But the bigger question was why Ravana had let him go. It was not like the lord of Lanka to spare even his own brother in the face of such treasonous rebellion. No, she thought craftily, twirling her bushy tail around the vessel of ganga-jal without actually daring to touch a drop of the sacred fluid, if Ravana had allowed Vibhisena to go and join his enemies, then surely that too was part of some greater plan. Ravana had a reason for everything. Even sparing his own brother’s life.
***
Some time later, with a heavy heart and an even heavier conscience, Vibhisena made his way downhill to the narrow strait that bordered the northernmost shore of Lanka. Four trusted clansmen, rakshasas loyal to his branch of the family for generations, waited there. They had secured the boat he had requested, a simple fishing craft that bobbed up and down in the calm waters of the strait. It was well into morning by this time. He had tried fervently to secure an audience with Ravana, but the hostility that met his every effort spoke more eloquently than any angry refusal might have done. His brother’s doors were closed to him, figuratively and literally. But more than that, he suspected, nobody knew exactly where the lord of Lanka was just then. Ravana had last been seen travelling in a section of the Pushpak with the mortal prisoner Sita. They had gone towards the cave-mountain sometime around dawn. Nobody had seen them since. Vibhisena had no means to follow them there, and even if he had, there was no guarantee that they might not return before he even descended into the mountain: he could hardly keep pace with the celestial vahan.
Everywhere in Lanka, there was frenetic activity. On Ravana’s instructions, his generals were overseeing the largest mobilisation of military forces on the island that Vibhisena had ever witnessed. Never before had Lanka been threatened by invasion. He shuddered to think of the coming war.
He paused now by the shore, looking back. Had he done everything within his power to champion the cause of peace and dharma? Was there naught he could do to prevent the coming calamity? It seemed unlikely. Mandodhari’s anger and the resentment of his own people had scorched him. If she, his closest ally, could threaten him thus, then he had no doubt that the ordinary rank and file would not hesitate to tear him apart. He had been a stranger in a strange land too long. It was time now to throw in his lot with those who understood the language he spoke, those who respected the value of dharma and all that was right and true in this world. Only thus could dharma be restored to Lanka and the island-kingdom restored to its former glory.
He climbed into the boat as the other rakshasas held it steady. Once he was aboard, they clambered in as well, and pushed off from the shore. Rowing strongly, they steered it out of the tide’s pull, out to sea. In a short while, they were upon the ocean, leaving Lanka behind, and starting forth across the vast waters in the direction of the mainland. Vibhisena spoke a shloka ensuring safe passage then tried to still the immense weeping of his heart. It filled him with anguish to do this, yet he had no other choice. He must leave Lanka in order to save it.
He was almost a full yojana out to sea, making good progress northwards, when the genial ocean wind suddenly fell still and their boat was becalmed. A chill foreboding filled his heart. He was reciting the Tataka maha-mantra when the gigantic shadow rose behind him in the distance, looming larger as it approached like a juggernaut.
FOUR
At dusk, they had glimpsed the first ominous signs.
The western sky turned an angry red, slashes of crimson painting the horizon like a wound inflicted by an angry tiger.
Clouds gathered in the south-west, black and brooding and threatening rain. Thunder growled in the distance and occasional glimpses of lightning flickered at the extremities of Rama’s vision, too far to be seen directly. Wind dervishes sprang up, hurling rock dust and sand into their eyes, blinding them all, and making the bears sneeze violently. The singing stopped here, then there, until finally all grew silent.
Various omens were spotted: a flock of a certain variety of birds flying in an inauspicious direction; dead fish floating on the surface of the sea; left eyes twitching—or was it right eyes; an unseasonal star that could only be Rahu or Ketu, the two most feared stellar deities in the firmament. Someone came scurrying up, shouting about a wild elephant that had run amuck in the woods, trampling an entire unit of vanars. About bears who had been killed by vampire bats. The mood, so cheerful and optimistic until now, turned sour and gloomy.
Lakshman dismissed all harbingers of doom and sighters of omens point-blank, refusing to hear such superstitious talk. When they persisted, he grew somewhat irritated and told them to be rational. Rama kept his silence, knowing that people would believe what they desired, no matter how logical or illogical. But when Lakshman turned to him at last and asked him to speak aloud and dispel the unease that everyone was feeling, he was reluctant to do so. He felt something too, though he could not say what it was. A sense that something had changed during the course of the day. It was not only that he was waiting for Hanuman’s return, it was something greater than the vanar’s mission. Something that involved the forces that governed the universe itself. There was a disturbance at the most primordial level of existence, in the ether itself.
Sundown found him standing on a ridge overlooking that part of the shore where the bridge-building was in progress. Workers were still passing on rocks, egged on by Nala, who leaped up and down in agitation, seeking to get every last moment’s work while there was yet light enough to see by. Lakshman had stalked off to have a word with Sugreeva about calming down his vanars and quelling the rumours of ill omens.
As night fell, the weather worsened, as did the mood of the vanars and the bears. Petty squabbles broke out between vanar factions, between the two species, and even amongst close comrades. Insects filled the air, adding to the irritation and frustration. A dead kraunchya bird fell out of the sky and nobody would touch it. It attracted a riot of gulls, fighting over its pink innards. Its desolate mate wheeled overhead, wailing its throaty cry. The ocean grew angrier, the waves sloshing so high over the bridge that even Nala agreed dismally to call off work for the day. They had made some progress despite all the distractions, but it was nowhere near what they ought to have accomplished.
Would it ever be enough? Rama had wondered, standing on a ridge overlooking the shore. Had he taken on a task that was foolish rather than just foolhardy? Building a bridge across the ocean? Taking an army of vanars and bears to Lanka? Invading the realm of rakshasas? The gathering storm mirrored his own inner turmoil, and like the storm, he banked his anger, keeping a tight hold of the rage that lay always just beneath the surface.
What people failed to understand about him, even Lakshman, was not that he did not feel rage or grief or desire, but that he ruled these emotions, they did not rule him. Perhaps it was because so much excess had been committed in his childhood and youth, so much self-indulgence displayed, that he had learned from a very young age to keep his portions small, to eat and feel and live in little manageable increments, never taking on more than he could chew at one time, never demanding, never having more on his plate than he could comfortably eat.
But this was not one of those times. He felt overwhelmed by the sheer scale of what he had undertaken. An invasion? For what? To regain his lost love? But that was his loss, was it not? What did it have to do with all these innocents? If a queen was abducted by another king, did her husband have the right to wage war against the other’s kingdom? To slaughter thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, only to avenge his and his wife’s honour? He knew the inevitable argument: that a queen’s honour, or a king’s, was the people’s honour as well, the kingdom’s honour. But here he had no kingdom. These were not his people. Yet they fought for him, pitted their lives against the forces of nature, against impossible odds, against stones and sea and storms, and for what? For honour? Was honour worth the cost of so many lives?
In an ideal world, he would call Ravana to arms and face him alone, resolving the issue once and for all. But that choice ha
d not been given to him. To reach Ravana, he needed to cross the ocean and wade through a kingdom full of rakshasas. To do that, he needed an army. This was that army. That was all there was to it. Shut up your conscience and fight, his sword-master had always told him. Morality belongs in the sabha hall, not on the battlefield. When a sword is drawn, the time for thinking is past.
Perhaps that was why Rama had always preferred the bow. One could think when using the bow. One could pause, or replace the arrow, unfired, into its quiver. An arrow could afford to have a conscience, up to a point. A sword had only a cutting edge.
When the evening star reached its zenith and began its downward descent, he felt the first prickings of despair. He had faith in Hanuman, but clearly there were forces at work here that were far greater than any one individual, however dedicated he might be.
The storm brewed like a cauldron of broth, clouds seething in the western sky, the fading twilight turning the rim of the world vermilion and purple. The air turned so electric with impending lightning that the hair on the back of his hands and the nape of his neck felt as if it might burst into flame. Slowly, in angry, reluctant stages, night fell like a sullen youth performing a punitive chore.
Rama stood, wrapped in darkness, bound by the ropes of his own self-doubt, drawing the cloak of conscience close around him. Dharma was his only defence against an irrational, unreasoning world. In dharma he found solace; in karma, the commission of duty, he burned the vestiges of past misdeeds and rebuilt his store of Brahman.
He lost track of time. Yet, when a voice spoke in his right ear, he knew it was Jambavan. Even the wind and the angry sea and the brewing storm could not overwhelm the smell of bear
sweat, fish and honey that pervaded the rksa.
‘Hubris,’ said the bear lord.
Rama looked at him. ‘Hubris?’
‘Defiance of the gods,’ Jambavan explained. ‘Daring to attempt a feat that rivals the actions of the devas themselves. Transgressing the limits of mortal or animal behaviour to achieve something miraculous, godlike.’
Rama thought of all the things he had done during his life that could be classified as such. He could think of several. But he had a feeling it was not his actions Jambavan was referring to. ‘Hanuman?’
The dark snout dipped.
‘Do you know how he fared?’ Rama asked hopefully. ‘Whether his journey was successful or no? Is he there in Lanka yet? Was he able to—’
Jambavan sighed and shook his head. ‘That is beyond my powers, lad. Yet I know this much. He has faced many obstacles on the way to Lanka. It has not been as simple as leaping from branch to branch after all.’ He snorted in self-derision. ‘Not that I ever meant it would be.’
Rama’s heart pounded. ‘Obstacles? But he did—’
‘Reach Lanka? I do not know, Rama. I would like to think so. But in attempting this leap, he provoked the powers that be. By calling upon his own hidden strengths, he has awakened great forces. Forces which may be jealous of his gifts. And other forces which may be more sympathetic to Lanka’s cause than our own. These sleeping giants would no doubt have revealed themselves to us in due course. On the other hand, it is also possible that they might have gone on sleeping and never been called into play. Now their awakened shakti is formidable and far greater than what is needed to crush us all.’
The bear lord waved a hirsute paw at the beach swarming with vanars and bears bedding down for the night. Growls and snarls of discontent rippled through the camp, as the two species shared their mutual unhappiness at the inauspicious weather. ‘But by invoking his celestial gifts, Hanuman has awakened them all at once. Challenged them unwittingly. The signs and omens our people speak of are not wild imaginings or superstitious illogic. They are signs of the struggle waged by our friend out there.’ The bear indicated the open sea. ‘He has fought many battles today. That much is certain. And yet the greatest battle of all remains to be fought. Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Rama’s heart lurched. ‘Then you believe he will not return tonight with Sita?’
Jambavan laid a paw on Rama’s shoulder. The bear’s paw was very warm to the touch, and very heavy. ‘Have faith, Rama. Hanuman has faith in you. He believes you are blessed by the devas. So in turn you must sustain your faith in him. Trust in him and believe that he will triumph over all odds. I only wish to warn you that all may not turn out as we desire.’
Rama made to speak again, but the bear king raised a single talon. ‘I do not know of Sita’s fate. I speak of the forces that swirl around us all. You well know that this conflict is not simply about a jealous lover seeking the return of his beloved, nor his desire for redressal. There are forces here at work that are beyond even my understanding … ’ he paused and scratched his loins a moment. ‘Well, perhaps not beyond my understanding, but surely beyond anyone else’s. This pot was first brewed long before you, or Ravana, or even I were placed upon this mortal realm, Rama. It is a game of gods and demons. Devas and asura lords. We are only playing out our part in this one chapter of an epic history.’
Rama found little comfort in the bear king’s words. ‘Then … what am I to do?’
Jambavan’s furry features twitched in a grunting smile. ‘Do? Ever the Kshatriya, eager to act. The time for action will come soon, Rama. Sooner than you expect. There is plenty to be done. And I have no doubt you will do your task well enough.’
‘But?’ Rama asked, for the word was implicit in the bear’s tone.
Jambavan scratched his lower back and sighed with relief. ‘What is to be is to be. What good will it serve us today to know we die tomorrow?’
He saw Rama’s face and emitted a choked laugh. ‘By that I do not mean that we will die tomorrow. I am speaking figuratively.’
Rama made no comment.
Jambavan sighed again, exuding a strong odour of crab meat. ‘In any case, we must now await our champion Hanuman’s return. I will keep vigil with you by going into the caves and making an offering to the devas. I have already asked my hunters to collect the necessary items. We shall pursue this course further when the lord of light returns to show us the world again.’
Thunder rumbled in the distance as he turned to go. He paused. ‘The ocean deities are angry with us. Perhaps they were frustrated in their attempts to halt Hanuman on his epic journey. Soon, I think they will turn their power upon us puny beings.’
Rama frowned. ‘What must we do, then?’
Jambavan’s beady eyes flashed with a dark light. ‘We will do what mortal beings must do when they commit hubris, my friend. We will die. But do not be alarmed, for in a sense, our very existence is an act of hubris. All of us—feeble, futile mortal fleshbags—tempt the forces that be merely by staying alive. What else is life itself, living in the face of natural odds, if not the defiance of celestial power? It is the ultimate hubris.’
Rama remained on the ridge after Jambavan had gone. After a long while, Lakshman came and stood beside him, sharing his vigil. Together, they waited as the night grew darker and colder. The storm brooded with them, mirroring the discontent simmering within their hearts.
***
Towards dawn, as the sky lightened again to an angry shade of deep blue streaked with vermilion, they saw something appear on the horizon. It grew steadily, and finally coalesced into the silhouette of a flying being without wings. The armies were already stirring, restless from an uneasy night’s respite. A sleepy, questioning cheeka sounded from the beach, followed by a string of enthusiastic yelps and cries. The excitement built into a roar as the skies brightened and the approaching silhouette grew larger and closer.
It was almost sunrise when Hanuman became clearly discernible. He slowed his approach and reduced his size, hovering in mid-air with an ease that was wonderful to behold and which revealed the control he had acquired over his abilities since his departure. As easily as a feather drifting to earth, he descended to land softly upon the ridge where Rama and Lakshman stood. He was his normal size by this time.
Rama took hold of his shoulders, pulled him up, and embraced him warmly.
FIVE
The anxious crowd looked on as Hanuman prepared to speak. His eyes found his king, Sugreeva, Prince Angad, his brother Sakra, and so many other familiar faces. His heart ached at seeing them again. For a moment, he wished he had stayed in Lanka, continuing to battle on. It would be easier than explaining his failure. But his lord Rama’s face was so calm and devoid of the anxiety that he saw on every other face that it shamed him. Rama had not asked him even once about Sita. His only queries thus far had been about Hanuman’s own welfare, about the minor cuts and bruises his body displayed, the charred end of his tail.
‘My lord Rama,’ he said. ‘As you can see from the fact that I return alone, unaccompanied, I have failed in my primary mission. I was unable to bring back the lady Sita. For this, I ask your forgiveness. I regret I could not do as you expected me to, my lord.’
Rama replied in a level voice. ‘I know you must have done your best to save her, my friend. It is all I expected of you. Beyond that, a person’s fate depends on his or her own karma. If Sita’s karma decreed that she was not to be saved, then that is that. Neither you nor even I myself could have saved her then.’
Hanuman read the fatalism in his master’s words and shook his head quickly. ‘No, my lord. It is not as you fear. The lady Sita is alive and well. Not in the best of health perhaps, for she fasts out of choice, and has endured many hardships, but she is alive and in her wits yet. She has not been physically violated by man or weapon. I cannot claim to know for certain how she fared after I left Lanka, but I would warrant that she is yet alive and maintained carefully as a precious hostage. For if my understanding of his methods is correct, then Ravana intends to use her as a pawn in the war ahead, and it is for this reason that he shall keep her alive until the very end.’
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 49