Hanuman floated in mid-air, a thousand yards above the island of Lanka. He was standing in the position of an ascetic, with the sole of his left foot placed against the inside of his right thigh. Were he on the ground, he would be standing on one foot, a posture conducive to concentrating and channelling one’s energies. His arms were folded across his chest. He was his normal size, for expansion used up energy and the strain of the long night had taken its toll, sapping him of strength as well as purpose. He stared mutely at what Ravana’s sorcery had wrought, in a single night no less, and forced himself to remain calm as he examined and studied it in the same way that a hawk might study a nest of serpents a mile below, anticipating when and how he would swoop down to attack and kill the brood.
Ravana had turned Lanka into a fortress. The entire island had been overrun by the rakshasa lord’s devilish sorcery. From this vantage point, he could see a pattern of thousand-foot high walls running along the coastline for as far as could be seen. The walls ran for a few yojanas south before criss-crossing the breadth of the island. Up to there, some of the natural landscape was still present, contained within the vaulting walls. Beyond that point, the very landscape had been altered. He could not tell exactly what purpose some of the newly designed features would serve, but they seemed warlike and aggressive. The entire island’s aspect, so green and lush and beautiful, a veritable paradise as Rama himself had called it at his first glimpse, had now taken on the aspect of a dark country dedicated solely to war. Ravana had turned it into a giant fortress overnight.
And far to the south, he had done more than that. Hanuman could see an immense reddish glow, as if from a great fire blazing fiercely. But he knew that was no fire, for even an entire forest could not feed such an enormous flame. It was a volcano. Lanka had once been a volcanic isle, raised up from the bottom of the ocean in a series of gargantuan eruptions many millions of years ago. Now Ravana had tapped the volcano once again, reviving it, and had structured the heart of his fortress around the very fires of that hellmouth. The searing heat and intensity of the glow exuded by the volcano was too great for even Hanuman’s sharp vision to pierce its surrounding area. All he could tell was that a vast black pile of stone had arisen on that section of the island, occupying a substantial area of perhaps ten square yojanas at the south-western tip of Lanka. The devas alone knew what Ravana had built there during this long, dark night of blood and terror. But it boded no good, of that he was certain.
His fists had tightened, despite his best efforts at self-control, and he desired nothing more than to expand himself to his limits and then swoop down in a rampage of destruction, wiping out all that Ravana had raised through his sorcery, smashing those fortress walls and ramparts, shattering those long spindly spikes that had taken so many of his comrades’ lives, destroying, shattering, pounding … the way he had pounded and smashed and burned Lanka not two days ago.
But this was not that Lanka any more. This was a new Lanka. Or a very old and ancient one, resurrected by asura sorcery to serve Ravana’s purpose. Perhaps everything that had happened had served Ravana’s purpose—even Hanuman’s own rampage of destruction. For what good had it really done? Look at his people now. Look at how many lay dead on the ground below. Look at the beach … he could not bear to look at those golden sands in the first flush of dawn for thousands upon thousands had perished there, crushed by the alterations of the rocky cliffs, the Palisades, that had formed the bulk of the material manipulated by Ravana’s sorcery to raise those great rampart walls. So many bodies lay adrift there, tugged and released by the outgoing tide, that the ocean skirting the island was stained red with their blood. Senseless, futile, awful deaths. And none of them had been able to do anything to prevent it. Not even he, with his great powers and abilities.
Even now, if he expanded himself and flew down and began pounding and smashing, he would endanger his own fellow vanars and bears. These were not rakshasas that he would be harming, but his own comrades in arms. And who was to say that even if he flew yojanas further south and began smashing through the sorcerously erected defences that he could glimpse there, that Ravana would not erect new defences in a matter of hours, and that the process of reconstruction would not endanger the lives of Hanuman’s comrades yet again?
What could he do, then? Nothing. Nothing! He was helpless. All this strength and power—futile. Pathetic. He was nothing but a foolish vanar with an ego too large for his own skull. He belonged not here in the land of rakshasas, but back in the redmist mountains, foraging for fruit, then stealing a little honey wine and falling asleep content under the starry sky, as he had done so many nights of his life while a young monkey. That was all he was good for. He could not shoulder this great responsibility. He was no champion. He was only a vanar … no, not even a vanar. A monkey! A langur! He ought to fly back home right now, for he was of no use on this great quest, no use to anybody at all … Stupid, foolish, idiot of a monkey!
***
Ravana laughed. A rich, deep-throated laugh that was echoed by most of his heads with varying degrees of humour. Only two heads remained unamused, one looking bored and distracted, another appearing to be quite fast asleep, its nostrils flaring as it snored gently. Supanakha laughed with him. They were in Ravana’s palace. His new palace really. For while it was similar to the old one, the one he had occupied until the reconstruction of Lanka fourteen years ago, it was different as well. Grander. Enormous. Built on an epic scale that dwarfed anything and everything Supanakha had ever seen in her five-hundred-something years of existence.
This particular chamber, for instance, was a vast cavernous space whose walls and ceiling were constructed of the same black rock of which the new fortress Lanka had been built, using the same sorcerous maya. She had watched the night before as Ravana’s sorcery had begun its menacing work, had seen a projected image of the chaos and bloodshed on the northern tip of the island as Rama and his forces were routed by invisible forces, decimated without even a chance to defend themselves. She had enjoyed that show hugely. Had wished she were there to see it with her own eyes, hear the screams and howls of anguish and agony, perhaps sip a little fresh blood as it gushed from shattered limbs and severed arteries, munch on some vanar flesh, even taste bear—it had been a long time since she had feasted on bearflesh. But she had also seen that to go out there while Ravana’s sorcery was working its wicked way might be less than sensible, and besides, she wanted to be with the one wielding this power, see what devilish new scheme he had cooked up, and how he implemented it. That was the thing she admired about her cousin. He always had another plan, and another, and another … It was the reason why he would win in the end, she had no doubt. Why he would triumph over Rama and all his determined might. Because in the end, Ravana was a juggernaut, as remorseless, relentless as the forces of nature he commanded and manipulated. He was shakti itself, incarnate.
He laughed for several moments, his muscled torso quivering with each expulsion of breath and sound. Even though he was dwarfed by the sheer scale and majesty of the immense chamber in which he stood, he looked as if he owned it, as if none other than he could stand here and laugh with this much abandon and energy, as if he were celebrating the greatest triumph of his entire life. His laughter slowed in stages, his heads switching to other occupations briefly, new thoughts, dialogues, concerns skitting across the rack, and when he turned his eyes to her again, only two heads were actually smiling, only two mouths still chuckling with glee. But his overall mood was one of great joy and triumph. For this was his moment to savour.
‘Do you see now, cousin?’ he asked, chuckling. ‘How I decimated the enemy’s troops without committing a single rakshasa’s life to the fray? And in the process, rebuilt Lanka as I desired it, all in the space of a single night.’
‘Not to mention eliminating virtually all the Brahmin population of Lanka as well,’ she added sweetly, batting her eyelids provocatively at him.
A head on his right-hand rack winked back at her.
‘That too, my devilish one. It would not do to have Vibhisena’s moral sena running about spreading their messages of peace and brotherhood when there’s a war to be fought.’
‘Most certainly not,’ she agreed. ‘And the sorcery you wrought with the Brahman power unlocked by their sacrifice to the volcano … ’ She shook her head with amazement that was only slightly exaggerated. ‘It was a miraculous feat,’ she acknowledged with almost no irony. For once she did not have to summon up false sentiments to pander to his massive tenfold ego. She was genuinely awed by his show of power and his wily use of it. ‘You have won the war in a few hours, without risking the lives of any of Lanka’s rakshasas.’
Ravana’s smiles faded abruptly. ‘The war? You must be jesting. The war has not yet begun! This was but a demonstration. To let Rama and his ragtag bunch of animals know what they are up against. Now, if he is wise, he will turn around and go back home with his tail between his legs.’
Supanakha leaped up on the lower part of an obsidian statue, shaped to resemble a naga feasting on a mortal warrior. She perched on the head of the mortal, whose eyes bulged in anguish as the giant serpentine asura tore open his belly to lay her black chitinous eggs within its warmth, then closed up the rift with her gooey saliva, sealing it until it was time for her young to hatch in a few hours. Supanakha wondered at how exquisitely Ravana’s sorcery had constructed this entire palace, complete with vaulting facades, carved pillars, polished floors, beautifully wrought statues and all, in the space of a few hours. What had he said to her by way of explanation the night before? Ah, yes. ‘In sorcery, as in life, it is the design that takes time and effort and talent—once conceived, it is child’s play to execute that conception into reality.’ She had not understood him completely at that time; now she knew just what he had meant. The level of artistry in this statue alone was awe-inspiring. With his many talents and gifts, he was a great artist as well, not to mention a gifted poet and musician as well, a connoisseur of all arts. This overnight reconstruction had required a phenomenal exertion of sorcery. But the detail and perfection in execution had taken great creative brilliance. Ravana had supplied both in abundant measure.
Now, she said aloud in response to his statement: ‘Do you really think he will?’
He smiled at her with a head or two, while the others debated intently about some new matter in a tongue she did not recognise. ‘No. Rama is not one to quit. Besides, he still has not recovered Sita. He will not leave until he has done that, even if it costs the lives of every last one of his followers. That is what the fools will now learn to their everlasting dismay.’
She flicked her tail at the gaping maw and dripping fangs of the naga above her. The realism of the detail was unnervingly accurate. ‘So you will use sorcery to defeat him and his forces? As you did last night?’
Ravana stepped with slow, undulating strides to the foot of the dais that housed his new throne, a great blackstone seat carved with the entwined figures of countless lunging asura shapes, some engaged in battle, others in copulation, to the point where it was impossible to tell which was doing what to whom. He stood with one foot resting on the first step of the dais. The onyx floor gleamed underfoot, reflecting as perfectly as a silver-backed mirror, and she gazed at the inverted black Ravana depicted there, the black dome of the ceiling a hundred yards overhead glistening faintly above him in the reflection, a thin tracery of veins in the texture of the dome pulsing with a reddish glow that indicated the maya shakti used to build and then keep this whole edifice erect.
‘What would be the sport in that?’ he said. ‘No, my bloodlusting beauty, I will take the field against Rama before he has had time to recover fully from last night’s losses, before his armies have a chance to recuperate and prepare themselves, before his captains are ready to lead. It will be a battle to behold, because despite their long night of suffering, or because of it, his forces will fight fiercely and boldly, even bravely, eager to vent their frustration and anger upon our rakshasas, to face living foes and feel the bite of their weapons and claws and fangs in our living flesh. And we shall give them that satisfaction … at first.’
‘And then?’ she asked eagerly.
‘And then we shall slaughter them like meat for our fires, and food for our tables, for that is all they are. Flesh to feed on, nothing more.’ He climbed the steps to the throne, ten yards above the floor of the chamber. Even seated, he now looked down upon everything and everyone. Supanakha noted slyly that he had designed even the tallest statues—like the one she was perched on—to be below the level of his line of sight when seated on the throne. Truly a master of detail! He looked down at her, eyes glistening chitinously—or perhaps that was only the reflection of all those gleaming black surfaces. ‘Before night falls again upon Lanka, my victory over Rama will be complete.’
He clapped two of his hands together, calling out in a booming voice that echoed through the vast palace. ‘Bring in my generals. I am ready to begin the war council.’
Supanakha licked the screaming goggle-eyed face of the mortal in the statue with a bit of sympathy and a great deal of relish. The day of her reckoning had come at last. Finally, she would have her revenge on Rama and his brother for which she had waited fourteen long years. Before nightfall. She could practically taste their rich, tangy blood already.
SIX
Anjaneya.
The voice was a distant echo in the background of his crowded mind. He marked it only as a futile intrusion into his private grief, and dismissed it outright. In his anger and remorse, he had drifted far to the south. Miles farther, even yojanas perhaps. He no longer cared; he had lost his bearings, both physical and spiritual. He no longer understood who he was, or what purpose he served in this life. What good was all the power in the world if you could not save your comrades when they needed you most? The cries of his fellow vanars still rang in his ears. Usually on battlefields, when soldiers died, the severely wounded and dying called out a single word: maa. Or a variation thereof; whichever word meant ‘mother’ in their language. So it had been since the beginning of time and the first violent conflicts, and so it would probably be until the end of days. But last night, apart from the many cries of ‘mother’ and ‘mother, save me’ and similar variations, there were two words that were constantly called out on the plateau of Lanka’s northern coast. Those were the names ‘Rama’ and ‘Maruti’. Vanars had died calling out his name, over and over again, and he had been able to do nothing to save them. Yes, he had saved a few dozen, perhaps even a few hundred. But it was not enough. Thousands had died. Tens of thousands, even. The carnage was unspeakable. And he, the great Hanuman—the omnipotent Bajrangbali, leveller of Lanka, destroyer of the city of the asuras, champion of Lord Rama who was the mightiest yodha of all—had been able to do nothing to stop it.
Anjaneya, control yourself.
He paused in his self-pitying misery to glance around. He was still flying, and somehow in his grief he had drifted even higher above the island-kingdom. Lanka lay far below now, a map perfectly drawn by a malicious artist to mock him. Only two days ago, he had demolished this very city. And in a single night it had risen up once more to mock him, taunt him, show him that his power was worthless; Ravana’s sorcerous shakti was supreme.
Stop it, Maruti. You will cease this line of thought and return to your lords at once.
A spark of unreasonable anger flashed within him. Who was it who berated him thus? Who dared to command him? None but his lord Rama had the right to …
I speak on behalf of Lord Rama. He has need of your services. Gain control of your wits and go to him at once.
His flash of anger was abruptly replaced by suspicion. ‘Who are you?’ he asked aloud. He had been duped before in Lanka, by that demoness—
Enough! This has gone too far. You need not obey my commands, or trust me. But trust your inner soul. You know that your lord has greater need of you in this hour than ever before. Desist in your rambling and go to him at once.
> He wanted to argue, to lash out at the speaker of those words. But his anger shrank within him, humbled by the knowledge that whatever the source, the words themselves were true enough. Rama must be seeking him out at this moment, if only to berate him for not doing enough to stem the loss of life the night before. He felt ashamed and humiliated. How could he face his lord? How could he go before him and admit that—
There is nothing to be ashamed of. The voice was gentler, yet retained a tone of steel. You know your lord better than that. He is not Ravana. He is Rama. You do him a disservice by thinking on his behalf. Your duty is only to go to him and place yourself in his command. Go to him now. Fly.
He dabbed at his face, wiping away the tears that had trickled down his cheeks. His puffed mouth was damp and sticky with the residue of his weeping, and he turned abruptly, flying faster and then faster still, until he was speeding like a crow, then a hawk, then like an arrow shot from a longbow, then faster than any object in existence, living or otherwise. He swooped in a wide undulating arc, down, down, down, and cut the surface of the ocean at an angle so sharp, he barely raised a splash. He travelled underwater at the same swift speed, the cool, salty water shocking his body, then calming him, then reviving him. When he emerged a mile further north, he was refreshed. Water cascaded from his body as he leaped from the ocean, shooting up to the sky again, rising high now, higher and higher, until he could glimpse the curve of the world beyond the horizon, and the risen sun already beaming down brightly upon lands far to the east where the day had begun hours earlier. The redmist mountains were to the east. The home of his people. He reached the apogee of his rising arc and hung suspended momentarily, the rays of the sun warming him, enlivening him, then he folded his palms and feet together in a surya namaskaram, holding the yogic asana until gravity began pulling insistently at his body once more, Mother Prithvi calling to him to return home to her.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 61