Up here, everything was so calm, so serene, the earth herself undulating like the curved belly of a mother-to-be, seeded with untold generations of future lives, that he had a brief moment when he wished he could simply fly away, perhaps fly back home, or simply fly. As a young vanar, he had always dreamed of flying like the magnificent swans he saw crossing the skies above Kiskindha twice a year, going south in winter, north in summer. He had always wondered what it might be like to fly like that, beautiful and graceful and supremely elevated above all the petty grime and dirt and dust, the scrabble and squabble, the shrieking and the shrilling of land-bound existence. To soar amongst the clouds, eye to eye with the sun, lord of all you surveyed, free to travel anywhere you wished.
If he wished, he could go anywhere now. Fly anywhere. Away from here. Away from more bloodshed, more pain, more agony—all the strife and struggle that he knew with sickening certainty lay ahead. The deaths of friends and comrades and beloved ones. For what else was war but loss, loss, and more loss? Until finally, one side cried ‘enough, I can bear no more’, and surrendered. He had had enough of losing. There was no end to it. As long as you possessed something, it could be taken from you. Better then to possess nothing, to simply soar through the air like a bird, to fly through empty airways for ever, to reduce the troubles of earthbound living to a distantly viewed panorama, like a game where thousands scurried like ants to live and die, and fight and kill, like his compatriots and their enemies now scattered far below upon the hills and valleys and plains of Lanka now. Fly far away, away from it all. And never come back. Fly away and forget.
He hung suspended, weightless, windborne, neither gravity’s child nor the ether’s possession. And dreamed. For a moment that seemed like an aeon, he dreamed and lost himself, and forgot all. A condor floating far below him wondered at the being that could soar higher than she, and how that being could stay thus so long. Where was the wind that bore that creature aloft? Or was it the hand of a deva that held him there?
The condor called out, mournfully, longingly. Cried for the losses she had suffered through a long and strife-fraught life: a fledgling lost to a storm, a yearling torn to bits by a rival, a mate caught by a wildcat when feeding upon a snake, all her life was contained in that cry.
High above, the cry penetrated through the dream-fog that obscured Hanuman’s mind.
The cry seemed to be echoing, or mocking, a mortal word. A single name.
Rama.
Rama needs me. I must go to Rama at once.
He repeated the words to himself like a rote recitation.
He spared a moment of brief, fleeting regret for the freedom and mystery of the high spaces, the glory and joy of flight. Then he wiped all dreams clear and eliminated all thought, desire and emotion from his senses.
He straightened his body and plunged downwards again. So great was the rush of air against his speeding body that every last drop of water was cast away from his skin and his clothing. Lanka grew steadily beneath him, expanding until he was able to see the tiny ant-like figures of his lord’s forces, covering the entire northern tip of the island. A final twinge of sadness stroked his heart, then he was close enough to see individual vanars and bears, and then close enough to tell the various tribes and clans apart.
He slowed as he descended to the height of the rampart wall, flying along its length until he reached the lone figure atop the fortification, standing and looking southwards. Rama turned to him as he descended to land.
‘My friend,’ Rama said as he came to rest softly upon the rampart. ‘There you are. I was beginning to worry.’
He prostrated himself before his lord, laying himself flat upon the rampart. The blackstone blocks were unnaturally warm to the touch, suffused with the energy of the asura sorcery that had created them, but he ignored that. He kissed Rama’s feet, not caring that they were dusty and crusted with dried blood. ‘My lord,’ he cried aloud. ‘My lord, forgive me … I could do no more … I tried … ’
His voice broke off despairingly. Despite his attempt to bathe and revive himself, to appear presentable before he faced his lord once more, he was stricken by a great and searing emotion when faced with Rama in person. He broke down and began crying helplessly, great sobs racking his body.
‘Maruti!’ Rama said in distress. ‘My friend. Do not lose hope thus. Come, rise up, rise up … ’ Gently, but firmly, Rama raised him off the ground and helped him onto his feet again. He put his arm around him, comforting him. ‘I understand your pain. But this is not the time to give in to guilt and regret. There is a great deal of work yet to be done. The only remedy is to do one’s duty, to execute one’s dharma. In the end, that is all a warrior can do.’
Hanuman shook his head, unable to stop the sobs that shook his being. ‘But, my lord, I let you down … I let my people down … I could do nothing to stop the sorcery … ’
Rama looked at him, his voice steady and strong as the arms that held him. ‘I could do nothing either last night. But there is much that we can do now, together. Remember, my friend. Not every battle can be won, not every day brings a victory. Loss is a part of life itself. Respect it, and respect its power over us, but then move on. Loss suffered is natural and inevitable; loss dwelt on and obsessed over destroys us. Yes, we failed yesterday, and lost greatly. But today has dawned anew. Now, the question is not what we could not do yesterday, but what we can do today. Will you squander the opportunities of the present to moan and weep about the lost chances of the past? You are a better man than that, Bajrangbali. You are the son of Marut, the child of Anjana. Your ancestors look down upon you and mark your deeds. The devas in the upper realms admire your prowess. Your friends will fight today whether you join them or not. You cannot bring back those who fell, no Kshatriya can. They died fulfilling their dharma. All you can do is fight on, and fulfil your own dharma. I have need of you now. Will you help me?’
And Rama raised his hand to him.
Hanuman ceased his weeping. He looked at the figures on the ground far below, collecting now in neat lines and regiments as they had been taught to do by their mortal leaders and their own generals and captains and clan chiefs. It broke his heart to see them rallying so valiantly even after the carnage of the night before. He looked back at Rama, at the strong handsome face of his mortal lord. And was moved beyond words to see the unshakeable resolve on those handsome features. The voice that he had heard earlier—he knew now that it was Jambavan, speaking to his mind as he had done before—had spoken truly. This was not Ravana. This was Rama. And Rama was not angered with him. Rama believed in him still. Rama had need of him.
He took the hand that was proffered, but instead of clasping it in the fashion that he had seen mortals do, he kissed it lovingly, then touched it to his own head, palm downwards. He could feel the heat from Rama’s flesh seep into his brain. ‘My lord,’ he said in a voice that was as deep and strong as the voice of thunder in the heart of a storm cloud. ‘I am yours to command.’
***
Lakshman watched as Hanuman descended from the wall, bearing Rama upon his shoulder. He touched down gently, bending low so that Rama might alight easily. Rama turned, looking this way and that, then caught sight of Lakshman amidst the crowd of vanar and bear generals that had assembled, and came quickly towards him. The ranks parted to let him pass but he stepped around them rather than disturb their formations.
‘Sumitra-putra,’ he said softly as he came within hailing distance, almost too softly to be heard. ‘My brother, you are well?’
‘Yes, Rama, I … ’
Lakshman barely had a chance to respond. Rama embraced him so fiercely, Lakshman almost cried out at the pain in his ribs where he had been bruised by a fall in the early hours of the morning, while attempting to save a stricken bear. Then he embraced his brother back just as fiercely, surprised at the tears that sprang up in his own eyes. ‘I am here, Rama,’ he heard himself say. ‘Still alive. Still ready to go to war.’
Rama released him,
keeping one arm around his back. His eyes glistened in the early light, filled with a look Lakshman knew well from previous battles. He had had that look the day they had entered the Bhayanak-van to face Tataka and her demon-hybrid hordes, the evening they had made their stand in the Sage’s Brow at Mithila immediately before unleashing the brahm-astra, the morning before the final battle at Janasthana.
He pitied anyone who stood in Rama’s way now, mortal, rakshasa, or deva. Once that look came into his brother’s eyes, no force could stop him.
Maryada Purshottam …
The words sprang up unbidden in his mind.
Maryada Purshottam Rama.
He Who Fulfils His Vow … Against All Odds. The last bit he added himself. Because the odds were truly against them now. Impossibly stacked. And yet. And yet. They had been stacked as high before, higher even. It had never daunted Rama then, it did not daunt him now.
‘And war it shall be, my brother,’ Rama said in a voice of iron.
SEVEN
Lying upon the grassy ground of the Ashoka grove, Sita felt the ground vibrating beneath her, and thought to her dismay that it was yet another wave of sorcery unleashed by Ravana. All night she had lain awake in anxious trepidation as the very island itself seemed to rumble and boom and grind its way through a series of inexplicable changes. Only in the morning—for Ravana’s sorcery ensured that she enjoyed a simulation of day and night even within the bowels of this subterranean cavern— had the clamour ceased. She could not tell exactly what had been wrought by Ravana during the night, but she suspected that it was something epic.
And now it had begun again. She could feel the vibration through the kusa-lavya grass on which she lay, through the earth below the grass. Like giants pounding their enormous hammers deep within the bowels of the earth.
Then she realised that this trembling of the earth was caused not by sorcery, but by the pounding of feet. Thousands upon thousands of feet. Pounding heavily as they raced through the belly of the island, speeding through the cavernous tunnels that riddled Lanka.
She rose slowly to her feet, ignoring the throbbing in her skull, and walked to the far side of the grove. The pounding continued as she walked, now seeming to come from all sides at once. But it was loudest on this side, and she had found before, that if she went to the very edge of the rivulet that wound its way through the grove, and stood upon this rock here, and looked through the gap between two sala trees in the far distance, she could just about glimpse the end of this cave tunnel and the place where it intersected with one or more other tunnels. Somewhere in that direction were the great underground chambers where Ravana had taken her yesterday morning—or was it this morning? Where he had taken her in the flying vahan and shown her his prized secret: those hideous rakshasas hatching from stone-like eggs, or egg-like stones … It was hard to concentrate or remember now. She was very tired.
She stood upon the rock and peered groggily through the gap in the trees, trying to position herself so that she could see the place where the tunnels met. She had glimpsed a rakshasa guard earlier from here, or at least she had glimpsed the top of his gleaming spear as he strolled this way, then that, conversing with his fellow guards. She had heard their guttural voices and harsh barking laughter, distantly and obscurely, amplified and echoing through the caverns. Now she could hear only the pounding, and as she approached this listening spot, it grew louder and became more audible, until there was no mistaking it. That sound was the pounding of thousands of pairs of cloven-hoofed feet. The feet of those beings that Ravana had bred in secret in the subterranean chambers.
She craned her neck and crooked her head and arched her back until she found a suitable angle and was able to glimpse an inverted triangular space which was lit more brightly than this cavern. And in that illuminated space, she glimpsed a blurring rush, as of hordes of armoured heads and backs moving at a frenetic pace. Line upon line running in perfect formation.
And now that she was focussed at last, her waning, depleted energies drawn to the maximum alertness she was able to summon up, she could hear clearly—too clearly almost—the thunderous roar of those cloven hoofs pounding the solid rock floor of the caverns. And the grunting and chuffing of tens of thousands—or perhaps it was lakhs—of those devilishly bred rakshasas. They were on the move. And that could mean only one thing. That Ravana was moving them up to the surface in preparation for a battle. And that in turn meant that Rama and his forces were here at last, upon the island, and that they would soon join weapons with the army of Lanka.
The pounding rhythm of the rakshasas moving through the rock caverns vibrated through the ground, through the rock upon which she stood, through her weary bones, up to her skull, where it joined the throbbing of her head and the drained emptiness that her consciousness had become. She felt herself mesmerised by the rhythm for several moments, the constant pounding acting like the beat of a dhol-drum, lulling her already battered and beleaguered senses …
Then it came to her with a shock like cold water splashed upon her face: all those vicious beasts racing through the cavern were going to do battle against Rama, her Rama. Very shortly, her beloved would face these beasts, and perhaps be wounded by them, possibly even killed. The father of her unborn child. She pressed her palm against her belly, and thought she felt the embryo within her stir and then thrash with great force, anguished by the sound of the bestial hordes going to war against its father. She experienced a moment of dizziness and nausea as the thrashing continued, and stumbled over to the nearest support, a large black boulder shot through with ugly red veins, where she sat a moment to regain her equilibrium.
She caressed her belly soothingly, trying to calm the unborn life—or was it lives? Lately, she had begun to sense more movement within her womb than could be caused by a single embryo—while empathising with their anguish. Their anguish? Yes, now that she thought on it, she grew certain that she bore more than one life within her womb. Two, came the answer from her inner being, the voice of her blood, her life force, her intuition, given substance by the sparking flame of Brahman within herself. Yes, two. She was certain of it now. And at this moment, as events in her life, and therefore their lives as well, reached an epic pinnacle, she could guess how they must feel, blind and helpless and imprisoned though they were—even as she herself was blind and helpless and imprisoned in this subterranean sorcerous cage. In their captivity and inability to act, she and her unborn children were as one at this moment.
She pressed her hand to her swollen belly, longing for the power to act, to join her karma to that of Rama, to do more than simply await the outcome of a war that would surely change her life, and the future history of the world itself. Had she but a sword, or a bow and a quiver, or even just her freedom and her bare hands, she would not hesitate to add her strength to Rama’s forces and wage battle against the armies of Lanka. Women warriors before her had fought in her condition; some of the greatest warriors had been birthed—nay, simply dropped—upon blood-spattered battlefields. Born into blood, sworn into blood, the old Arya legend went, referring to such battle-birthed Kshatriyas. Neither her condition nor her present state of extreme weakness would have stayed her from joining the war against Lanka.
But since she could not do so, all she could do was wait. And her unborn offspring must wait with her. She felt a stirring within, as if they sensed her thoughts and knew exactly what she felt, and had they but the power to voice their own thoughts would have argued hotly and fiercely with her.
She smiled indulgently. Not yet born, and already ready to fight? What else could she expect of the children of two Kshatriyas who had spent the better part of their lives fighting for dharma?
‘Fear not,’ she said softly, stroking her belly gently, ‘some day, when you are a wee bit older and able to at least hold swords in your hands, you will get your chance. Until then, both you and I must wait patiently, no matter how difficult it may be.’ She listened to the sounds of Ravana’s sorcerously created warrio
rs pounding through the labyrinthine caverns around, below, and above her, racing even now to attempt to end the life of her beloved, the father of her unborn children. She added grimly, ‘And until you are ready to fight for yourselves, your father will fight fiercely enough for all three of us.’
So may it be, Devi, she prayed. Make his strength threefold. For he now fights for three lives, not one.
***
It was a grim assembly that gathered once again in the clearing at the heart of the valley. Gone were the eager comments and sharp observations. Not one of Rama’s generals and advisers was spared of cuts, scratches, or lacerations. All were coated with a fine layer of dust and grime, and tear streaks marked many snouted visages. The sound of wounded vanars and bears was all around, made the more heart-tugging because those wounded or dying struggled pitifully to restrain themselves from crying out openly, and only exhibited their agony in helpless coughing or fits of delirious moaning. In the dim, dusty air of the plateau, the bear lords looked no less menacing, to Hanuman’s eyes, than kumbha-rakshasas. Jambavan’s ruby-red pupils smouldered with a fury that sent a trickle of unease down the vanar’s curved spine; the king of bears looked as if he would eat the first rakshasa he met alive, horns and hoofs and all. Not one of those gathered here had been spared the loss of one or more blood-kin or friend. The dead still lay in great heaps, awaiting cremation later that evening, after the day’s fighting was done, for even vanars and bears were aware of the edicts of Manu Lawmaker and the ancient sages regarding the rules of combat, and Rama’s army would follow them scrupulously, whether or not the enemy chose to do so. It was testimony to Rama’s leadership and the respect all had for him that they were not shrieking and raging with fury at the treachery of the king of rakshasas. Nor were they incapacitated by grief and fear at what new terrors the lord of Lanka might have in store for them.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 62