The question was, could he?
We are evenly matched, Hanuman told himself. That is the worrying thing. He can fight on like this forever. And I cannot take forever. The war must be won soon, and Sita regained. Even now, Rama may require me back in Lanka, to press home the last phase of the war. I must finish this combat and put this foe down once and for all. Kumbhakarna cannot be allowed to return to Lanka alive, for then he can single-handedly destroy our entire force in mere moments.
And yet, the more he thought about it, the more he felt that the only way to kill Kumbhakarna was to bring him back to Lanka. But the trick was to do so without allowing him to go on another rampage of destruction which would endanger Hanuman’s comrades. It was an enormous gamble, and one he hesitated to take, but no other solution offered itself.
He wished Jambavan were here now, so he could ask him for advice. The bear lord’s guidance had proved invaluable in his quest for the mountains of herbs, and he knew their bond was far greater and older than any other he had experienced, with the sole exception of his bond with Rama. If Jambavan were here …
I am here. Ask me what you will, my friend.
Hanuman’s heart leaped. ‘My lord,’ he said aloud without realising he was doing so, ‘you are revived then! Plaksa was able to find the herbs and administer them in time?’
The rakshasa stared at him in befuddlement. ‘Hrrggh?’ he grunted, confused and suspicious at this odd question which he thought was posed to him.
‘Oh shut up,’ Hanuman said to him. ‘Can’t a vanar even speak to his friend for a moment?’
Angad found the herbs, Plaksa administered them in the nick of time, just as the sun fell below the horizon line. I am well now and wholly healed. Ask me your question.
Hanuman told him his plan, speaking in his mind-voice this time. Kumbhakarna continued to eye him suspiciously, taking cautious steps to one side, foolishly thinking that because Hanuman was distracted, he would not notice the rakshasa trying to approach him from an angle.
It is a bold plan, but a good one. Do it. Do it quickly, but make sure you do not falter. Remember who you are and what you fight for, and let nothing stand in your way.
With your blessings, I shall, Hanuman said silently.
Then he turned and began striding back towards Lanka, deliberately walking slowly enough for Kumbhakarna to follow. He could have risen out of the cold ocean water and flown back easily to the island-kingdom, but the giant could not fly, and the whole point was to draw him back to Lanka.
For several moments he thought that the giant had seen through his plan and would not follow. But then again, what else could the rakshasa do? Stay out here in the ocean? He had already spent more time in water than he had probably spent bathing in his entire millennia-long existence! And with that wound in his side and the sharp fangs of the ocean predators still pricking him from time to time, the giant could hardly be finding this a very pleasant place.
At last Hanuman heard the enormous sloshing sound of Kumbhakarna starting to stride through the water as well, following in his wake.
He led his quarry back to Lanka.
***
Ravana howled in rage and anguish. He felt the pain of Indrajit’s wound in his own throat, as if the Arrow of Shiva had passed through his flesh and severed his neck, decapitating him. He felt the blood gush out of the open wound, the heart still pumping in disbelief, the arms, those arms that had once wounded devas and held a sword to the throat of mighty Indra himself, jerking spasmodically and dropping their weapons, the head rolling in the dirt and mud of the city avenue, its open eyes staring blindly, filling with debris and grit even as the pupils dilated one final time, expanding until they were staring into oblivion.
He whipped his team so hard, the lashes not only drew blood, but gouged out strips of flesh as well. The horses, for he used only the finest prime Kambhoja stallions, shrieked in pain and galloped even faster, risking breaking their legs and toppling the whole chariot. He did not care. He wished only to reach the spot where Indrajit had fallen and to avenge his death. For the pain he felt was a father’s pain, and it was genuine. This was one of those rare occasions when the lord of Lanka was not acting or performing for effect: he was being himself.
It was an angry, anguished father that turned the corner on two wheels and started down the avenue at a pace that should have been too swift for even Rama to retaliate. But Rama was ready and waiting. And though Ravana’s bow was drawn and ready to fire, Rama’s bow was quicker, his arrow swifter, his aim deadlier and his quiet rage more potent than Ravana’s howling fury.
Both arrows met in mid-air, and Rama’s missile shattered Ravana’s in half, splitting it perfectly through the middle of the shaft before speeding on to its target, seeking to bury itself deep in Ravana’s neck and do unto the father as it had done unto the son.
But this was not to be the moment of Ravana’s death. For even as the Arrow of Shiva sped towards him with unerring accuracy, the lead horse of Ravana’s team stumbled over a helmet lying in its path. By chance, or perhaps by serendipity, it happened to be the helm of Indrajit himself, separated from his skull when his decapitated head struck the ground and rolled aside. The horse’s foot stepped on the curve of the helm, and its shin shattered. The horse fell, whinnying with agony, and with it fell the team, and with the team, the chariot. And as the chariot tilted, preparatory to overturning as chariots are wont to do when their horses fall at such high speeds, Ravana’s body shifted in the air, and where his neck had been a fraction of a moment earlier, his shoulder now presented itself. The Arrow struck the fleshy muscle of his right shoulder and passed through it. This was not a snake-arrow, simply a pointed one, and as the Arrow of Shiva always did once it had struck its target, it vanished at once, returning instantly to Rama’s hand only a moment after he had fired it, ready to be used again.
The chariot overturned in a spectacular somersault, flinging both cupola and rider yards across the broad avenue. Ravana came crashing down with the debris of the chariot, landing in an ignominious prostrate position—right at Rama’s feet. The rest of the team, screaming with pain as their bodies were broken and mangled with the force of the fall, thudded sickeningly on the hard ground, their lives crushed into silence on impact. The chariot and its wheels and rigging shattered into pieces and fell on all sides.
Ravana stared up at Rama with all his eyes.
The Arrow of Shiva was pointed directly at his throat. The lord of Lanka reached for his sword, but he had lost it in the headlong crash, along with his bow. He curled his fingers to issue a sorcerous gesture, but the look in Rama’s eyes told him that his foe would unleash the Arrow before he could even start to conjure anything. He lay there for a long, breathless moment, as warriors of both sides ceased fighting and turned to gaze in wonder and disbelief at this extraordinary sight. What twist of fate had brought Ravana thus to Rama’s feet, weaponless and disadvantaged? Nobody knew, but it had happened somehow, and with a single action, Rama could end Ravana’s life.
‘Rama!’ Lakshman cried out by his side, his own eyes glowing with the blue light of Brahman shakti. ‘Now!’ Rama loosed the Arrow.
***
Hanuman paused when he was in sight of Lanka. He had taken a circuitous route, taking care not to come within sight of the island-nation too soon, for Kumbhakarna might well have charged straight at his homeland then, eager to continue his earlier rampage. Now he was where he desired to be, and could still hear the rakshasa sloshing behind him. He had deliberately let the giant fall behind, hoping thus to anger and provoke him further.
Already he knew that the long, cold walk through chest-deep water had irritated the gargantuan rakshasa no end. Several times, Kumbhakarna had bellowed a wordless challenge to him, its meaning crystal clear despite its lack of coherent language:
Stop and fight me, you craven. Stop running away from me!
Hanuman had simply grinned and continued.
Now he moved more quickly, heading s
traight towards the part of Lanka to which he had wished to bring the rakshasa. Reaching the edge of the land, he climbed ashore, pausing briefly to shake the water from his fur as best he could. He twitched his tail several times, then caught it in his hands and wrung it out gently. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Kumbhakarna approaching, his pale face mottled with bruises as well as apoplectic anger.
He took advantage of his posture to stick out his tongue as well as point his rear at the approaching rakshasa. Kumbhakarna roared with rage and began to run as fast as he could, causing the ocean to surge violently for miles around. Waves splashed over the foothills on this side of Lanka, submerging the land for several hundred yards. Fortunately, Hanuman knew, they were miles if not yojanas away from the city of Lanka itself, where his comrades were.
He waited until Kumbhakarna was close enough to reach out and grab him, then, at the last possible moment, he rose up into the air, floating just out of reach. The rakshasa roared and clambered onto the land, trying to leap up to grab the vanar.
Hanuman moved back a few hundred yards, leading the rakshasa on. He did this for several miles, until they were at the place where he wished to bring the giant. Then he turned and flew a little way further, before descending to the ground.
At the sight of his opponent earthbound again and within reach, Kumbhakarna lurched forward, grunting with frustration. Hanuman turned and raced up the steep slope, continuing to taunt and mock the giant all the way. The rakshasa grew more incensed with each new gesture and action, and tried to run faster. Finally, by the time they reached the top, he was out of breath, but as eager to fight as ever.
That was when Hanuman turned and faced him.
On the rim of the smouldering volcano.
***
The Arrow struck the elaborately carved headpiece that covered all ten of the demonlord’s heads, splitting it apart. The gold-plated metal carving clattered to the ground, smoking where the Arrow of Shiva had passed through it.
The Arrow reappeared in Rama’s hand again.
Lakshman, about to cry out in exultation, stared at the prone Ravana.
The rakshasa king was unharmed.
Ravana himself touched the top of his central head, then another head, then yet another, deducing that he had been unharmed. He seemed as stunned as Lakshman.
‘Rama?’ asked his brother. ‘Why did you not …?’
‘One does not kill a foe who is unarmed and prostrated before oneself on the field of battle, Lakshman,’ Rama said. ‘It would be dishonourable to kill Ravana thus.’
Lakshman stared at him, eyes goggling. ‘But—’ he began to say, then stopped. His features were conflicted, his expression agonised. But finally he said in a choked voice, ‘Why should we show him any honour when he fights without honour?’
‘Because we are Dasaratha’s sons. Shishyas of Brahmarishi Vashishta and Vishwamitra. Children of Kausalya and Sumitra. Kings in waiting of Ayodhya, mightiest of Arya nations. Because we are Kshatriyas, bound by the code of the warrior. Because we are followers of dharma.’
Lakshman had no answer. He turned back to glare at the prone Ravana, still lying on the ground. ‘What do you intend to do, then?’
Rama lowered the Bow slowly. ‘Ravana, you have committed grievous crimes against too many to count. Your sins are legendary, your transgressions too great to be adjudged easily. Your violence against me and my loved ones, whether directly or through your minions, such as Manthara and my stepmother Kaikeyi, the yaksi Tataka and her hybrids, the demoness Supanakha and her brothers and their thousands of followers, the hordes of Lanka and the hordes you sent to Mithila … too much for my weary heart to recall or recount. You have robbed me of years of my life, of my wife and of my peace of mind and you have slain my friends and their loved ones. Yet here on this field of battle, I fight as my father’s son, my mother’s pride, the student of my gurus, an Arya Kshatriya, and a warrior of dharma. By my own code of honour, I cannot kill you under these circumstances. Therefore, I entreat you, rise now and go back to your dwelling, and return again at sunrise on the morrow to the fields outside the city, and at that time I shall finish what you began, and end this war as well as your life. Go now, before I change my mind and dishonour myself and all who respect me.’
Deathly silence lay across the avenue. Elsewhere in the city, crumbling slabs and bricks fell from ruined structures, wounded and dying rakshasas and vanars and bears groaned and begged for oblivion, fires crackled, and the shouts and screams of warriors still fighting continued unabated.
But every one of the few hundred soldiers of both sides who were within sight of Rama and Ravana stared with numb minds and silent, open mouths.
They watched incredulously as the king of rakshasas rose to his feet, looked up at Rama with his ten heads, performed a perfect namaskaram and without a word turned and walked back up the avenue the way he had come.
SEVENTEEN
In the hour before dawn on the fourth night immediately before the fifth and final day of the war of Lanka, Mandodhari came in search of her husband.
The halls of the great palace were empty, the chambers of pleasure and of dining and other fleshly indulgences all desolate and devoid of any pleasure-seekers. The vaulting walls and ceilings, richly festooned with the finest examples of Lankan art and sculpture and crafts, threw back the hollow sounds of her footfalls with the ghostly echoes of a museum at night. Even the palace guards were not at their posts. The usual hordes of sycophants and harem-whores who usually stayed close by their master had fled, either to hide in the labyrinths below Mount Nikumbhila, or to surrender themselves to the mercy of Lord Rama, who was already a legend among the Lankans. The tale of his sparing Ravana was the only thing that everyone could speak of; it was said also that the invader’s soldiers would not harm a hair on any rakshasa who voluntarily laid down arms and submitted meekly to Rama’s lordship.
Lanka was a lost cause, she knew that beyond doubt. What she wished to know was whether Ravana was lost as well.
The great doors of the throne chamber were ajar. She stepped through without difficulty, as could any stray dog or wandering mendicant. Never before had she known Ravana to be so bereft of self-worth that he would leave his doors ajar, his guard-posts unmanned, his palace devoid of sycophants. Never had she imagined she would see such a day. And yet the day had come, and here was Ravana, seated on his enormous throne, in the chamber that dwarfed even him, that seemed as large as kingship itself, as ornate and intricately decorated as the politics of governance, as vulgarly ostentatious as the price of luxury, as black and polished and obsidian as the onyx eyes of the worm Ouroboros that twined around itself, swallowing its own tail, repeating the circle of life, karma and rebirth eternally.
She stopped before the throne and waited for some sign of greeting or acknowledgement from him. But he remained seated in that same stance, legs sprawled akimbo, heads leaning back against the specially carved and cushioned backrest, multiple pairs of eyes staring up into space, several hands clutching several goblets of wine.
Had she not known better, she could have mistaken him for any drunken rakshasa noblemen, one of those rich sods who drained away their inheritance and their life in endless nights of wine-steeped self-indulgence and self-pity, mingled sometimes with the companion vices of debauchery and gambling.
But this was Ravana, her husband, victor of a thousand wars, champion of countless combats, destroyer of worlds, conqueror of realms, lord of the armies of the hell-realms, master of the wealth of Kuber, the treasurer to the devas, and father of her sons. He did not give in to despair, depression or alcoholic stupor.
And yet here he sat, alone and abandoned by all, desolate in his own gaudy grandeur.
‘My lord,’ she said to him. ‘Is Lanka lost?’
He barely stirred. But two of his heads lost their glazed obliviousness and lowered their eyes to look upon her. ‘Need you ask?’
‘Then why do you still not fight? Why do you not rally our a
rmies? Why do you not unleash your powerful sorcery and repel the invaders? Why do you sit here all night drinking wine and brooding alone?’
He took a sip of wine. ‘The fight is lost. Our armies are routed. My sorcery is impotent. But the wine is still good. Would you care for some?’
She stared at him until he looked away. ‘Is that your only response? To give up?’
He sighed and put down several of the wine goblets. Two of them teetered on the edge of the surface he set them down upon and fell, clattering, to the floor. The sound of metal on marble was loud and the echoes reverberated through the empty halls and corridors. ‘What would you wish me to do? Shall I read out the roll-call of dead champions, generals, sorcerers and illustrious warriors?’ Without waiting for a response from her, he held up two of his hands in a manner that suggested he was unrolling a scroll, and pretended to read sonorously: ‘Mahaparsva, Mahodara, Virupaksa, Dumraksa, Akampana, Prahasta, Yupaksa, Mahodara, Viradha, Kabandha, Narantaka, Devantaka, Trisiras, Kumbhakarna, Indrajit, Malavya, Vidyujjivha, Malyavan, Atikaya, Kumbha, Nikumbha, Prajangha, Sonitaksa, Makaraksa, Vajradanta, Matali … ’ He smiled a malevolent smile with one face. ‘Some of those are your sons by me, others are mine by other wives. Shall I go on? The list is long and we could spend the rest of the night poring over the names.’
‘Enough!’
Ravana tossed aside the imaginary scroll. ‘All our champions are dead, our generals as well, even our sorcerers have been cut down, and we are bereft of all our sons, legitimate as well as bastards. The city is overrun and in chaos and ruin, my last supporters have fled or surrendered, and only hours ago, Rama himself had an arrow to my head.’ His moustached lips twitched in a wry smile. ‘My heads. My sorcery was rendered almost powerless the instant I killed Supanakha, for she bore in her second belly the secret that revived me and was responsible for all the shakti I possessed. I could perhaps conjure up more by sacrificing some of Vibhisena’s Brahmins, but I seem to have exhausted my supply and the few that might have eluded me have gone over to the enemy, along with the rest of the deserters.’
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 89