He rampaged through the palace of pleasure.
***
Ravana stepped through the portal directly onto the royal dais in Lanka’s court hall. The agitated discussion that was raging ended at once. The assembled rakshasas turned to greet their king, bowing to pay him obeisance. He seated himself on the throne without further ceremony, and gave the rest permission to be seated. The great hall wore a deserted look, except for a dozen-odd seats near the dais that were occupied. He had called for only his war council to be present. The seated rakshasa commanders and generals looked at one another; nobody ever wanted to be the first to speak when Ravana convened a council.
He looked down at them impassively. ‘It would be helpful if someone provided an update.’
War Marshal Prahasta rose to his feet. The kumbha-rakshasa was old but still vigorous. He towered above the others with the natural size and height advantage of all kumbhas, two and a half times as tall and twice the girth of most rakshasas. His uniform gleamed with gold- plated armour, set off by the rows upon rows of tiny shrunken heads dangling like medals from his lapels and chest ridges. They were the symbols of his victories, each shrunken head belonging to the leader of the force he had defeated in battle. More than two-thirds of the skulls belonged to various asura races, including rakshasas; the rest were of various animal species; perhaps a tenth were mortal.
Prahasta’s hollow mouth horns twitched and exuded ichor before he spoke. ‘My lord, the vanar has invaded the palace of pleasures and caused much destruction.’ From his laconic tone, he could have been describing the completion of a municipal street-paving project. War Marshal Prahasta’s inclinations were martial rather than hedonistic.
‘The damned monkey has completely demolished the pleasure realm.’ This voice, betraying more emotion, came from right beside Prahasta, spoken by a younger but no less impressively sized kumbha. Jambumali was Prahasta’s son as well as vice-marshal, and he strongly resembled his father in physical appearance, but in every other respect, the two were as unalike as could be. While Prahasta had never stepped into the pleasure realm, Jambumali spent most of his leisure hours there. It was quite natural he would be upset. His own mouth horns twitched vigorously, exuding several viscous droplets of ichor. ‘My captains tell me he seemed to take particular delight in destroying property rather than taking lives.’
‘But he showed no reticence in taking lives in the upper levels,’ noted his father beside him. Prahasta went on: ‘It seems he follows the Kshatriya code of warfare. He only fights those who are armed, or who attack him first. I would not have believed until today that a vanar existed who even knew what the Kshatriya code was. It seems this is a most unusual breed we are dealing with. I recommend caution.’
Ravana allowed one of his heads to show amusement at this assessment. ‘Not a breed, Prahasta, merely an aberration. And one that will have no opportunity to multiply.’ He paused, probing the intelligence of the Pushpak with his mind. ‘I see that he is currently heading through the rustic realms at a ripping pace.’ He paused. ‘And as Jambumali pointed out, he seems to be focusing his energy on destroying property rather than taking lives.’ He followed the vanar’s progress through the medium of the Pushpak for several moments, then saw something that made him snort. ‘Except when he is challenged or attacked, at which point he’s quite willing to do violence. Indeed, Prahasta, it seems we have here a cultured vanar, if such a thing is possible.’ He followed the vanar for a few minutes more, commenting on his movements to his council, then suddenly he frowned. ‘He’s changed direction. He sees something. What does he see?’ He felt an interference in the medium and understood at once. ‘The clever monkey, he’s using the Pushpak’s powers as well as his own to seek out a destination. But what place is he seeking?’ After a moment or two, ‘On the move again. He’s … ah. I see where he’s going.’ Scowls darkened several of his faces. ‘He’s heading towards the bhakti level. He’s going to the worship halls.’
Several of his generals exchanged glances. ‘My lord,’ said General Bhasakarna, rising to his feet. ‘If he wreaks havoc in the worship hall, it will be seen as a most inauspicious omen by the people. He must be stopped at once.’
Ravana grunted. ‘I don’t give a hang for omens, General. But we are agreed in one respect. He must be stopped. Prahasta, take your kumbhas and block his way. I am instructing the Pushpak to transport them instantaneously. You go as well and ensure that the monkey-brained fool does not reach the prayer hall.’
Prahasta rose without a single word, turned, and vanished— into a portal that disappeared as soon as he had passed through.
Supanakha purred from beside Ravana’s throne. He glanced at her with a half-smile on one face, knowing what she desired. ‘Ah, yes, cousin. You like to watch, don’t you? I think watching this will be instructive for us all.’
He clapped his hands. At once, the many kinkara rakshasas kneeling below the dais fetched the large clay bowl filled with water. Ravana rose from his throne and stood before the bowl, uttering the mantras of conjuring. The contents of the bowl rose, and swirled, glimmering mistily. The image of Hanuman appeared upon the water-screen, leaping through the air with a mangled piece of unidentifiable metal in his hands that seemed to be a piece of an iron gate or fence. The vanar landed with a resounding thump upon a green, grassy hillock, looked around to assess his surroundings, and began bounding uphill.
Ravana gestured again. The kinkaras moved forward at once, serving goblets of wine to the ministers of war. Their painted faces glanced occasionally at the water-screen conjured by Ravana, stealing glances at the vanar. Ravana noted their stealthy looks. So. Word of the vanar’s massacre of the kinkaras in the garden realm had reached down here already. He grimaced and snapped his fingers, dismissing the kinkaras. Then he raised his cup in a toast.
‘Generals, tilt your cups while you watch the show,’ he said. ‘And make sure you drain them empty. Very shortly, we shall fill them to the brim with fresh vanar blood.’
***
Hanuman stopped halfway up the hill. He looked at the stone edifice on the top. It looked vaguely familiar. Almost at once, he knew where he had seen it before. When flying towards Lanka. A stone monolithic temple on the top of a mountain near the southern coast of the island. It bore the unmistakable blackstone austerity of a Shiva mandir. But this temple was within the heart of the tower-palace. Yet it looked the same. He looked around, sniffing; then scratched the grass, dislodging soil, and raising a clod to his nostrils to sniff at that as well. Waugh! If that was real earth, then he was a monkey’s uncle! He tossed the clod away disdainfully. More of the Pushpak’s illusions. Ravana had used the magic of the Pushpak combined with his own asura maya to create a virtual city within the city of Lanka itself. While some areas, like the pleasure realm, were wholly the product of his twisted imagination, others, like this replica of the stone temple from southern Lanka, were merely picture-perfect imitations. This was no more a real temple than this soil was real earth. He was relieved. The idea of finding the rakshasa’s prayer halls had been an inspired one, but he had no desire to desecrate genuine shrines.
But this was different. He reduced himself so he would be small enough to enter the temple and bounded the last few yards, roaring loudly. He was rewarded by a flurry of shouts and yells of outrage as he was seen by the long line of rakhsasas waiting to go in for their daily worship—or coming out after having done their ishtaa. Several of them dropped their prayer thalis and drew their weapons, coming towards him. Good. He was tired of just beating down pillars and knocking over buildings. It would be nice to have some real opposition.
The rakshasas emerging from the temple didn’t provide much opposition though. He tore his way through them in a few moments. And then he was at the temple itself. He let a crowd of screaming Brahmin rakshasas, all clad in pristine white and red-ochre, and with caste marks on their foreheads and threads around their torsos, leave the premises unharmed. They ran down the hill, screaming and c
alling to the devas for help. He was amused to hear at least one call out to the wind god to save them from the ‘monkey invaders’. Yes, Lord Marut would certainly save them. By demolishing this mockery of faith.
He said a silent prayer to Lord Shiva, asking his forgiveness as well as his support in demolishing this phoney edifice. To his relief, the dark god of destruction did not respond or appear to block his path, which in his mind constituted approval. As soon as he crossed the threshold and entered the temple proper, he saw why. The temple, although a perfect replica externally, was a completely different affair on the inside. Gold pillars and jewelled walls, gem-studded polished stone floors, pearl and opal carvings, naked representations of devas and devis … It was an obscene mockery of what a real Shiva temple ought to be. He had no doubt that the real temple on the southern mountain was nothing like this. This was Ravana’s doing. His way of subverting true faith with vulgar displays of wealth. In its own way, it was no less obscene than the palace of pleasures. A Shiva temple, of all places, was required to be as austere and simple as possible. Black stone alone was to be used, and even the effigy of the lord was to be carved as little as possible. Ideally, a lingam, the symbol of Lord Shiva, was to be installed as it was, uncut and unpolished, in the central space of the shrine.
But this place was a travesty. He expanded his size, and began roaring loudly to coax the priests and purohits into leaving. They stared at him incredulously, clutching thalis filled with precious stones, gold, and other rich offerings. Hanuman took hold of a golden pillar, wrenching it loose with a loud grating noise, and began flailing around. The priests ran screaming, not too much in a hurry to remember to carry their precious ‘offerings’ with them. Two of them even managed to carry out a whole chest groaning with the weight of gold anklets and bangles and gems. Hanuman let them go without hurting any. He was busy swinging the pillar around.
The temple collapsed around him with a thunderous clatter. He emerged from the dust and debris, the pillar still clutched in one fist.
An army was waiting for him.
THIRTEEN
If not an army, then a legion at least. He estimated several thousands of rakshasas lined up in neat formations, armoured and armed. They were not the painted dainties he had seen before, nor the ordinary run-of-the-mill animal-faced ones that were ubiquitous in Lanka. These were huge fellows (and females too, he noted), three or four yards in height, half as much in width, and they resembled their smaller rakshasa brethren only superficially. From the burning intensity of their eyes, visible through the slits in their headgear, they seemed to have more fighting spirit than the smaller rakshasas too. And far more discipline. While he had been demolishing the phoney temple, they had cleared the area of all unarmed rakshasas and had ringed him in completely. If he wanted, he could leap over them and be a hundred miles away, or as far as one could go within this sorcerous illusion of a place. But why would he do that and disappoint all these smartly lined-up, eager-to-fight demonfaces? No. He would stay and fight.
He swept his gaze across the massed ranks and stopped at one face. He had no doubt that that was the leader. He was an impressive fellow, all armoured in gold—no, surely it couldn’t be solid gold, that would be as effective as tinfoil, it was probably gold-plated iron armour—and with a headgear that resembled some mangled hybrid between a rhinoceros and an elephant. But it was the rakshasa’s face that caught his attention. The fellow displayed none of the seething ichor-dripping hatred that seethed in every other face in the ranks lined up before him. Only a dispassionate curiosity. As if he were some new breed of insect the rakshasa was seeing for the first time, and it would be interesting to see what colour his insides might be.
Hanuman looked around. A gentle wind was blowing. It felt cool and refreshing on his sweaty body. Fascinating how cleverly real this illusory world could be. Virtually as real as the real Lanka outside.
Time to show the Lankans that there were other things and beings as wondrous as those in their island-kingdom. Forces greater than even the most bewitching asura illusion.
He bared his chest and beat it once with the gold pillar. The sound it made was like a dhol-drum being beaten with a hollow stick.
‘I am Hanuman,’ he roared. ‘Servant of the mighty Rama, King of Kosala, saviour of mortalkind, Rama the magnificent. I am the son of the wind and the chosen slayer of rakshasas. I came here to bring you the message of my lord Rama. In abducting Rama’s wife Sita and bringing her here to Lanka against her will, your master Ravana has committed a grave transgression. My lord is coming here soon, bringing an army of vanars like myself. If your lord Ravana does not repent for his crime and release the lady Sita honourably before the sun rises on this land tomorrow, then I will destroy your kingdom and kill every last rakshasa who comes in my way. And then I shall leave, and when I return, a million vanars like myself will come with me, led by our lord Rama, and we will wreak such devastation upon your homeland that no rakshasa will survive to see the dawn of another day. How say you now? Speak!’
For a long moment, there was no response from the assembled rakshasas. Unless all that twitching of the slimy hornlike appendages over their mouths qualified as a response. Those appendages twitched and quivered furiously, dripping a slick viscous exudation the way a deer in heat exuded kasturi. Although Hanuman did not think that these exudations would smell as enticing as kasturi.
Then the leader, the one with all the gold-plated armour and the hundreds of tiny skulls dangling like decorations upon his torso, opened his own mouthhorns and spoke. ‘I am Prahasta, War Marshal of Lanka. We are kumbha-rakshasas, loyal to Ravana. We will not exchange words with you or trade terms. We have come to apprehend you, monkey-man. Surrender and state your demands to Lord Ravana if you dare. Resist us and you face death.’
The leader’s mouthhorns twitched once, then held still. But the appendages of his soldiers moved frantically. Hanuman understood that it was their way of expressing anger. So they wanted war. So be it. He would express his anger to them as well.
Hanuman beat his chest with the pillar again and yet again, roaring out the exclamation that was now his battle cry. ‘Jai Shri Rama!’ He shook the pillar at them, to make his response utterly clear.
The leader of the rakshasas opened his mouth appendages again and issued a loud, hoarse bleating cry. At once the first four rows of oversized rakshasas detached themselves from the rest of the contingent and lumbered forward. The line was perhaps a hundred head wide, which meant that four hundred rakshasas were charging him in this first assault. They gathered speed as they came, trundling like a herd of rhinoceros charging at a prey. The resemblance to rhinos became more blatant when they lowered their heads and pointed their long, tapering, blackbone horns. The tips of those horns, Hanuman saw, were sharp enough to rip open flesh and gore through a body.
He expanded himself at once, stopping when he was roughly the same size as any one of the rakshasas. He could have made himself a hundred times larger—or a thousand—if he desired. But he wished to make this as fair a fight as possible. It was time to send a message to Lanka, one that would be heard and taken seriously. Monkey-man, the rakshasa leader had called him. Monkey-man indeed!
The charging rakshasa lines were almost at him when he made his move. Instead of waiting for them to come the rest of the distance, he charged at them.
Swinging the gold pillar, he struck out at the frontline. The result was not quite the same as when he had struck out at the normal-sized rakshasas with the broken fence. These ones— kumbha-rakshasas, the leader had called them—were far sturdier and heavier. The pillar struck them with the impact of a mace striking an elm tree trunk. The ones who were struck directly grunted loudly in protest, their mouth appendages spewing copious amounts of that same greenish-black ichor. But they kept coming. Over their heads, he saw the leader of the kumbharakshasas throw his head back and issue a chugging sound that could only mean some form of laughter.
The line slammed into him. The
lowered horns struck him like a bunch of pointed swords. With that much force and momentum, they probably expected to gore him through and through and toss him back over their shoulders, like a herd of bulls throwing a monkey. They barrelled into him with enough force to break down a yard-thick stone wall.
He absorbed the impact and stood his ground. With his vision-control, he witnessed it as if it were taking place over several moments instead of in just a fleeting instant.
Their horns crumpled first. Some broke, snapping off and leaving ragged stumps, others crumpled, and one horn tore off at the base, leaving a gaping hole that gushed blood. Then their headgear, some variety of special armour with eyelets to allow their horns to emerge, shattered. Made of some variety of bone, they crumpled and smashed into powdery fragments. And then their heads broke, skulls cracking, breaking, shattering as well. One of them struck Hanuman’s ribs with a force hard enough to press his own head back into his torso.
The entire frontline crumpled, dropping dead on the spot.
Those who had not struck Hanuman directly were already into their follow-through. They swung their enormous curved blades, a cross between scimitars and battleaxes. The blades had the same effect on Hanuman’s body as the horns and headgear. They shattered like glass, fragments driven helter skelter. Some were driven back into the faces and eyes and bodies of their wielders, dropping more kumbha-rakshasas.
Then Hanuman raised the pillar again and struck out. Ths time, he used much greater force. This time, the kumbharakshasas flew into the air no differently than the ordinary smaller rakshasas had flown earlier. He swung the pillar again and again, toppling kumbha-rakshasas like so many skittles.
A moment later, he was done. He stopped and lowered the pillar, stepping back to examine the results.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 37