Both of them looked at Rama. He felt the intensity of their gaze like the heat of the noonday sun upon himself. He noted that Hanuman’s wounds had already begun to heal and close: the vanar was possessed of the power to heal himself, of course, although that did not diminish the agony he would have suffered when those wounds were inflicted. Vibhisena had spoken of Ravana’s elder son with as much fearful awe as he had of their brother Kumbhakarna. Hanuman was the only one who had actually faced and fought Indrajit. If he said the rakshasa was formidable, then he must be so.
‘Very well,’ Rama said quietly. ‘I agree with you, Lakshman. It is time to use the powers vested in me through the grace of the devas.’
Reaching within himself, he shut his eyes and called upon the latent maha-shakti that resided in him, waiting for this moment.
In a flash of blinding blue light he was possessed of the Bow of Vishnu and the Arrow of Shiva.
He spoke a single mantra, taught to him and Lakshman by Brahmarishi Vishwamitra at Siddh-ashrama on a day some fourteen years ago. It felt like a past lifetime now. The instant he spoke the shloka, the Arrow blazed with a fierce electric light that crackled like dry leaves snapping in a flash fire. He aimed the Arrow directly overhead, bowing his head as he continued to focus his energies inwardly, drawing on the vast store of Brahman shakti that infused his being, calling it and pouring it into the Arrow. With a final shloka uttered, he loosed the Arrow, setting the night ablaze with light as it rose, flaming, and illuminated the sky and land for miles, then leagues, and then yojanas as it rose higher and higher. Finally, the Arrow reached the apogee of its flight and hung still, crackling and sparkling in the air with a light more intense than the sun. Then it vanished in a great flash, compelling anyone and everyone, including Rama himself, to blink once. When Rama opened his eyes again he saw that the fogs of sorcerous darkness laid down by Ravana had been dispelled completely, and Lanka was returned to its normal state once more. Across the island-kingdom, the resurrected dead, vanars and bears, collapsed lifelessly and were returned to their state of corpsehood, this time never to rise again. It was now late evening, for the day had passed in the course of the long fighting, and the sun was low in the western horizon, casting long shadows. But it was natural and the air of sorcery had been dispelled, and everyone breathed freely again, sighing with relief. For all knew at once that this was Rama’s shakti at work.
Upon the hillock, Rama looked at Hanuman, whose body had almost completed its process of self-healing. As he raised his eyes to the vanar’s face, he saw a deep gash upon Hanuman’s cheek and forehead close and then smooth out until the skin appeared as if it had never been cut at all.
‘Anjaneya,’ he said. ‘Expand yourself and carry us to the gates of Lanka, my friend. Let our forces be informed of our intentions and begin moving northwards as well. It is time to take this war to our enemy’s gate and see if Ravana has the courage to end what he began back in the aranya of Panchvati.’
FOUR
‘They come,’ Ravana said, his heads grinning and nodding with almost unanimous pleasure—only one exception on the extreme left-hand side of his rack appeared to be smacking his lips and drooling as if famished, staring down at the vast array of savouries that lined the enormous plinth before which its owner sat. The king of rakshasas was feeding himself, and perhaps that head had not received sufficient victuals as yet. Almost as if aware of this, he picked up a leg of some Lankan fowl, dripping with juices, and fed it to the hungry head, which wolfed down chunks of roasted flesh ravenously. Each of Ravan’s six hands continued to eat and gesture and do various other things.
With one hand, he gestured with a taloned finger and the image projected upon the far wall of the enormous chamber sharpened and grew in definition, becoming so clear that Mandodhari thought she could almost see the wounds on the giant vanar as he flew carrying the two mortal warriors on his shoulders. But then a diagonal slash on the vanar’s neck seemed to fade, and she wondered if that was the result of the image’s imperfection or Rama’s sorcery. For she knew now that the Prince of Ayodhya was truly a master of sorcery on a par with her own husband, or how else would his army of monkey-men and bear-beasts have been able to withstand the great military might of the rakshasa nation for this long?
The great hall of Ravana’s new palace gleamed with polished black surfaces, intricate sculptures, great hangings and works of art, vaulting facades, elaborate pillars, winding stairways, the whole a veritable cornucopia of architectural marvels. And to think this had all been raised in the course of a single night.
Mandodhari had still not recovered from the destruction of fourteen years of hard work by that wretched vanar spy, and would always miss the pristine, alabaster Lanka that she herself had designed and raised while Ravana lay in the thrall of Rama’s sorcerous Brahman stone like a fly in amber.
But she could not deny that this newly renovated Lanka was beautiful too, albeit in a more hedonistic, more classical rakshasa style. That, after all, was Ravana’s taste as opposed to her own. He preferred the ancient asura ways in all things—including boudoir acts. That was why she had not permitted him into her bed for perhaps half a millennium and no longer cared what he did and with whom in his palace of pleasures—which place, she had no doubt, he had resurrected as well, and decorated with even more sinful luxury and diabolic splendour.
She had finally reconciled her differences with Ravana, understanding late in their long marital accord that he was what he was, a destroyer of worlds and a rapist of civilisations. As long as she retained the dignity that befitted the queen of the realm and the stature of the mistress of Lanka, and he did not interfere in her governance of the people and their culture, she couldn’t care less if he invaded the cities of the devas again and raped every devi in swarga-loka. It was simply what he did, unpleasant and distasteful as it was, and she could not change it, so why should she waste her energy trying?
Besides, those he targeted usually merited their fate in some fashion. Take this upstart Rama Chandra for instance, and his hypocritical, rakshasi-murdering wife Sita. He had undoubtedly ravished their cousin Supanakha, encouraged his brother to partake of her womanly fruits as well, and then spurned her. When the whoring creature—for Mandodhari did not delude herself that Supanakha was an angel of virtue—had foolishly demanded that Rama, having bedded her, should now wed her, she had been mutilated and nearly murdered by the brothers. That was the rape and humiliation that had sparked off this whole war, after all, for even after the massacre of his forces at Mithila and numerous other provocations, Ravana had still retained enough self-will not to respond to Rama’s devilish challenges. She had seen for herself how, after his resurrection with the aid of Supanakha, he had resolved to live a new, quieter life of consolidation and repair, culture and development, rather than conquest and ravage. But Rama, curse his mortal avarice, had not accepted that. Exiled after causing his own father’s untimely demise, humiliating his clan-mother Kaikeyi, driving his own wet-nurse Manthara first to madness then to death, and having murdered rakshasas by the thousands in the aranya wildernesses in order to allow his mortal rishis and sages to practise their vile cult, performing forced conversions of the local tribalfolk, he had hit upon this scheme to invade Lanka. She believed now that Ravana had been brilliantly manipulated by Rama himself, who had used his own wife as bait to lure Ravana to the forests of Panchvati, and once seduced by the mortal temptress, Ravana had been cajoled into bringing her back to Lanka with him, thinking he would be freeing her from Rama’s yoke by doing so. And having engineered this whole thing himself, Rama then cried ‘Rape’ and ‘Kidnapping’ and used these wanton lies to muster the support of the vanars of Kiskindha and the bears of the Himalayan cavelands.
And now his manipulations, schemes and sorcery had brought him to the gates of Lanka.
Her blood boiled as she watched the image projected on the far wall of the chamber, a vaulting fifty feet high and seventy feet wide. The vanar spy landed on the ope
n field before the walls of Lanka, placing his mortal passengers gently on the ground. She squinted in disbelief and saw that the vanar’s wounds were fully vanished now, as if they had been healed fully in his brief passage through the air. Surely that was sorcery of the highest order. She could not help but marvel at the mortal’s command of asura maya. How ingenious and devious, to parade about like a soldier of dharma and pristine virtue, while in fact using the blackest arts to accomplish his every desire. Finally, it seemed, Ravana had found a worthy opponent in this Rama Chandra.
Now she could hardly wait to see his bestial armies routed and Rama himself torn to shreds by Ravana. Or, the Devi willing, by her own son Indrajit. For it was she this time who had suggested that their eldest scion be sent out to destroy the invaders.
***
Ravana smiled around a mouthful of roast flesh at the back of Mandodhari’s head. For once, his prissy wife was wholly supportive of his actions and decisions. He could read her innermost thoughts and was pleased at the reluctant but unrepentant espousal of his decisions, as well as her wholehearted antagonism towards Rama. Finally, he mused, he had everything he desired in the palm of his hand. A Lanka occupied solely by rakshasas, with no other asura races to share the kingdom’s past spoils or future victory; the mortal woman Sita in his possession; his arch-nemesis Rama at his gates, literally inviting his own death; and more maha-shakti than he had ever been able to summon up, a veritable volcano of power waiting to be utilised as he deemed fit.
Why was it, he wondered idly, quaffing off three separate wine goblets at once, that things always seemed to achieve a perfect state of bliss just before the end?
***
Supanakha milled around the crowded square before the city gates, weaving expertly between the hoofed nether limbs of the hordes of Lankan citizens and soldiers alike—there was little difference really, since every rakshasa was considered a soldier from birth, the only division being between those who were enlisted and provided armour and arms and sent out to fight, or kept back to farm or harvest or store or serve or perform any one of the relatively lower grade tasks in the country’s social hierarchy, for the supreme varna of any rakshasa was the varna of warrior.
She had spent the past hours on the ramparts of the city, and then on the rooftops, watching as much of the progress of the war as she could glimpse or glean without actually venturing out upon the battlefields, stealing back into the palace from time to time to watch Ravana’s constantly unspooling sorcerously projected images of various battles and clashes.
But she had tired of those sorcerous projections wherein everything seemed so immediate and real and yet was so false and ephemeral. Someone, a court wag and self-appointed prophet had remarked idly in her ear that some day in the distant future people would watch such magical projections as entertainment. She had replied that they would all have to be possessed of brains like potatoes and a complete lack of life force in order to sit idle and simply be content to watch life unfolding upon a giant screen instead of participating fullbloodedly in the business of life themselves. That had silenced the wag.
She watched as Indrajit issued a few last instructions to his generals and commanders, then stepped up to the cupola of his war chariot. Not a handsome man, like his younger brother, curse his untimely demise, Indrajit nevertheless possessed a magnificent personality at such times. He looked like the great warrior he was, formidable and indestructible, cruel and relentless. She licked her chops and promised herself that after this battle, she would be the first of Indrajit’s legendary celebratory ‘conquests’—except of course, that she would be the one conquering, not being conquered! She had learned a great deal of sexual art in Ravana’s erstwhile palace of pleasures and it would be delicious to pass it on to the warrior prince of Lanka.
Well, cousin, are you prepared to go to war now?
She almost leaped out of her skin. Scanning the crowd around her without finding any trace of that familiar ten-headed form, she realised that Ravana was up to his old tricks again. Mindspeaking. She hated it when he did that, intruding into the private recesses of her thoughts.
But you do love intrusions, don’t you, cousin dearest? Or let me rephrase that: You enjoy being penetrated, whether it’s your mind or your—
‘What is it?’ she snarled, startling a group of diggaja-rakshasas before her.
I come to invite you to join me in viewing the battle from a more comfortable place.
‘I’m tired of watching your projections,’ she grumbled. ‘I want to see and hear and smell things first-hand.’
And so you shall. You can even join in the fray if you like. As I promised you would be able to.
She frowned, peering through the cluster of diggajas who had moved away nervously after recognising the famous lust-mad cousin of their king. A commotion broke out suddenly, which she ignored. ‘Indrajit is already in his chariot, ready to ride out. Perhaps I should hop on with him and hitch a ride.’
He would run his sword through you—penetrate you—the instant you leaped up on that platform. He rides with no one, as you well know.
She sniffed. That was true. Indrajit fought alone, with no charioteer or archer, or even the usual protective circle of chariots that most commanders used to shield themselves in battle. ‘Then how?’
Look up.
She looked up and saw the Pushpak hovering overhead. Ravana’s ten-headed visage leaned over the gleaming golden balustrade of the celestial vehicle and flashed multiple moustached and clean-faced grins down at her.
***
As they hovered high above the southern plains of Lanka, the setting sun filling the sky with streaks of crimson and scarlet and the ominous deep orange shade of fresh heart’s blood, Rama and Lakshman looked down and saw hordes of rakshasas milling about outside the looming stone ramparts and battlements of the capital city. The gates were closed to them, Hanuman had said before, and it appeared that they had remained closed.
What manner of king would bar his war-weary soldiers from returning to the safety of their own city? Was this how Ravana ruled his kingdom and ran his army? Surely it could not continue for long thus. No wonder he required such great mastery of asura maya; only unnatural power could enable such a king to rule.
Rama looked down from his perch on Hanuman’s shoulder and saw the last of his own forces arriving at a brisk pace, taking up position beside the other armies that had already arrived. The contingent of bears that had been with Kambunara in the valley were assembled here; Jambavan’s far larger contingent would follow shortly, but by another route. All those who had been summoned had arrived and were lined up in formation, maintaining the disciplined presentation that they knew Lakshman and he preferred, despite the terrible, heartbreaking losses they had sustained and the grinding battles they had fought this seemingly endless day. Rama’s heart ached as he estimated that perhaps three or four in ten had been lost already in the bitter fighting of the day, and virtually all those who remained fit enough to fight nevertheless sported some mark of injury or wound. That was further testimony to the indomitable morale of his warriors.
In case he needed further confirmation, as Hanuman descended with him and Lakshman, a great volley of cheers rose from the weary dust-and-blood lined throats of his brave soldiers. The sentiments were familiar, the words oft repeated, but the enthusiasm displayed in their chanting was what roused him and moved him almost to tears. As Hanuman touched ground and bent down low enough for his two passengers to alight, the lusty chant reached a crescendo before dying down out of respect to their leader.
Rama exchanged a glance with Lakshman and saw that even his stout-hearted brother had a shine in his eyes. This time it was Rama who reached out and squeezed Lakshman’s tautly muscled shoulder.
‘You were right, Lakhan,’ he said, resorting to the diminutive used by some of the vanar tribes, who found the ‘ksh’ sound in Lakshman’s name impossible to pronounce. ‘I owe it to these brave warriors to employ the dev-astras now. In fa
ct, it is for their sake that I released that astra earlier. That missile did not merely dispel the sorceries of Ravana and undo the reanimation of our dead that his maya had achieved, it also infused each and every one of our soldiers with a share of our own Brahman maha-shakti, creating for them an invisible kavach, a shield as it were, that will protect them the next time Ravana unleashes some new sorcery.’
Lakshman nodded thoughtfully. ‘It will make them invulnerable?’
‘Nay,’ Rama corrected. ‘It cannot guard them against honest weapons and natural violence. That they must defend themselves against by using their own skills and strength. The astra only protects them from the use of other astras, shakti, or any kind of sorcery. Such as I am certain Ravana will deploy, for he seems desperate now and at his wits’ end.’
Lakhsman glanced in the direction of the capital city. The gates were still closed. ‘I am not as certain of that as you are, Rama. I do not think him to be at wits’ end, but desperate, quite possibly. We have given him stiffer resistance than he expected.’ He sighed. ‘But he has also dealt us some telling blows.’ He gestured at the forces assembled behind them on the flat southern plain of Lanka. ‘Look at how many we have lost. And this is only the second day of the war. I wonder if any of us will leave Lanka alive.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Rama said. ‘But if we leave, we shall certainly not leave unvictorious.’
Both fell silent then as a great commotion broke out among the hordes milling about before the gates of the rakshasa capital. As they watched, the looming thirty-yard high wooden gates, each three yards thick and worked by a hundred rakshasas apiece, groaned open by degrees. They waited to see what would emerge.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 79