour made his skin appear almost hairlessly smooth, golden-hued in tone, and near-mortal. He appeared no larger than when he had left, but the look of calm childlike quietude had settled further into a state of blissful contentment, a beatific blissful aura. This was a far cry from the ragged, bedraggled, reedy-thin, ribs-showing, fangs-flashing creature that had first accosted Rama in the wilds of Janasthana, and noticeably different even from the Hanuman who had met up with them here at the coast mere days earlier. He is complete now, Rama thought. He has achieved complete self-realisation.
Jambavan stood beside the vanar, his ears twitching, mouth working busily on something chewy. The others stood around them, a small distance away. Rama had already acknowledged and greeted King Sugreeva on the beach and the king went forward, stopped, and looked Hanuman up and down keenly.
‘To think that I had a deva in my ranks and did not know it all these years.’
He folded his palms and began to bow. Hanuman caught him at once. ‘Nay, my lord. You are still my king. It is not meet that you bow before me.’
Sugreeva smiled. ‘Even kings bow before devas.’ He bent and touched Hanuman’s feet before the vanar could protest again. ‘I consider myself doubly blessed. First, for having been privileged to have known a demigod for so many years, even if I did not know he was such. And again, for having had that demigod in my service, even though I hardly deserve such an honour. Hanuman, before all of vanarkind I declare you now a free person. You may do as you please with the rest of your life. You are no longer bound to my service.’
Hanuman folded his own hands together and, bowing, touched Sugreeva’s feet. ‘My lord, I choose to remain in your service. I shall be ever your loyal servant.’
Sugreeva blinked and tears welled in his grey eyes. ‘Then I am blessed yet again. Yet I exhort you once more, you are free. Go do as thou wilt. My son. My son’s friend. My friend.’ Each of the three appellations were filled with such warmth and love, Rama could feel the sincerity in them. He felt glad he had chosen to ally himself with Sugreeva. His first instinct had been right. This was a good king. A great king even. Then he remembered: it was Hanuman who had come to him and asked him to ally with Sugreeva. So it was really Hanuman who was proved correct.
Almost as if he sensed his thoughts, the vanar turned his large soulful eyes towards Rama. Then he looked back at his king, his hands still folded. ‘In that case, I ask only one thing, my lord. While still in your service eternally, as you have allied your strength with Lord Rama, let me serve you by serving Rama. It is what I desire most.’
Sugreeva clasped Hanuman’s hands, then kissed them. ‘So be it.’ He raised his voice, loud enough for all the crowd of watching vanars and bears to hear and pass on to those who were out of earshot. ‘From this moment on, Hanuman shall serve Lord Rama of Ayodhya. And in doing so, he serves me. Hanuman, you will take all your orders from Rama henceforth, and do as he says. Serve him as diligently and loyally as you have served me, make his cause your own.’
Hanuman bowed his head, thanking the king. A great sigh rose from the watching armies.
Sugreeva paused, then looked at Hanuman uncertainly. Something passed across his face. ‘When you were a boy, I once scolded you for leading the vanars into the madhuvan gardens, and for stealing the honey wine there and getting yourself and all the vanars drunk, when you should have been working on an errand for me. At that time, I did not know of your divinity. I thought of you only as a young vanar, as my son’s friend, and I may have raised my hand upon you—’ He paused. ‘Forgive me for that transgression, forgive me for any time that I may have treated you wrongly in any way—’
Hanuman made a sound, a vanar sound that Rama understood to mean several different things at different times and contexts. In this context, it seemed to mean, no, no, no. ‘Nay, my lord,’ Hanuman said in words. ‘It is not you who needs to render an apology. It is I who must apologise to you.’
‘You? What for?’
‘For possessing the powers given to me and not using them in your service. Had I but been aware of the extent of my abilities, you would not have been compelled to wander the aranya in exile. I could have championed you and won back Kiskindha single-handedly.’
Sugreeva shook his head, his grey eyes twinkling sagely. ‘It was not to be that way, young master. It was your destiny to seek out Rama and gain his friendship and trust. He was destined to return me to the throne of Kiskindha. Just as he was the one who was to awaken you to this realisation of your powers.’
Sugreeva turned to Rama. Everyone turned as well.
Rama shook his head self-deprecatingly. ‘I have done nothing to deserve praise here. His powers he gained at birth itself, from his illustrious pater. As for now, Jambavan was the one who made Hanuman’s awakening possible. He—’
‘Was Vashishta your father, Rama? Or Vishwamitra?’
Rama frowned at Jambavan. What sort of question was this? ‘Of course not. My father—’
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 25