She had another life to think about. She must cherish that helpless, unborn life. Nurture it until it was ready to join this world.
It was for the sake of that life that she had partaken of some little nourishment and water. Just enough to sustain herself.
She breathed out slowly one last time, then cleansed the crowded slate of her mind of all thoughts and worries. She began her twice-daily cycle of prayer to the goddess Sri. Not knowing when sunrise and sundown came in this unnatural environ, she had taken to performing her ablutive prayer ritual in her mind at roughly twelve hour intervals, judging the time as best as she could. But now she spoke aloud and prayed wholeheartedly to the goddess. Pouring out her heart’s burden and raising her hopes to that ultimate court of appeal.
She was a little more than halfway through the one hundred and eight repetitions of the sacred shloka praising Sri when the familiar voice spoke.
‘My lady.’
There was no mistaking Ravana’s voice. Somehow, even though he spoke from different mouths each time, often changing face in the middle of a sentence, yet his voice always sounded the same. That same intonation. That flawless Sanskrit diction. That perfect pronunciation.
She continued the recitation without losing a beat. A part of her felt a twinge of surprise when he did not interrupt her again, but still she sensed that he still stood waiting behind her. She paid him no heed. Nothing would interrupt her ishtaa this time, the first she had performed in Lanka.
It took her a long while to finish. When she was done, she bowed and touched her head to the oblong-shaped black stone she had used as a symbolic effigy, opening her loosely held fist and showering the stone with the flowers she had picked for the purpose. She added a fruit, a portion of her own meagre meal, as prasadam. She had already washed and figuratively clothed the effigy with a strip of cloth from her own tattered garment. Crude as the arrangements may be, she made up for them with her love and devotion, leaving no step untaken, taking her time with the ritual, uncaring of whether the lord of asuras himself waited behind her. Only when she was satisfied did she rise, back away three full steps, then turn.
Ravana was standing before her. His own hands were folded as well, heads bowed. She saw the lips of more than one of his heads moving as if reciting a shloka. He unjoined his palms and looked up at her with all his glittering eyes.
Her voice, so soft and melodic during the prayer ritual, turned stony and caustic as she addressed him. ‘Have you come to torment me again?’
He seemed to take no offence at her words or her tone. ‘My lady, if I wished to torment you, I would have locked you in the dungeons beneath this tower. Not kept you in the uppermost level under the highest level of security.’
‘Security?’ She almost laughed.
‘Yes, your own security. You might not know this, but the kingdom is in an uproar over the murder of the rakshasi Trijata. Many of my generals and nobles believe that I should throw you to the people and let them exact the justice they feel you deserve. Yet—’
‘Why don’t you do it, then?’
He continued as if she had not interrupted. ‘Yet I have gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that you are given the full protection you deserve under the law.’
This time, she did laugh bitterly. ‘I have seen your law at work. False accusations, rampant bias, it is a travesty of the very concept of justice.’
‘Nevertheless, you have been treated as fairly as could be expected under the circumstances. Did you honestly expect a mortal in the land of Lanka to be regarded with any less hostility and derision? I would wager a year’s harvest of blood-apples that a rakshasa in Ayodhya would not receive the same. You have been treated as well as could be expected under the circumstances, my lady. You should be grateful for that small mercy.’
She folded her hands across her chest. ‘I hardly call the treatment meted out by your wife and her rakshasis merciful. They spared me no pain or abuse. And before that, your own cousin sought to slay me. This, of course, was all before I was dragged in chains to a humiliating public hall, accused of a crime I did not commit, given no chance to speak in my defense, and summarily condemned to death.’ She shook her head firmly. ‘Do not speak to me of mercy or fair treatment.’
‘Have I treated you unfairly or unmercifully?’
She grimaced. ‘You mean, apart from wresting me by brute force from my husband’s house and carrying me off like a slain doe?’
He sighed. ‘My lady. Let us move past these old arguments. Try to see your situation in the present light. You are condemned to be executed within a few hours. People have already begun gathering in the city square to witness your execution.’
Which meant it was probably close to sundown. ‘And yet you speak to me of mercy and fairness.’
‘Yes. Because I am not one of those baying for your blood.’
‘I see.’ She tried not to ask the obvious question: Why is that? Why do you pretend to be so fair and merciful to me? ‘And yet in the sabha, you endorsed the verdict. I did not hear you overturn it or put it aside. You showed little mercy or fairness there.’
‘True. Because I am only the chosen liege of my people. Not a tyrant or a dictator. All rakshasas in Lanka are free to feel differently and act upon their feelings. It was not always so, but it is so now in the new, resurrected Lanka.’ He paused a moment, as if musing on how things had once been and how they were now. She had time enough to think that it was an odd word to use, resurrected. Then he continued: ‘Still, I did prevail upon Mandodhari to cease this needless persecution. Even now, as I arrived, you were able to perform your evening ritual undisturbed, were you not?’
She shook her head in disbelief, genuinely amazed at his barefaced lying. ‘You dare to speak of Mandodhari? Her actions were motivated entirely by the falsehoods you told her about my husband and myself. If you had not spun that pack of lies about Rama, she would never have come to hate me with such vehemence. Nor would she have turned her rakshasis upon me. Even when they murdered their own associate and I was falsely accused of the crime, it was you who were responsible for that accusation. Do not think I am too naive to see through your stratagems. Do not be fooled by my apparent passivity. I see and hear and understand everything. This is all a well-spun contrivance designed to suit your purpose. I see through it and I see your hand in everything that happens to me.’
‘Then you must see that I am responsible for the good that comes to you as well,’ he said mildly.
She stared at him, trying to guess which face would address her next. It was unnerving not knowing, being unable to know which face to look at when speaking. It also meant, she warned herself, that he could present a good face, and a bad, and eight shades between as well. ‘Good?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘What good have you done me?’
‘I spared you in the sabha hall when you threatened and insulted the honour of my throne. I have called off the rakshasis. I have requested my wife not to visit you again. She is very upset with me, for even though these may seem like small things to you, they are very great sacrifices for us. Would the king of Ayodhya spare a prisoner of war who behaved in his court as you did earlier today?’
She ignored his question. ‘You claim to do so much for me. And yet you intend to have me executed at midnight tonight. Death. By eating alive.’ She imitated the singsong chorus of the rakshasa nobles passably well.
‘Not I. You heard it yourself. Lanka willed it. The decision to condemn and execute you was a collective one, based on the facts at our disposal.’
‘But I did not murder her!’ she said, struggling to keep her voice level. ‘It was the other rakshasis who did it.’ She turned, intending to point out Vikata. But the rakshasis were gone from the spot where they had been standing before she began her prayers. She scanned the grove.
‘I asked them to leave us for a while,’ he said quietly. ‘What I have to discuss with you is not meant for their ears.’
She shook her head once. ‘I have nothing t
o discuss with you. I expect no justice or redressal from one such as you. I have already spoken my heart in your court. Execute me as your sabha decreed. I have said my last prayers and am prepared to face the end of this life.’
She turned her back on him, showing that she was unafraid. Of him. And death.
But in truth, it was because she feared that he might see her face and know the truth. That she was not ready at all. That she wished to live. That she still hoped against hope that somehow, a way could be found to save her unborn child and carry it to term.
‘It would be a shame for you to die,’ he said. ‘For one so beautiful and noble and rich of heart to end her life in such a manner. Eaten alive by rakshasis in a public spectacle. Is that how you wish your life to end?’
She did not answer. There was no right answer to that question. But her heart pounded faster. Was he doing what she thought he was doing? Hinting to her that there might still be a way out of this? Surely she was reading too much into his words and tone.
‘I do not think so,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘I think you wish to live. And you may do so yet.’
She resisted the temptation to turn around. But she was listening to his words with a sick fascination. What new tortuous design had he dreamed up now? Did he really believe that she would fall for his lies and deception yet again? How arrogant could he be, to think she would be duped for the third time?
In any case, she told herself firmly, there is nothing he can say that I will believe. There is no way he can undo the decision of his court without proving himself to be the very things he claims not to be: a tyrant and a dictator.
‘There is one way. And one way only. I cannot repeal the decision of the court. For it is the decision of the people. And because we are a race that believes in dharma, even a king cannot overturn his people’s verdict. But there is a small chance that we may be able to save your life and persuade the people to take back their decision. There is one circumstance under which they may yet change their minds and agree to spare your life.’
Still she kept her back turned to him, unwilling to show him that she cared a whit for his words. But her heart pounded loudly, deafeningly. The blood roared in her head. Her stomach, long deprived of nourishment, churned its own acids. When Ravana spoke again, each of his words struck at her like a javelin point wielded by an unseen assailant striking from behind her, stuck over and over into her flesh, piercing her heart.
‘All you have to do is tell them that the life you bear in your womb is of my making.’
FOUR
He decided to land on the rim of the island and spy out the lay of the land before proceeding further. The sight of a giant vanar crashing down in the heart of their city might scare the Lankans into concealing Sita somewhere where he might not find her easily.
This way, he would be able to seek her out stealthily, and, when the time was right, expand himself and execute his rescue.
All his life he had thought of Lanka as an island of horrors. Crawling with nightmarish demons of every hue. He had assumed the very soil and grass to be alien, perverted. But the beach he landed on seemed the very twin of the beach whence he had departed the mainland. The sand crunched gritty beneath the soles of his feet, baked searing hot by the sun. The sea was gentle and calm, sloshing peacefully upto his calves, the froth tickling his soles as it drained into the porous sand. Gulls flew overhead, splattering the blackrock strewn about the beach with their white splashes. Even the cliffs rising up from the beach were similar to the cliff face on the mainland. Perhaps once in a past age, the island of Lanka had been a part of the great subcontinent his kind called Jambudwipa, and which the Aryas called Aryavarta. Perhaps Ravana himself had split it from the larger land- mass through his sorcery. That would mean that these cliffs rising before him were once affixed to the cliff face of the mountain he knew as Mahendra. He examined the line of the cliff closely. Yes, he would wager that the two cliffs were kin. In which case, it was more than likely that this cliff was also riddled with labyrinthine caves. And if those caves went far enough, they would take him nearer to the city more discreetly than an overland route.
He leaped up into the air, towards the cliffs. Hovering in mid-air, he scanned the cliff face intently. Soon enough, he spotted what he was looking for: a spot where the sunlight did not gleam off the lichen-encrusted blackrock but was swallowed up entirely. He flew to that spot and saw at once that it was the mouth of a cave. He alighted lightly, congratulating himself on his control over his flying ability. Two strides forward and his forehead struck a low, hanging lip of rock. The rock shattered, showering him with debris. He made a mental note not to congratulate himself too quickly. He still had a fair amount to learn about the exercise of his powers.
The cave curved and twisted, turning back upon itself. The sunlit mouth fell far behind, and soon he was in near darkness.
But he was still able to see by the light of some greenish substance that coated the irregular walls. Rubbing his finger against a wall, he saw that it was the same lichen that grew on the blackrock outside. Apparently, in pitch darkness, it gave off some kind of luminescence. The greenish light was very faint but his vision adjusted quickly and he was able to see his way well enough.
He stayed alert for sounds or scents. The cave smelled faintly of rakshasas, but none seemed to have passed this way recently. As he ventured deeper into the heart of the winding labyrinth, the scents grew stronger and more recent. He paused several times to choose a way between two separate caves, and sometimes three or more separate diversions. Each time he followed the stronger smelling way. At no time did he scent any mortal.
After travelling thus for what seemed like hours, he finally came to a place where the cave opened into a larger cavern. He moved through several successively larger caverns, until he came out through a wet passageway into which fresh water dripped constantly from a crack in the roof, and found himself in the largest subterranean chamber he had ever seen in his life.
It seemed to be a cave. But could not be. No cave could be so vast. Or so perfectly smoothened on all sides. Like the inside of an eggshell. He guessed it must be the work of sorcery again. It was the first unnatural thing he had encountered in Lanka.
There was no sign of life in here, but he sensed something. He walked out into the centre of the cavern floor, where a great heap of rubble lay. As he approached, he saw the rubble was glowing with a reddish light and stopped warily while still a distance away. It seemed to be the debris of a large slab of redstone. But what force had shattered it? He looked upwards and saw a mouth in the ceiling of the cavern, tapering towards the centre, like a giant funnel. The hole at the very top was lost in darkness. Had something fallen from up there, shattering this slab? He shrugged. It did not matter either way. Sita was not here. He could smell the faint stench of rakshasas, but the scent was several months old. But in the rubble, the debris of the shattered slab, he smelled the unmistakable odour of one particular rakshasa, fouler and more fetid than any scent he had smelled. He suspected that it was Ravana’s scent. But it was as old as the other scents.
He grew impatient and decided he must move faster. He sniffed his way to the far side of the cavern, finding a crevice where the scent of rakshasas was strongest and most recent. He sensed that the city of Lanka lay that way, to the south-west of the island. He debated flying up through the roof of the cavern and up to the surface, but decided that proceeding underground was wiser.
He moved through the crevice as far as he could go. When he came up against a rough rock wall, he hesitated only briefly, then bunched his fists and struck at the wall. The rock shattered as easily as limestone at a hammer’s blow. He waited, listening for any signs that he might have alerted some rakshasa sentry somewhere in the bowels of the island. But there was nothing to be heard or smelt for miles around. All his senses told him that the rakshasas lay that way. He clasped his hands together in a wrestler’s hammer and swung them at the rockwall. The rock shatte
red again, and he passed bodily through it, like a knife through butter. He flew with his clasped fists before his head, driving through the bedrock. He picked up momentum, flying through the rock. Debris and dust spewed in his wake.
He drilled on, moving as rapidly as a horse galloping over open ground travelled. He paused every few miles to get his bearings and take a scent-bearing again. Finally, after some twenty yojanas, he judged that he was close to the city of Lanka and began to fly upwards, breaking through the rock just as easily. Even deep within the bowels of the earth, the unmistakable stench of asura blood had seeped in. He grimaced. Much blood had been spilled on the ground above. The earth was heavy with the weight of all those slaughtered souls. He smelled the residue of volcanic effluents, and recalled what Sampati the vulture had told Jambavan and him about there being a great volcano on Lanka once. He also smelled the stench of burnt flesh as he rose through the tortured earth, and connected the smell with the great fires that had razed the old black fortress and city of Lanka to the ground, fourteen years earlier. It took all his self-will to keep from being overwhelmed by the residue of misery and pain that remained in this soil. It was true after all: this land was cursed. You only had to dig deep enough to see it.
He broke through the surface at last, and had to fight the temptation to simply fly up into the sky and leave the stench and pain below. He scanned his surroundings quickly, smelling the scent of rakshasas powerfully here. Recent smells, from only hours earlier. But none were nearby at present. He examined his surroundings and was taken aback.
He was in some kind of garden. It was breathtakingly beautiful, the entire landscape meticulously laid out and maintained. Fountains of water sprang up, walkways wound their way through groves of beautiful flora and every variety of tree and plant imaginable. It was a cornucopia of beautiful, growing things. He had grown up hearing vanars speak with awe and pride of the gardens of Vrindavan, where the famed honey wine of Kiskindha was made. But this garden made even Vrindavan seem a backyard plot in comparison. He climbed a tall ash and looked in one direction then another, seeing only miles upon square miles of fountains and pathways, ponds and flower gardens. After travelling through the cursed bedrock of Lanka, seeped with the stench of countless slaughtered asura, the scents of the garden were heavenly. He marvelled at the existence of such beauty and perfection on an island of monsters.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 30