Then the Lankan vanguard struck the vanar front line.
The sound that resulted from the impact of the two armies colliding—or actually, of the rakshasa army colliding with the vanar army, for only the former had been moving—was a sound like nothing Hanuman had ever heard before. As soon as it entered his ears, he wished he could dispel it for ever, and wished he had never heard it before, nor would hear again.
It was the sound of metal crunching bone, of steel smashing flesh to pulp, of blood exploding out of living bodies, as a bladder-balloon filled with wine explodes when stomped by an angry elephant’s foot.
It was the sound of vanar skulls striking solid rock after a fall from a height of several hundred yards—a sound he had heard once too often during the bridge-building. Of fragile vanar bodies crushed by hurtling rakshasas with a velocity great enough to shatter bone to the texture of squeezed marrow, skulls to the consistency of squashed brain, organs to paste. It was the sound of a thousand mounted rakshasas, each mount and rider’s combined weight easily close to half a ton, striking the bodies of ten thousand vanars each weighing no more than a few dozen kilos. It was the sound of hammerheads as big as vanars themselves, falling like the wrath of cruel devas upon his comrades. It was a thousand sounds like these, each one as terrible and gut-wrenching, all issued at the exact same moment, until the total din of their emission was like a thunderclap on a sunny day.
The cloud of dust that had followed close on the heels of the charging rakshasas rolled over the canyon, boiling and seething as the front lines struck their target and inevitably slowed, and the hordes following behind spread out, milling about, roaring and striking and chopping and gashing and hammering, each rakshasa seeking its own victim—or dozen victims, if they could be had—with great gusto.
The cloud enveloped the ensuing battle, wrapping both armies in its thick embrace, mercifully concealing unspeakable death, unwatchable slaughter, unbearable butchery. Only the sounds of battle escaped its clutches, the roaring exultation of rakshasas engaged in mindless slaughter, of kumbha-surs, broken-surs and masth elephants trumpeting and calling out in dazed madness, of vanars shrieking their death-cries as they sacrificed their brave little souls.
Out of the fog of the dust cloud, a hearty roar was recognisable above the others. Hanuman distinguished it from the rest, knowing it came from the throat of the general of the Lankan vanguard, the one with the fearsome teeth. The strong wind that had blown at unpredictable intervals all morning, near tempest-like at times, then falling to complete stillness for long moments, suddenly swept down into the valley, bringing the unlikely odour of the deep oceans, brine, the scent of fish, cloying and sweet and salty at once.
The wind parted the dense cloud of dust in patches and strips, affording the flying observer overhead scant tantalising glimpses of the battle raging below.
He saw the rakshasa general, still astride his ungainly mount, laying his bladed weapon left and right, slaying vanars before they could come within striking distance of him. He had lost his spear somewhere, but the great blade was enough to cut a swathe of bloody slaughter through the vanar ranks. He urged his mount on with his knees, kicking his barbed heel into her bleeding flanks, and with a squealing protest, the beast lurched forward, gnashing and snapping at vanars as it moved through the mass of Kiskindha warriors like a boat through swampy marsh water. Many unfortunate vanars came underfoot and were crushed beneath its lumbering hoofs, their bodies smashed like those of rodents, leaving blood-spattered furry corpses in its wake. The rakshasa general’s bladed weapon likewise sent arcs of vanar blood flying each time it swung through the air, leaving an assortment of chopped and severed limbs and shrieking, dying vanars.
The wind puffed again, and the dust rolled over once more. The general laughed a great rakshasa laugh, his gleaming teeth stained with the blood of his enemy, and then was lost to sight again, concealed by the rolling dust.
Hanuman gnashed his teeth in frustration. He longed to plunge down, like an arrow aimed at the heart of that rakshasa general and slice him in two like a ripe fruit. It took every bit of his self-control to remain floating here, watching this most heartrending scene. What did Rama expect of him? To simply watch his fellows being cut down like lambs before a butcher’s blade? To hover like a dragonfly when his tribe-kith and clan-kin were being slaughtered mercilessly? When his own king, so brave and proud despite his years and ailing health, was undoubtedly breathing his last only a few dozen yards below?
But Rama’s orders had been undeniable. ‘Watch. Nothing more. Until I give the word.’
And so, gnashing his teeth, and beating his chest with impotent fury, he watched. And waited for Rama’s word. As the unequal battle raged on below.
THREE
Around the time that General Vajradanta was leading the first charge into the canyon, and King Sugreeva and his Kiskindha vanars were preparing to meet the vanguard of the Lankan army in that first terrible clash, the site of another battle, only a few miles south of that canyon, was deceptively tranquil and calm.
In the shade of the densely wooded valley, bounded on all sides by rolling hills, the slanting rays of morning sunlight could barely touch the bottom of the vale. In the few places where they succeeded, the pure golden light of morning leaked through the closely interwoven branches of the trees, seeping through sluggishly to fall upon the leaf-strewn forest floor in ripples, slats and dappled patterns. Occasional beams of sunlight broke the greenish dimness, dust motes and insects swirling in them lazily. Birdsong still filled the air sporadically, and chirring and whirring of insects and the clicking and hissing of smaller creatures in the undergrowth only added to the sense of tranquillity.
Seated atop a latsyoa tree’s upper branches, the vanar leader Mandara-devi was reminded of her home in the Vidarbha ranges where she had spent much of her childhood. She had sat in trees much like this in valleys almost identical to this one during her childhood years, except perhaps for the eastern wind that blew softly through the woods now, carrying the faint salty odour of the sea, and the fact that an army of rakshasas hellbent on killing her and her companions lay over that hill.
She glanced back, parting a branch to see northwards, and peered at the southern face of Mount Suvela. That was where Rama and Lakshman were to station themselves to watch the progress of the first part of the battle today. She could glimpse no sign of them, though it should have been easy enough for vanar eyes to spot a mortal’s form against the lush grass of the mountainside, even at this distance. Instead, she found, on the rim of the eastern edge of the peak, a solitary figure that looked like . . . a rakshasa!
For one heart-stopping instant she almost panicked and issued an alarm, thinking that the worst had happened, Ravana’s devious plan had succeeded and Rama’s armies had been outflanked.
Then she saw the wind billow the solitary figure’s garment, and recognised belatedly the white garb of Rama’s ally Vibhisena. She breathed more easily, slowing her heartbeat. A rakshasa, true, but the one rakshasa in Lanka that could be trusted by vanars. There had been some muttered grumbling when Rama had taken the ocean-sodden rakshasa into his protection, trusting him on first sight and word, but Mandara-devi preferred to leave such decisions to those best suited to make them. The idea that Vibhisena could be a spy who would dupe them was too sickening to contemplate: better to be just a soldier and fight than to let one’s mind rest on such befuddling thoughts. And while she had been a tribe-goddess to the Mandaras for a third of her natural span, she had been a soldier for almost all her life. It was her varna.
She let the branch fall back into place and returned her attention to the way she had been facing. That was where the rakshasa hordes would come from, and the last word from the angadiyas had been that they were no more than a half-watch away, and approaching with great speed. She wondered how King Sugreeva’s Kiskindha contingent was faring, in the canyon a few miles farther north. It was too far for her to see or hear anything, but in a more silent m
oment, when the birds and insects fell still, as they would sometimes do in such tranquil forests, she thought she could hear, faintly, a distant roaring and gnashing, as of armies clashing somewhere. She could not tell if she was imagining it because she knew to expect it, or if she was truly hearing it. But there was a faint sound coming to her ears from somewhere, something that didn’t seem to fit into the natural pattern of things. It was a terrible ghost of a sound, like the sound of ten thousand vanars dying unspeakably horrible deaths all at once, and she shivered despite the warmth of the day.
She sent up a silent prayer for King Sugreeva and her fellow vanars, may they fare well. She had two sons-in-law and one daughter in the Kiskindha contingent, and seven of their children, her grandchildren, as well. For that matter, she had kith or kin in all the various vanar armies fighting here today, but for some reason the little anxiety she felt was focussed only on those in the Kiskindha army. For as the vanguard, they would be bearing the full-frontal assault of the rakshasa charge, and she had heard enough of Rama’s plan to first lure and then entrap the rakshasas in that narrow canyon to not want to know anything more. The thought that her grandchildren or her sons-in-law or even her daughter might already be lying dead only a few miles away was a thought she did not wish to dwell on. She wiped such thoughts clean from her mind, but with a small effort.
‘Mandara-devi.’
The voice was urgent and excited. She recognised the gruff tone as belonging to Dvivida, one of General Nila’s two chief lieutenants. While Nila had nominally been given charge of the Mandara contingent, after her kinsman Vinata was injured in the night of the killing stones, Dvivida was one of her own. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she would have thought him of her own line, so similar was his glossy jet-black pelt and burly, muscled physique to her own stocky shape. Perhaps, she had begat this handsome young creature through one of the many, many lovers she had taken in her younger years … Sometimes, among vanars, it was difficult to tell for sure.
Dvivida squatted on a branch nearby, his beautiful burnished pelt almost denuded of fur, testifying to the numerous wrestling bouts he had participated in—and won mostly—over the years, making him one of the most lauded wrestling champions in vanar history. His jewellery—for all her Mandara vanars wore silver jewellery from their own mines—was sparse and close-hanging, but his earlobe piercings were profuse, marking the many victories he had achieved in single combat. She saw a flash of white teeth in the gloamy shaded darkness. ‘They come.’
Those two simple words caused a thrill to race down her spine. Veteran of so many wars as she was, she nevertheless felt a thrill that was wholly new and unfamiliar. ‘Are we all ready? Tell them to make sure that nobody makes a move until I give the signal. Understood?’
Dvivida’s teeth flashed again. ‘Not a tick will twitch on anyone’s pelt until you give the signal, my lady. They know that anyone who dares panic and move too early will have to answer to me, even if he or she survives the rakshasas.’
Mandara-devi resisted the impulse to smile back in response to Dvivida’s smug grin. Her vanars might not have been as well trained and drilled in the mortal ways of battle as the Kiskindha army, but they were good, honest vanars, mischievous at play and obedient to a fault in a crisis. She doubted that Dvivida would need to wrestle any soldier after this battle to discipline him, but if he did … well, then she pitied the poor bugger. She herself had wrestled Dvivida only twice … and although she had won the second bout by the hair on the tip of her tail, she would not wish to repeat that experience any time soon. ‘Are General Nila and his vanars in position?’
‘Ready and waiting as well, devi. They will not enter the fray until you give the word, or … ’
Or until they receive word of your demise . . . That was the pre-agreed arrangement. She clicked her tongue softly, approvingly. ‘How many, how far, and how fast?’ she asked.
Dvivida’s grin faltered ever so slightly, then was back again as bright and insolent as before, but she had caught that brief hesitation and it spoke more eloquently to her than any dry narration of figures and estimates. ‘Never mind,’ she corrected herself quickly. ‘Go on, back to your position. We leaders must be spread as far as possible, as we agreed.’
Dvivida nodded and was about to turn away when Mandaradevi hissed again, ‘Dvivida.’
The burly vanar turned back, curious. ‘My lady?’
‘May you fight with the strength of our brother Hanuman and the will of our lord Rama.’
Dvivida looked at her a long moment, his small, bright eyes gleaming in the darkness. Then, without a word, for among Mandaras deeds spoke louder than words, he vanished back whence he had come.
She stilled the pounding of her heart and sought to remain calm. She slowly became aware of the silence that had fallen upon the forest in the valley. No birdsong or insect call broke the stillness now, even the sea wind that had blown this past watch, sometimes as fiercely as a gale in the making, had died out. She sensed the same disturbance that the wild creatures and birds and insects of the forest had sensed, and focussed her attention on its source, just over the rise of the ghats up ahead to the north. It was a mild vibration in the ground, transmitted through the trunk of the latsyoa tree, all the way up to the high branch where she squatted. She arched her tail, touching the tip to the branch, a vanar’s equivalent of placing fingertips to feel. She felt the unmistakable trembling of the oncoming horde. She sighed. It seemed such a beautiful, idyllic day … too beautiful for the carnage and slaughter of battle. Yet, such was the tragic irony of war, instead of enjoying nature’s beauty and fruits, we foolish creatures squander our lives and seed the earth with our wasted blood. She prayed once more for all her vanars, for Rama’s cause—and yes, even for the rakshasas of Lanka, that they might learn the meaning and value of peace some day. Perhaps, even today. Even if she was the one who had to teach them.
Then she focussed her attention fully on the direction from which she knew the enemy would come, the slight depression in the lowest hillock of the ghat to the north, barely a quarter of a mile from the tree on which she sat. The morning sun was just high enough to touch the tips of the grass on the peak of the rise, turning them into an army of gleaming blades, waving gently like a benevolent gathering. As she watched, the trembling turned into a shuddering. And then the shuddering grew into a palpable, audible sound. A thundering reverberation that sent squirrels and other small denizens of the forest scurrying for cover, a few smaller birds fluttering away in panic. The stillness around her grew grim, as if the forest itself knew what that sound portended. And perhaps it did. For nature’s creatures were the first to know of oncoming disaster.
She could feel the hackles on her own body rising, a part of her mind, that primitive simian part that linked her and all vanars to their monkey and ape forebears, as it linked mortals too, screaming Run, flee, fly,’ and she used that impulse, turned it into fuel to feed the fire of outrage that had been sparked when she saw her son and his entire family crushed to death on the night of the killing stones, her brother fall in the bridge-building, her cousin drowned by the tsunami, and the almost certain deaths that lay ahead for so many of her beloved kith and kin.
Who were these rakshasas then, to travel to foreign lands and wreak havoc and destruction? Did they think they could continue unchallenged for ever? Well, they had erred in kidnapping Rama’s beloved. For at last here was one who would not brook their transgressions. And her love for Rama and her anguish at his suffering fuelled her anger as well, and the fire within her grew and grew, until the thundering of her own mighty matriarchal heart was no less than the pounding of the ground just over that rise …
The first figures appeared, lining up along the top of the rise from end to end. Ragged, horned, sharp-cornered silhouettes, limned by the light of the risen sun, half cast in golden burnished light, half shadowed. She caught her breath as their numbers grew, and grew … hundreds, then thousands, then, as they began to roll down the
sloping incline, tens of thousands. How many were there? At least they were all on foot, she saw. Her vanars feared the rakshasa mounts more than the rakshasa themselves. She was also relieved to see none of the kumbharakshasas that General Nila had warned them about; these were only the standard breed that she and her vanars had fought before—not often, not always victoriously, but at least they had had some brushes with this kind.
But never in such vast numbers.
She shuddered briefly as the rakshasa army began rolling down the slope of the ghat like a juggernaut, its thundering tearing up the grass and churning up the fertile soil to sods and clumps. And still they came on, lines upon lines of the blade-armed, horned and tusked, taloned, armoured and shaggy-furred beasts.
The birds of the forest, keenly aware of the destruction that would soon follow, called to one another and rose as one enormous mass, filling the sky above with their cries and the flapping of their wings.
For a moment the sky was shrouded by the cloud of fleeing avians, and the already dim forest in which Mandara-devi waited turned even darker as if portending the dark deeds that would be accomplished in its idyllic shade.
FOUR
Inside the cloud of dust and blood and madness, King Sugreeva grew slowly, gradually aware of the impossible: he lived yet. Somehow he had survived the first collision of the rakshasa hordes with his vanars. Because the oncoming mounts were riding too swiftly and were too large to swerve or correct their course, and because the vanars were so small, many of those in the front lines were literally bypassed without a hoof or a spear or a blade so much as touching them. Not all, of course: for every vanar like Sugreeva who came between those thundering beasts, at least two other unfortunate vanars fell beneath their crushing hoofs. The front line that had stood so bravely with their king, facing the oncoming rakshasa vanguard with the perfect courage of soldiers confronting certain death, was wiped out in a flash, like a line drawn with powdered ash erased instantly by a splash of water. The ferocious charge of the rakshasa vanguard, led by the cavalry, crashed into the vanar ranks like an elephant into a bamboo thicket. Some seven thousand vanars, brave Kiskindha warriors all, the majority with some prior battle experience, but far too many facing combat for the first time in their very young lives, were killed on impact, their mashed bodies driven together into piles of mangled flesh and splintered bone. So much blood was spilt in that terrible clash of Rama’s armies and Lanka’s hordes that the dust of the floor of the canyon was stained red ochre, a deep, dull, almost brownish shade that fittingly approximated the colour of the roughcloth worn by Arya sages since the beginning of time, for it was the colour of transcendence. The front lines of the rakshasa charge were splattered with vanar blood, gristle, pieces of flesh and splinters of bone so that in an instant they resembled butchers after a long day’s work.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 68