The situation changed slowly as the beasts, sluggish though they were, and clearly stunned by the sudden appearance of this unexpected foe, regained their wits and began corresponding yet again with those unnerving clicks. But their confidence was so badly eroded, and the ferocious onslaught of the bears so great that even their rallying response was too feeble, too late. They tried leaping high and fast and in all directions, as they had done before, but whereas the vanars had been leaping as well, and had been much smaller creatures with far inferior strength, the bears were a different story altogether.
Jambavan tracked a lizard leaping elliptically, and when it came flying down at him, its talons blurring, he was already half turned away, out of the range of those slashing blade-like tips, then twisting his body around in that famous side-to-side swinging action that only bears could effect with such power and grace, cutting back at the enemy with his own formidable claws. The lizard’s torso seemed to explode in a burst of green-yellow ichor as it hissed out a cry that reminded him of a giant swallowing snake he had once fought deep in a tropical jungle, ten times his length and as thick as himself. This creature was a far less competent foe than that great anaconda, and died far more easily, the light winking out of its bright eyes like a firefly slapped by an irate bear.
Jambavan slaughtered and sang his song of battle, slaying dozens of the creatures himself, until he lost count of how many he slew, or of the progress of the battle as a whole. Such battle madness was unavoidable, even to a creature as enlightened and in control of its senses as he; it was a relaxation of the normal sensory awareness of time and tide and logic and sense; in its own way, this state of battle-lust and killing fever was no less than a meditation itself, albeit a brutal and life-negating meditation that did not bear the fruits of a true transcendental trance. But it helped make the butcher’s task that much easier— made it possible even, for killing, however necessary, however justified, if you could ever call killing justified, was no glorious deed to be sung about and praised in paeans. Jambavan, like any true warrior, fulfilled this part of his dharma, but in doing so allowed himself to neither be clouded by the illusory, vainglorious pleasure of victory, nor disabled by the horror of his acts of violence.
When the fugue of bloodletting passed, he found himself standing in a place of blood and ichor, corpses and severed parts, of body organs exposed and stinking fetidly, of blindly staring yellow eyes in lifeless reptilian heads, and a scene of such incredible carnage as he had never witnessed in his years before, nor ever desired to set eyes on again.
***
Rama looked upon the battlefield with a sense of awe that he had not thought himself capable of feeling since he was a boy and still uninured to the excesses and cruelties of life. Even as a young man of fifteen, the year that Brahmarishi Vishwamitra had come to Ayodhya to take him into the Bhayanak-van on that fateful mission, he had not experienced such a sense of utter disbelief.
The bears had wiped out the force of lizard- rakshasas. The few thousand that remained, gutted or wounded, struggling feebly to fight back, were being slaughtered even now. The bears, aided by the Jatarupas, who were more than eager to avenge their own losses, went about the field dispatching the survivors easily, with a sense of dutifulness that was almost frightening to watch. This was no longer battle lust that drove them, but a simple sense of survival. There was no point in leaving alive any of the foe, when they knew full well that those survivors would only return to hunt them once again. Even so, his time-toughened warrior’s mind found it difficult to stomach this necessary act. He consoled himself with the knowledge that these creatures were a sorcerously bred hybrid creation of Ravana, not a natural breed of rakshasas that lived and raised families like the other rakshasas—Vibhisena had confirmed as much when he had joined them a little while earlier. And in that case, they were only undoing the work of unnatural sorcery, not truly killing life created by the honest purity of Brahmanic shakti itself, as were mortals, vanars, bears, or other animals, birds and sea-denizens that existed on earth.
Yet, he still could not help feeling a sense of sickening unease at being the sole cause of an entire species being wiped out so completely and finally. Thus were genocides committed. Did it matter any less if the race thus extinguished was a sorcerously created one? He was grateful that he had not had the luxury of time to dwell on the moral and ethical ramifications of such issues. His dharma only called for him to go to war, and this war required that this reptilian force be destroyed to the last member. So be it.
THIRTEEN
They met at the lowermost foothill: bear lord, vanar prince, mortal princes and a solitary rakshasa Brahmin, for Vibhisena had come down from Mount Suvela and joined them a short while ago. They embraced and exchanged looks full of the undefinable emotion that passes through the hearts and minds of warriors at such a time. There was sadness there, at the losses of their fallen comrades—for despite their superiority, the bears had sustained losses too, and the Jatarupas had paid a heavy price. There was relief and even joyousness, for they had won the battle. There was guarded wonder, for it was only just approaching noon, and this was only the first day of the first real battle of the war to rival all wars to date. But above all, there was love, and friendship, and camaraderie, and great, indescribable happiness at seeing one another again, and taking comfort in each other’s living, breathing presence once more.
Before they could speak a single word, a great shape dropped out of the sky, landing as softly as a feather beside Rama.
‘My lord,’ Hanuman said, kneeling down to touch the feet of his chosen master. ‘I come to bring you news of the war thus far.’
Rama blessed him without protesting overmuch. He still did not enjoy shows of obsequiousness, for he knew how easy it would be for such fealty to turn into a god-like worship, and he was still far too much a mortal creature of flesh and blood to desire to be venerated like a deva. ‘Give us your report, my friend. We have had some word from the prince of Kiskindha’s fleet-footed couriers, but it is your overview that I long to hear most. Leave out no detail of significance, rather tell us all that is worth telling, but do so as briefly and efficiently as possible, with no formal embellishments or ornate phrasing, for we are still soldiers and the war is only just begun.’
Nearby, a familiar saucy cheeka rang out, as the small, furry shape of Hanuman’s half-brother Sakra bounded up the hillock. The little vanar had found employment in the company of the angadiyas and his naturally exuberant energies diverted productively in ferrying messages to and fro. But on sight of his illustrious brother, he still seemed to turn back into the childish monkey-fool vanar he was at heart.
Hanuman shot Sakra a stern look to admonish him for interrupting such an important convention. Undaunted, Sakra remained where he was, seated on his haunches and scratching his left ear with his left hind leg, exactly as a monkey might do, while eavesdropping blatantly upon their conversation. He was ignored by all, by unspoken mutual consent, and with Rama’s indulgent blessings.
Hanuman then did as Rama had asked, and narrated the tales of the battle of the canyon and the battle of the valley. He described how, after Mandara-devi’s gallant sacrifice, the rakshasa horde was encircled and entrapped within the dense woods by the waiting vanar and bear contingents and made to suffer great losses, in numbers as well as morale. ‘They were like proud wolves eager for a feast when they arrived over the rise of that valley, led by one of the greatest champions of Lanka, and they fled southwards back towards their capital with the aspect of whipped curs, leaderless, and whimpering at their losses.’
‘And what of the battle in the west?’ Rama asked. ‘For I have received fewest reports from that front, it being the farthest from us. How fared General Susena, lieutenants Pramathi and Praghasa, their champions the twins, and the rest of the Mandeha vanars?’
Hanuman lowered his snout in a vanar gesture of sadness. ‘I regret to say that the general was killed, as was Praghasa, but the twins and Lieutenan
t Pramathi survived; and while the Mandehas sustained losses amounting to about two in ten of their original count, they held the field. The enemy was sent into retreat and was last seen by me raising a great dust cloud as it returned to the gates of Lanka.’
He paused, and Rama, who had been about to speak a few words of commiseration over the loss of the general and the others fallen on the western front, held back, sensing that the vanar was about to reveal something of great import. ‘What is it, Anjaneya? Speak it aloud to me, however trivial a detail it may seem. If it troubles you thus, it is surely not too minor to recount.’
Hanuman looked at him with a puzzled expression in his reddish-brown vanar pupils. ‘I do not scent the meaning of it, Rama. But perhaps you, in your infinite wisdom and your great store of knowledge of battle lore, will better comprehend its significance.’
‘What is it? What did you see or hear?’ Lakshman asked, with less patience than Rama but more gently than usual. He was as pleased by the morning’s victories as any of them, his normal impatience tempered by the successes.
Hanuman looked at Rama’s brother, then at Rama himself. The bear lord Jambavan and Prince Angad watched him curiously, as did the Kiskindha lieutenant Gavaksa, and the Jatarupa vanar lieutenants Rsabha and Gavya. The Jatarupa lieutenant Gaja had perished on the talons of a lizard-beast on the rampart walls, while other lieutenants had died fighting the creatures on the field below. All present waited with mounting curiosity to hear what Hanuman had to say.
‘It was a strange sight, my lord,’ he said. ‘There were survivors coming from all fronts, beaten and bedraggled and bearing wounded and hurt rakshasas all, gathering before the gates of Lanka. But the gates were kept shut against them. Not a single one of them was permitted to return into the walled city. Rather, when some failed to badger and intimidate the gate guards into opening the gates, and attempted to enter via a sally port while others attempted to climb the walls in sheer desperation, they were thrown off and shoved out with as much violence as might be used against a besieging enemy.’ He paused, looking at each of their faces in turn to see if any of them understood this peculiar event any better than he did. ‘It was as if Lanka’s lord and master would rather leave his armies to die rather than permit them to return unvictorious.’
Lakshman swore softly, using phrases Hanuman did not understand. ‘Then they will attack us once again. They are left with no other alternative. They will charge our armies with greater ferocity than before, for now they know they have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. A wounded lion is more dangerous than a sleeping one.’
‘A wounded lion is a wounded lion,’ Rama replied softly. ‘And I do not believe Ravana is so mindlessly cruel that he believes such tactics will enrage his forces into seeking victory where they failed so miserably before.’
‘But they did not fail miserably, Rama,’ Lakshman argued persistently. ‘They failed, yes, but only because we outmanoeuvred them and outwitted them at every turn. Now they are aware of our tactics. Indeed, we have used up all our surprises, and revealed all our forces. Our armies have sustained great losses, perhaps greater than the armies of Lanka in some cases. And while we held the ground we fought on, it was not ground that was valuable in itself. We have yet to march on Lanka and take the city proper, for only then is our goal fully accomplished. When Lanka will not admit its own soldiers back into her fold, and the armies of Ravana remain outside its gates, how can we march on the capital and storm it?’
Jambavan spoke in his quiet rumbling tone. The bear king had wiped off some of the ichor from his snout and features but the stench of the substance still hung about him thickly; yet nobody dared say so to him directly. ‘We are not meant to storm the capital, Rama. That is why the king of rakshasas refuses entry to his own warriors. He is not yet prepared to let us bring the war to him. He wishes to bring the next phase of the war to us.’
The bear king paused, sniffing the air suspiciously. ‘And I would warrant that he is preparing to do so at this very moment.’
Hanuman looked around, suddenly alert. ‘My lord Jambavan speaks truly, Rama! I scent the odour of asura maya in the air. The same fetid stench that issued when Ravana deployed the killing stones last night. He is about to wreak some new sorcery upon us!’
Even as he was finishing, a great cheeka rang out from Sakra. They turned to see the little angadiya leaping up and down in frantic excitement, his paws covering his eyes in terror. Despite covering his face, he still peered out between his furry fingers, and as the attention of the war council was directed at him, he pointed upwards with a single claw, shrieking anew.
They looked up to see what was bothering him. And stared, transfixed, as nightfall descended on them out of a clear noon sky.
***
King Sugreeva was seated with his lieutenants on the high rim of the canyon, enjoying a moment of idle indulgence, eating a little fruit to replenish his resources, while reviewing the battle’s high points to glean new insights for future reference. He was in the midst of explaining the most effective method for bringing down the large broken-headed mounts that had been used by the rakshasa horde in its first headlong charge, when the day turned dark. He rose to his feet at once, scenting the stench of rakshasa sorcery at large. But his first impulse was to look down at the canyon, where his forces were resting, for fear that the rakshasa horde had somehow regrouped and gained reinforcements and was launching a fresh onslaught.
He did, in fact, see something to make his heart leap into his mouth. But instead of a rakshasa charge, what he saw was a dark cloud, with the texture and appearance of fog, creeping across the ground. As he watched, it entered the canyon, covering the ground with frenetic haste, like smoke billowing before a great wind. But he knew this was no natural fog or smoke, for the wind was still blowing from the east, whereas this unnatural bank of fog-like substance was coming from the south, from the direction of Ravana’s capital city.
Then the shouts of his lieutenants caused him to look up at the sky and what he saw there made him almost swallow his heart again out of fear and shock.
***
In the dense jungle of the valley, Mainda and Dvivida rested on trees, too weary to eat even though their fellows feasted and danced all around them. As inveterate fighters, both had acquired the art of resting at every given chance, and preferred a little respite for their aching bodies to filling their bellies with nourishment. Even with his eyes shut, Dvivida’s mind still replayed that brutally brief combat between Mandara-devi and the rakshasa general. A whole battle had passed since, during which he had fought and killed perhaps a dozen of the enemy himself, had survived some very close scrapes and seen too many of his friends and blood-kin killed, but it was that one fight that haunted him still. He knew it would haunt him for as long as he lived, and he would tell and retell it countless times to his fellow vanars, his children, and even his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, for it was the greatest fight he had ever witnessed in his life. That itself was the highest praise a fighter could pay another fighter—to tell that fighter’s story instead of his own. He would honour Mandara-devi always, by retelling the great fight she had fought on that dried river bed in Lanka, for by fighting that fight, she had made this battle and this victory possible.
He took the sudden commotion to be some new round of celebration. Some of the more enterprising vanars had found some fermented fruit and were pretending to get intoxicated on it. Such silliness was acceptable after a battle, more so after a victorious battle. But when the shrieking and commotion grew loud enough to compel him to rouse himself from his reverie, he opened one eye, then the other, to see what was occasioning such madness. He saw Mainda stirring drowsily on the branch of the tree beside him.
‘What are they up to now?’ grumbled the older vanar. He had sustained a gash beneath his ribcage that was still oozing blood, but was otherwise unharmed. He raised his snout and peered around. Being on a higher branch than Dvivida, he had a slightly better view. He
looked around, but could see nothing that aroused his interest. Then he raised his snout to glance idly at the sky, and saw something that made him freeze.
‘What is it, Mainda?’ Dvivida asked, alerted more by Mainda’s reaction than by the flurry in the camp. The old champion was not given to easy excitability.
‘Mother of vanars,’ Mainda swore, then pointed up at the sky. ‘Our doom is come upon us, Dvivida. Prepare to meet the deva of all the vanar races in the afterworld.’
Dvivida looked up, parting the leaves above his head to peer at the bright blue sky. The first thing he saw was that it was turning slowly black, as if a gigantic cloudbank was creeping across it. The next thing he realised was that it was not a cloudbank at all.
***
‘General! The sky!’
General Pramathi—for he had been promoted instantly on General Susena’s death—followed his lieutenant’s pointing finger. He was in the midst of taking stock of his losses and standing in the centre of the large grassy declivity where the western army had fought their battle. Tens of thousands of corpses, rakshasa as well as vanar, lay around him, reeking in the noonday sun.
He paused, and looked up.
And froze in horror.
***
Rama stared in grim consternation as the sky above Lanka grew dark as night. The cause was sorcery, of that he had no doubt. He could see the fog-like darkness creeping across the ground at the same time—except that creeping was too slow a word to describe the speed with which the sorcerous substance was spreading. In moments, the entire hill range, the ghats, and even the mountains that had been so clearly visible only moments ago, were shrouded in a night-like darkness. And soon, he could see the sky would be benighted too. Already the sun was covered by the advancing cloud of blackness that raced across the sky, matching the speed and denseness of the thick, oily smoke-like substance that covered the ground below. In another few moments, the whole land would be plunged into a darkness as
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 76