Mandodhari stopped before the water-screen. It showed the vanar Hanuman standing alone in a field of corpses. The devastation was considerable. Off to one side, a feline figure scampered to the silhouette of a tree and leaped up, climbing to the top where she perched on a branch. Despite the sorcerous clarity of the image, it was not possible to make out the identity of each and every corpse, but she didn’t have to recognise them all to understand the scope and significance implied by the image.
‘A single vanar,’ she said. ‘Unarmed.’
Ravana threw down the goblet from which he was drinking. It bounced hard on the stone floor, the metal rim crumpling with the force of the throw, and settled with a ringing echo on its side.
‘What does he want?’ she asked her husband.
Every pair of eyes, and several trios of eyes, turned to Ravana.
‘What do you think he wants?’ he growled.
‘And is she worth all this?’ she asked indicating the field full of corpses.
He waved dismissively. ‘This is not about her anymore. It is a question of dealing with an intrusion.’
‘An intrusion?’ she repeated. ‘Is that what you call it? It looks more like an invasion to me.’
Ravana glowered down at her with three of his heads. The others seemed to be muttering arcane things to each other or to invisible persons. ‘It will be dealt with. Within the hour, I will have the vanar bound in chains and paraded through the city streets. Then he will be executed.’
‘Along with the mortal woman?’ she asked.
He turned away, avoiding her gaze. ‘Let us deal with this impudence first. The mortal woman is no immediate threat.’
She stared at him until she felt that her gaze must bore through his back and pierce his flesh. But then she recalled the real reason she had come here. In that sense, he was right. The mortal woman could wait awhile. There were other things more pressing to deal with first.
‘I am told you sent for my sons.’ She kept her voice calm.
He turned to face her again. ‘What of it?’
‘And that you intend to order them to go into battle against this invader … intruder … whatever you wish to call him.’
‘Lanka is as much under their protection as mine. They have a right to defend their kingdom against this intrusion. They are, after all, princes of Lanka.’
‘And you are, after all, king of Lanka,’ she responded, more than a little curtly.
He stared down at her, ignoring the mild buzzing that had started in the rear of the hall. ‘Your point being?’
‘That you are the chief defender of this kingdom. If you can justify sending Akshay and Indrajit, then you can send yourself as well.’
A long moment of stunned silence passed. The buzzing in the rear was replaced by a sense that most of the occupants of the hall were holding their breath.
‘You expect me, Ravana, lord of Lanka, to go and personally deal with a single intruder?’ he asked with deceptive mildness. She could see the rage dancing in his eyes, leaping from face to face too quickly to be noticed easily unless you knew where to look. And she knew exactly where to look, oh she knew all too well. ‘What next? When a dog comes to the city gates and urinates, will you expect me to go flick a stick at him too?’
She walked up the steps of the dais. Even when she stood at the top, on the same level as he, he was still a good two heads taller. Well, for that matter, he was a good ten heads taller! But she felt better, if only for having asserted her queenly prerogative. ‘I expect you not to put my sons into any situation into which you would not put yourself.’
He stared at her so long and so silently that she was certain that this time she had overstepped the invisible line that had always encircled her in their relationship. She expected a mantra to issue from one of his pairs of lips at any moment, blasting her into a charred skeleton, or a fist to swing out, smashing her dead with a single blow. Things had always been that fragile between them, only one utterance or a single blow away from the end. Yet she knew that if she did not assert herself, constantly test the limits, she would be diminished daily, ground down into the earth, until finally one day she would wake up to find that she had no more power than a hogtied joy-slave in a bidsem rakshasa’s cellar.
But his anger dissipated suddenly. His eyes, smouldering until now, turned opaque and moved away from her, looking over her shoulder at something in the sabha hall.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Any risk I would bid them undertake, I would be willing to undertake myself. They are my sons too, after all.’
She almost sighed with relief. She had won another battle, however minuscule. ‘Then we are agreed. You will not send Akshay Kumar and Indrajit to face this vanar.’
He laughed. ‘Perhaps you misheard me,’ he said, then glanced at the left of the dais where she knew Vibhisena was standing. ‘Or perhaps your sources of information are too slow. Our sons have already gone to face the vanar.’
‘What!’ she cried out despite herself. ‘But you just promised me—’
‘I promised you that I would not send them to do this if I was not willing to do it myself. And I stand by that. If they should fail, which I doubt very strongly, then you have my word. The next opponent I will send to face this vanar will be I, myself.’ He strode past her. ‘Now let us see how our sons fare in this unequal battle.’
She turned to see the thing he had been staring at over her shoulder. The water-screen. It depicted Hanuman facing a single chariot. Even in this diminished depiction, she could not fail to recognise the sigil and banner of her younger son, Akshay Kumar.
SIXTEEN
Hanuman knew that the opponent who came to face him now was someone of greater significance than all the others who had come before. He knew this because even before the distant rumble of the chariot came to his ears, the ground beneath his feet began to groan. Until now, the sun had traversed a course similar to the real sun in a real sky. It had been sometime in the late morning when he had entered this level of the tower, and by now it had moved perhaps an hour or so westwards. But now, even as the earth groaned underfoot, the sun began to visibly dim, its solar light dulled to a matty glow, like a lantern before which a mesh screen had been positioned. The wind which had been wafting gently until now, suddenly died down, leaving a stillness that was accentuated by the utter absence of insect or bird sound. Somewhere in the distant west, came the sound of an ocean swelling and crashing against a rocky shore. And the silhouetted mountain range along the northern horizon trembled and boomed, as if with great avalanches. Finally, the sky itself thrummed and boomed and clashed though no stormclouds were visible, nor any other visible cause.
He thought of asking the shapeshifter who his latest opponent was, then thought better of it. Would knowing change anything? He would still have to fight and slay, no matter who it was. Better then that he faced the challenger as just a warrior, and ignore the light-and-sound show as yet another boastful flaunting of rakshasa maya.
He flexed his muscles and without consciously debating the choice, began to expand himself. It seemed warranted. He swelled with strength and power, growing to only a few times his size. When he was perhaps the height of a mature oak tree, he stopped, spread his legs to anchor himself, and slapped the insides of his thighs to get the blood circulating, an old wrestling habit from his young days in the akhada. Something made him think of Sakra and his cheeka, and a small smile tweaked his mouth.
He was standing that way when the chariot came into view. It brought no dustcloud, which was yet another indication of the driver’s importance. It was an impressive machine. Six wheeled, drawn by a team of seven horses, and ornamented in gold and platinum with massive fist-sized diamonds studded throughout its length. Even the slice spokes on the hubs of the wheels, designed to slice off limbs as the chariot passed through close-ranked legions, were made of gold alloy spokes tipped with razor-pointed diamonds. Not a mote of dust rose in the wake of its smoothly rolling wheels.
&n
bsp; The rider himself was virtually concealed in the fortress-like well of the chariot. A suit of armour could hardly have protected him better, so artfully was the chariot designed. All Hanuman could see of his opponent was a small section of his face and a strip of his chest at a little below shoulder height—the space through which the charioteer would shoot his arrows.
The chariot paused when it was half a mile out. Hanuman waited. The stillness of the air made the artificiality of this world more obvious than ever; a peculiar odour, like camphor mingled with rusted iron tingled his nostrils, cutting through the charnel stenches of the battlefield.
After a pause during which the sky continued to boom and echo, and the earth beneath his feet groaned like an unoiled hinge to the netherworld, the challenger made his first move.
Three arrows emerged in quick succession from the well of the chariot, arcing towards Hanuman’s position. They were too far to reach him, as the archer must surely know, but he soon saw that it was not the warrior’s intent to inflict damage upon his body, but to arouse his fear.
The first arrow plumetted sharply downwards, to strike the earth. The second flew up towards the sky, in a trajectory that should have been impossible. And the third sped straight on, as if aimed precisely at some unseen object midway between Hanuman and the charioteer.
As soon as the first arrow struck the ground, a great gnashing sound erupted from the earth, followed by a spume of dark fluid that rose a hundred yards high before falling back upon itself. At the same instant, the arrow that flew upward disappeared, and a clashing sound reverberated, followed by a release of the same dark fluid from a puncture in the fabric of the blue sky. The fluid spewing down from the hole in the sky met the top of the plume rising from the earth to form an uninterrupted line.
The third arrow, arcing directly towards Hanuman, stopped perhaps five hundred yards short, as if it had struck something in mid-air. A scream of anguish, like the wail of a cyclonic wind in a seaside storm, issued forth, and a great wind sprang up, blowing in every direction at once.
Hanuman pressed his feet down firmly and hunkered lower to keep his balance.
He was impressed by the demonstration of the charioteer’s powers. The archer had displayed the extent of his prowess by firing arrows straight at the earth, the sky and the wind. All three had struck home, injuring their targets. It was no mean feat to be able to wound three of the elemental devas, Prithvi, Akasa and Vayu. Only someone gifted with divine astras could accomplish such a feat.
But he would have been more impressed had the demonstration not been conducted within Ravana’s sorcerous tower. In this magical place, part tower, part palace and part multiple-worlds, anything was possible. For everything was controlled by the Pushpak. And the Pushpak obeyed Ravana’s will. Despite the impressiveness of this display, neither Prithvi, Akasa nor Vayu had been involved. The archer’s arrows had only struck the Pushpak’s illusions. That was the essence of maya, the web of illusions that passed for reality in this world of rakshasas.
In a typical battle situation, where one famed opponent had displayed his own powers and challenged his adversary, the other warrior would usually respond with a display of his own strength and skill. This exchange of demonstrations and displays could continue for hours, with each party seeking to outstage the other through increasingly impossible feats. Finally, when they joined arms through mutual accedence, the fight itself was only a culmination of that long stand-off.
But this was not the real world, nor was this a typical battle situation. Hanuman had no intention of acknowledging his opponent’s strength and skill. Indeed, he abhorred and despised such a vulgar display conducted gratuitously within the auspices of one’s own controlled environment.
He roared with thunder and leaped forward. In two great leaps, he reached the spot where the third arrow had ostensibly struck the wind god, his own father. He wrenched the arrow out of mid-air and snapped it in two. The wailing wind died down immediately. Then he crouched down and leaped up high, miles high, to the spot where the second arrow seemed to have embedded itself in the navel of the sky god. He wrenched that arrow out too, crushing it like a toothpick into fragments. And as he fell to earth, he pounded the spot where the first arrow had struck the back of Prithvi Maa, Mother Earth.
Both the upward spume and the falling shower of dark fluid, ostensibly blood from the wounds of sky and earth, ceased to a trickle and died out.
Silence and stillness reigned again.
He turned and faced the chariot, now less than half a mile away. He could see the whites of the charioteer’s eyes, watching through the slot in the well. There was respect in that gaze, and amazement too. He thought that perhaps the rakshasa ensconced in that diamantine chariot had never seen nor heard of a vanar of such capabilities before. The battlefield strewn with corpses was no doubt an added consideration. Well, he was about to give him another reason to goggle.
***
Supanakha munched on the haunch of a rakshasa as she watched the one-on-one fight. Hanuman probably didn’t know or care whom he faced, but that chariot belonged to Ravana’s younger son, Akshay Kumar. Now there was a rakshasa who defined the word handsome. She mulled on the encounters she had enjoyed with him. Akshay Kumar ranked high on her personal chart of sexual prowess.
She hoped his prowess on the battlefield matched his excellence in the boudoir.
The vanar was standing about half a mile from Akshay Kumar’s chariot, staring at it. He seemed to be narrowing his eyes, concentrating his gaze. Was he trying to see through the slots in the chariot-well, to lock eyes with his opponent?
She continued watching, unable to see anything of any note happening.
Then, it began. At first, there was only a snicker from the lead horse, a magnificent stallion a whole head taller than the rest of the team. His snicker turned into a whinny as he turned his head this way, then that, as if trying to avoid a pesky gnat. That horse was much too well-trained for battle to act that way. There must be something much more serious than a gnat bothering him, but for the life of her she couldn’t tell what it was.
Then she saw a spot brighten on the front of the chariot-well, bang in the centre where the prince of Lanka’s sigil was embossed. The sigil seemed to be glowing. She thought at first it was only a reflection of the sun, which had begun to shine brightly again now, but the position of the chariot was wrong for it to be catching the sun’s rays. Still, the sigil glowed, brighter and brighter, until it turned red-hot, then white-hot. The lead horse whinnied in a tone that suggested real alarm, not irritation, and now the alarm spread to its mates as well, who began to toss and turn their heads and stamp their hooves. One horse turned his head inwards, and for a moment, she saw the loose hair on its mane suddenly ignite, as if lit by a sun’s ray passed through a dense glass. It cried out in panic, wanting to bolt, but the discipline drilled into it, and the stoic stubbornness of the lead horse stayed the team.
The sigil burst into flames.
Supanakha caught her breath. For once, even she was amazed.
What level of heat did it take to set solid metal on fire? She had no idea but thought it must be volcanic. How could such heat be striking Akshay Kumar’s chariot? Where was it coming from?
Fool, she told herself, turning her eyes to the vanar. Where else do you think?
As she watched, Hanuman tilted his head very slightly, as if tracking something with his eyes. The fire on the chariot moved in a straight line, like a slash drawn by a magical sword, cutting across the front of the chariot-well. Inside the well, Akshay Kumar cried out in a startled tone, and through the slot, she saw him backing away hurriedly.
The vanar turned his head to one side, then slowly downwards, then the other way. She kept glancing from him to the chariot and back again, trying to make out what he was doing. Then, she understood. He was using some kind of heat power from his eyes to cut out the entire chariot-well.
In moments, the entire front of the chariot’s armoured well
fell in a heap of steaming, overheated metal to the ground. The terrified horses went wild as pieces of half-molten metal fell by their flanks and lay sizzling on the grassy field.
From an elaborately fortified riding machine, the chariot had been reduced to a ludicruous-looking open horse cart. Its owner, Akshay Kumar, stood exposed on the platform, reins clutched in his fists as he sought to regain control of his team. He was armoured lightly, as was his style, and she could clearly see his handsome face. He was staring white-eyed at the vanar, unable to believe what had just happened.
Then he rallied. With a yell to his horses, a rakshasa shloka popular for its efficacy in calming mounts, he regrouped their heads, then yanked on the rein to the leader. With a snort of relief, the horse whinnied a command to its fellows and the entire team moved forward, hooves pounding. The chariot rolled smoothly enough, undamaged in any other way, driving directly at the vanar.
Supanakha expected the vanar to simply use his heat- gaze to blast Akshay Kumar. If he could burn through metal like a welding flame, he could surely scorch the rakshasa to ashes easily. But Hanuman did no such thing. Instead, he simply stood and waited for Akshay Kumar to come to him.
Akshay Kumar had recovered his wits. The team set on their course, he took up his bow and began his onslaught without further ceremony or preamble. He shot a hail of arrows that might have been shot by an entire legion of archers. Hundreds of missiles of varied types, sickle-headed, barb-headed, snake-headed, flew towards Hanuman.
They fell upon the vanar as hail upon a mountain.
None pierced the vanar’s skin. Just as no other weapon had pierced it apart from the dozen-odd arrows shot by Jambumali during the parley. But even so, Supanakha winced. Even if the vanar could harden his skin to resist penetration, those arrows must still hurt. From the impassive look on the vanar’s face, you could hardly tell.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 40