FIVE
Sita was barely in control of her senses, doubting everything she saw or heard or felt. Her wits reeled and her consciousness flickered like a guttering candle in a dancing breeze. Had Ravana truly come to fetch her from the Ashoka grove, inviting her to come aboard his golden flying chariot and brought her here? Why? Did he wish her to witness yet another of his demonstrations of sorcery and power? She had had quite enough of those … effects, for want of a better word. She wished only to be left alone, meditating quietly until Rama came and fetched her, releasing her from this unending tyranny. She wanted only that her ordeal should end, and end soon.
She sensed the familiar churning of her insides as the Pushpak rose, carrying its occupants aloft, and clutched the sickeningly warm golden rod beside her seat for support. She hated herself for showing even that much weakness, but she had no wish either to fall or to lose the meagre contents of her stomach, that nutrition which she had reluctantly consumed only for the sake of the unborn lives she bore. She held on tightly until the vertiginous sensation passed, and only when she was certain that the vahan had ceased its upward flight did she allow her eyes to slowly flutter open.
She saw Ravana standing at the prow of the vehicle, facing outwards like any general examining his troops. She saw that vile shape-shifting yaksi-rakshasi hybrid, Supanakha, crouched upon the balustrade beside her cousin, staring down as well. And she was aware that there was another gallery on the celestial vehicle, where she dimly recalled having glimpsed Mandodhari and various ministers of the Lankan court earlier; but that was a lower section of the Pushpak. On this uppermost gallery there were only the three of them. She realised that she was in the open air and a weak, warm evening sun was lighting her face and upper body on the right side. In the distance, she could see the horizon and the ocean, turned blood-red by the setting sun. The air was fragrant with the ripe, rich odours of the open countryside, and she wanted so badly to relish it, to savour the simple pleasure of being out in the clear air of Prithvi-maa once more, to have done with this endless nightmare, but she knew Ravana too well by now to believe that he had brought her out here for a soiree in the park. He had some devilish ulterior motive for taking her along on this trip, and she sensed with a sickening certainty that whatever it was he intended her to see, it lay below them at this very instant. She prepared herself as best as she could in her current state, and gripping the balustrade now with both hands, trembling slightly from weakness as well as trepidation, she peered over the edge of sanity.
She was not prepared for the sight that met her eyes.
Rama.
Rama stood there below, far below, perhaps a few hundred yards distant, almost as dimunitive as her index finger, but it was still he, in the flesh, standing on a grassy barrow, with Lakshman beside him. Tears welled up at once, unbidden and undesired, and for once she did not banish them, as she had done with all her emotions in Ravana’s presence. She let them flow, dripping one and then another upon the flawless golden surface of the Pushpak, where they did not linger or roll about, but were instantly absorbed by the metal skin of the celestial vehicle, disappearing into the fabric of the device itself. And she fought to blink away the tears that followed so that she could see more clearly.
Rama and Lakshman stood before a great army of vanars and bears, so great that even from this height she could not see the end of that great host. Before them, on the great southern plains of Lanka, barely a mile separating them, were the hordes of Lanka, assembled before the city walls and gate in some measure of confusion, circling and re-circling, raising dust clouds in agitation, as if unsure of whether they were to retreat into the city or attack the sighted enemy. Within the walls of Lanka, just inside the great gates, were assembled what appeared to be all the rest of Lanka’s populace, armed as well as unarmed, armoured as well as unattired. A great, gleaming chariot was preparing to ride out through the gates even as she looked, and she thought she recognised the helmed head of Indrajit, Ravana’s elder son. Behind him were several rakshasas in much smaller, less ostentatious chariots that she somehow knew were champions.
Her eyes found Rama once more, even though the Pushpak had drifted slightly during this brief period, and they filled with tears again as she gazed adoringly upon the visage and form of her beloved after so long a separation. He seemed well enough, but so much leaner and thinner. His dark skin, once almost bluish in hue, seemed to have faded and he looked paler. She thought it must surely be the weakness of her vision and the dust of the field and the fading light of evening that deceived her. As she gazed at him, she saw several vanars and a bear or two approach him, and stand with him and Lakshman upon the mound as generals and lieutenants might stand with their king upon a battlefield. Of course, she did not know any of them apart from the gallant Hanuman whom she had recognised at once. She felt great sorrow at the fact that the forces and generals of Lanka were so much more familiar to her than those of Rama. And once again, she dearly wished that she had but her freedom and a sword, and that she could stand by Rama’s side, like any of his war ministers, to do battle for his honour. For it was as much his honour he defended here as hers, for were they not one and the same? What was it he always said? Where Sita begins, and Rama ends, I do not know, it is not possible to know. But where Sita ends, there Rama ends, this I know for certain.
I am here, my love. She wanted to scream the words. But the shame and humiliation of being in his enemy’s chariot and a captive caused her to hold her tongue. And she only watched, as the great drama of war unfolded before her weeping eyes.
***
The gates of Lanka were barely open all the way when the great war-chariot flew out, its team heaving with all their might to get the great armoured vehicle moving upon its high wheels. Some rakshasas—either simply careless or perhaps foolish enough to think they might aid their lord as he rode out—came in its path, and without so much as a warning shout, Indrajit whipped his team and rode them down. Their bodies were churned and crushed beneath the spinning high wheels, reinforced with metal and cruelly studded and spiked. The rest of the horde nearest to the gate reared back, issuing a disgruntled growl. Even the heavy lashes of the kumbhas upon their hides did not deter them from watching with baleful resentment as the prince of Lanka rode out through their lines and onto the field of battle.
Indrajit rode his chariot to a suitable strategic position and then reined in the team. They chomped at the bit now, pulses racing, scenting the odours of the enemy and eager to continue, for they were blood-fed cross-breeds, weaned on the flesh of mortals and as vicious in battle as any rakshasa. Indrajit stood proudly arrogant in his chariot’s well, gazing out at the army of invaders with an aspect that seemed openly contemptuous even at this distance.
Rama watched as a line of smaller, far less ornate chariots followed in Indrajit’s wake, taking up suitably subordinate positions behind their leader. Following them in turn came a new host from Lanka, their armour still gleaming and unsullied by the dust of the field, their blades sharp and maces undented. They came—and kept coming, the new arrivals fanning out to form a wall from west to east that promised to match the length of the battlement wall of the city itself. He resisted the urge to catch his breath as the numbers continued to swell, until the army before them seemed almost an even match for their own host. And he would wager there were still more rakshasas not yet assembled here: those odd-faced beasts that had emerged from the battlements after the sorcerous darkness fell were nowhere to be seen on this field.
His generals had assembled around him even as they awaited Lanka’s next move. Now they were all silent, watching this great army arrayed before them. Suddenly their great advantage of numbers seemed substantially diminished. After taking into account their huge losses, they were now left with an army no more than twice as big as Lanka’s own. And given the superior size, armour, strength and fighting knowledge of the Lankans, that was hardly an advantage at all.
A flicker of gold in the air cau
ght his attention again. He did not pay it much heed. He had already glimpsed Ravana’s celestial vehicle hovering about overhead as it had done all day. He could see several faces gazing down from its galleries at the armies assembled on these plains, but he did not care. Let Ravana’s spies examine him and his forces as much as they desired. There was no longer any call for subterfuge. This was open war and this the last battlefield in Lanka.
‘The craven lurks in his chariot and will not even descend to the field of battle,’ snarled Sugreeva with surprising vehemence. The king of vanars had been barely recognisable when he had approached Rama moments ago; the marks of battle were on his face and form, and yet he seemed renewed and invigorated rather than weakened. His age-bent crouch and pained expression had given way to a monarchical pride. Just like the first time that Rama had laid eyes upon him at Mount Rishimukha, he was reminded again of his father. This fierce Sugreeva put him in mind of what he thought Maharaja Dasaratha must have looked like on the field of one of his famous battles: proud, indomitable, unrelenting. He had already heard a brief account of Sugreeva’s exploits in the battle of the canyon and marvelled at it. He felt a surge of pride that he was the cause, however unfortunately, of the vanar king’s return to glory.
‘If he will but descend to the ground and join swords with us, I will show him how kings should fight upon the field, instead of sending his minions out in hordes to do his killing for him.’
The king of Kiskindha added a few choice epithets to his outburst then snarled and spat furiously in the direction of the Pushpak. For an instant, all eyes in Rama’s camp turned upwards towards the gleaming golden object in the dusky sky. Rama looked up as well, noting that there were two galleries on the vehicle; a large one which accommodated at least a couple of dozen rakshasas of varying breeds and kinds, and an upper gallery which was only slightly smaller but held just two or three persons, one of whom was unmistakably Ravana, the other the treacherous Supanakha, and the third … the third …
Hanuman’s paw gripped his arm. ‘My lord!’
Rama started at the same moment, seeing what Hanuman and Lakshman and all the rest of them saw, but only the three of them recognized.
The third passenger in the Pushpak was none other than Sita herself.
***
Indrajit raised his mail-encased fist and his herald at once lifted his long, elaborately carved bone trumpet. The call that issued forth was lowing and mournful, like a dirge. It silenced the chittering and growling in Rama’s camp as well as the grumbling and resentful noises among the Lankan hordes. The kumbhas ceased their whipping and beating momentarily, for even the most recalcitrant rakshasa obeyed implicitly the call to battle. Ravana watched as the trumpeting was taken up and echoed by each of the hordes. In fact, he had not yet given the signal to issue the call of battle. The herald had been entrusted with the task of watching Ravana in the Pushpak, waiting for the lord of rakshasas’s signal. Instead, Indrajit had given the command himself. Ravana knew that he could not rescind that order now without causing Indrajit to lose face: his son would be more likely to turn his chariot around and ride back into Lanka than brook being corrected by his father. Several of his heads sighed. If there was one rakshasa in Lanka he could not command by hook or by crook, it was his own eldest son. On the other hand, he had been about to issue the order himself. And he had indeed entrusted Indrajit with leading the army in this battle after all. So to all intents and purposes, Indrajit was the supreme commander today. Let the dog have his day.
He glanced back with two of his heads at Sita. She was clutching at the balustrade with both her hands, trembling and tearful at the sight of Rama. He had glimpsed Rama and his cohorts staring up just now, when the ageing vanar had issued his futile challenge and spat rudely, and knew that both the paramours had seen one another and were profoundly moved.
That had been Ravana’s intention in bringing her here today. It gave him pleasure to see her anguish, knowing that her beloved Rama was so close and yet so far. It would give him even greater pleasure to watch her watching Rama die on that battlefield.
SIX
Rama had no time to dwell on Sita’s presence above the battlefield. The Pushpak remained aloft, several hundred yards high, its passengers watching like spectators at a feastday celebration. The Lankan forces, rallying behind their several banners, began to march inexorably forward. Rama’s generals looked to him for orders to march as well, but he indicated to them that they were to wait. He sensed the impatience of the vanars and the bears, eager now to strike openly at their foe after so much subterfuge and counter-subterfuge. All the scheming and battle strategy was well and good, but there came a time when warriors needed to face their enemy and match their army’s strength against the other to secure a decisive victory. This was that time now.
But the Lankan army halted when they were three hundred yards from Rama’s lines. Orders were shouted by their generals, enforced by the kumbha sergeants and their vicious whips. After much grunting and grumbling and effusion of nasal fluids, the hordes reluctantly relaxed their weapon arms and assumed a waiting stance.
‘Do they desire a parley?’ Angad asked scornfully beside Rama. ‘Do not give them the satisfaction, Rama. We will fight them with our last breath!’
‘It is not a parley they seek, son,’ King Sugreeva replied, his voice sounding both stronger and wearier after his battles. ‘They seek to call out our champions against their own, I warrant.’
And indeed that was what the rakshasas desired.
A moment after calling a halt, a rakshasa from Indrajit’s horde alighted from a chariot and strode forward to the centre of the battlefield, stopping midway between the two standing armies. He was a kumbha-rakshasa with the heightened stature and superior bulk of his kind, and bore a jet-black iron mace studded with vicious barbs and points. He flexed his muscles, and roared a challenge. His demand was obvious: Send someone out to fight. If you have someone worthy of fighting.
Almost every vanar and bear stepped forward, as well as every one of Rama’s generals. Angad and Sugreeva were the most vociferous, as were the vanars Mainda and Dvivida. Rama quietened them all down with a raised hand, showing them his open palm. When they were silent, he spoke, feeling the need to explain his choice even though his army would accept his decision without question.
‘The Lankans are arrogant and overconfident. They challenge us in order to prove that they are superior and to demoralise us. It is necessary to show them decisively and quickly that we are more than their match in every way. The champion I pick must not only defeat the challenger but must crush him so convincingly that they should be left open-mouthed with awe. To this end, I request all you able and valiant warriors to stand aside and allow me to select the most powerfully endowed amongst you all.’
There was a moment’s pause as his words were repeated in relay, reaching the farthermost vanar and bear, miles away. Then, with one voice, the entire assembled might of Rama’s army replied without hesitation or second thoughts: ‘Jai Shri Hanuman!’
Rama nodded approvingly. ‘Hanuman it is.’
Hanuman stepped forward with palms joined. Bowing first, he then prostrated himself on the dusty ground before Rama, touching his lord’s feet, then Lakshman’s as well. Both of them gave him the traditional ashirwaad. He rose to his feet again and strode out from their lines. As he walked, he chanted in his clear vanar voice: ‘Siyavar Rama Chandra ki jai! Shrimati Sita Mayya ki jai!’ Praised be Rama Chandra, husband of Sita. Praised be Mother Sita, wife of Rama.
Rama’s forces echoed the words, keeping rhythm with Hanuman’s steps as he walked to the no-man’s-land between the armies where the Lankan champion waited. The rakshasas took up their own arcane chant as well, a kind of guttural howling, with a ragged rhythm reinforced by the pounding of armoured fists, and bladed as well as blunt-headed weapons, against their helms and chest armour. Somewhere in that cacophonic noise was the word ‘Dumraksa’ which Rama took to be the name of the rakshasa
challenger. It was only to be expected that rakshasas would cheer the champion rather than their overlord.
The din raised by both armies was intense and fierce and was audible for yojanas around.
Hanuman stopped when he was within ten yards of his opponent. Rama noted that the vanar had chosen neither to expand his body nor to display his enormous powers in any fashion, and was pleased by his friend’s wisdom. Hanuman had understood what he desired even without being told in so many words.
***
Sita watched from the Pushpak as the Lankan champion roared and beat his mace upon the ground, gouging out great cavities in the ground with the weapon. Raising the formidable weapon, the rakshasa bellowed one last time and charged the waiting vanar. She saw that Hanuman was unarmed and standing calmly, making no remonstrations nor calling out. The chanting of the armies had ceased and both sides watched with tense anticipation as their champions clashed.
Vertiginous and drained as she was, she did not understand why the vanar had not used his incredible powers. She had seen what he was capable of when he virtually destroyed Lanka single-handed. But yet today he stood there like any ordinary vanar.
The rakshasa challenger charged at Hanuman with his mace raised. Swinging it with all his might, he brought it down at a diagonal angle aimed at the junction of Hanuman’s head and left shoulder. It was a classic mace attack, designed to shatter armour and bone and crush the heart instantly. Any victim struck by such a blow would drop dead at once. She caught her breath, not because she doubted Hanuman’s abilities, but because of the impassive manner with which the vanar stood there, neither moving back nor forward, or responding in any way to the brutal attack. And because Hanuman was neither armoured nor protected in any way, bare chested and naked except for the langot around his groin, seemingly vulnerable.
But at the last instant, Hanuman’s left arm shot up, unerringly gripping the shaft of the downward swinging mace. It was as if the rakshasa had struck an invisible force that did not resist or yield a fraction. The mace hung there in the air, gripped by both the champions. There was no struggle as such, for Hanuman simply stood there, left arm upraised, almost as if he was reaching up to pluck a fruit from a tree limb. The rakshasa, on the other hand, sweated and grunted and strained with effort until his eyes bulged enormously and his muscles popped and the tendons stood out in relief like a network of wires.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 80