‘Why did you kill Supanakha?’ she asked. ‘If killing her cost you such a heavy price?’
He shrugged. ‘Shall I spend days explaining everything that led up to that moment from thousands of years ago? Or shall I just cry off with the standard response of monarchs when asked uncomfortable questions regarding unsavoury methods employed in a past administration, namely that it had to be done and someone had to do it?’ He spread his hands. ‘Nothing I say now will convince you, my queen. Why waste time even discussing it?’
‘Because I cannot desert you and Lanka, nor do I wish to die in a war over your lust for an ugly and morally decrepit mortal woman,’ she replied coldly.
He looked at her with five heads, a sixth joining the others a moment later. ‘Is that what you think this war was all about? My lust?’
‘What else could it be? I do not see anything else being fought over. No continents conquered or invaded, no power struggles, no wealth amassed or lost, no kingships acquired … What else is this war about if not Sita, the wife of Rama?’
He shook his head, rising slowly to his feet. Coming down the stairs of the dais a step at a time, he stopped at the lowest one and looked at her steadfastly. ‘This war is not about any woman, and never was. This war has been waged forever. It is the eternal war, the mother of all wars. It is not merely about me, or Rama, or our differences. In another time, he and I were friends and much beloved of each other; in another time, we may be so again. We shall be so. Yet in this age, and this place, we are at war. And neither of us, if pressed hard, can answer honestly and truly why. For the reason goes to the very soul of itihaas itself. And as you know, the word for history means simply: That is what happened. There is no logic, no rationale, no justification, no moral side to choose, no right or wrong, no good or evil, or even shades of grey … There is merely an event, a relationship, a war or the end of war. Some day, perhaps, you will be shown why this particular war happened, and why it ended as it did, why it had to end as it did. But now, today, I cannot explain it to you in any terms you can understand. Or I can do so, but to do so I would require a scribe of prodigious talents and proficiency, and some six or seven volumes, consuming several thousands of scroll-pages.’ He pretended to glance around. ‘And I do not see any scribes at hand at this moment, nor do I think I can keep Rama waiting that long. For it is approaching the hour when I am bound to meet him on the field for our final encounter and it would not be seemly for me to be late for my appointment with my own death.’
She caught one of his arms. ‘Then you knew all this would transpire? That you would be defeated, that Lanka would fall, and that you would go to face Rama thus, helpless and bereft of your army, your sorcerous powers, your … ’ she gestured, ‘everything?’
He looked down at her with a variety of expressions displaying affection, gentleness, tenderness, even something approaching love, if it could be called that. ‘If I tell you I did, will it make your heart easier?’
‘Tell me the truth!’ she cried. ‘For once!’
He smiled sadly with all his heads at once. ‘The truth is too great a burden. I must bear it alone to my grave.’ He kissed her gently on the forehead and walked past her.
She turned, tears streaming down her face. ‘You owe it to me,’ she shouted. ‘I am your wife!’
He looked back at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are now my widow.’
And he left her standing alone in that desolate palace of unspeakable luxury and finery, and went to meet his end.
***
Rama surveyed the field. All the survivors of his armies had assembled here again, and it was a telling sight, for now at a glance he could see how many had been lost. Perhaps four out of ten of the original number who had assembled on the shores of the mainland weeks ago remained now. At least another three of the remaining six of those ten were wounded to varying degrees, several grievously. And not one of that number was without some injury or wound. All were exhausted and near collapse, including himself. For even with the shakti of Brahman in his veins, he was still mortal. And mortal flesh had its limits.
But it was still an army, and it was still his to command, and it was a victorious army.
A cry went up, and he saw the thread of dust in the distance, raised by the approach of a single chariot. A few thousand of Lanka’s troops stood on the field as well, their heads hanging in shame, their bodies mutilated, battered, and in several cases mortally injured. They had not formally surrendered to him, but they might as well have, for they had ceased fighting hours ago, after the last of their leaders had been slain. All night the war had raged on, and he himself had killed more than he could easily count, and each one of his generals and lieutenants had been injured in their combat with Ravana’s greatest warriors. But they had triumphed in the end. And the four precious herbs from the mountains that Hanuman had brought back, the mrtyasanjivani, visalyakarni, sauvarnakarni and samdhani, had been wonderfully efficacious in reviving those seriously injured. Already, Sugreeva, Angad, Nila, Sarabha, Gandhamadana, Jambavan, Vegadarsi, Mainda, Nala, Jyotimukha, and Panasa, and many others, all injured in various combats, had been revived, healed, or wholly resurrected. Only those who had been torn to pieces physically were beyond the power of the herbs to heal, which number included a great many loved ones, including little Sakra, the tribe-goddess Mandara-devi, and even the aged guru Plaksa, who had been killed by a falling roof while attempting to heal the bear Kambunara. In the ultimate irony, Plaksa had left instructions with his great-grandsons that in the event of his demise, he was not to be revived at any cost. He had already passed on the knowledge of how to select and use the herbs, and wished to be allowed to go to his well-deserved next life in peace. Rama had ordered that his wishes should be adhered to.
Now, Rama watched as the chariot approached up the length of the field, and stopped several hundred yards away. He was prepared for subterfuge, for sorcery, for deception and deviousness. After all, this was still Ravana, and he expected the lord of Lanka, like any ferocious aggressor, to be more dangerous in defeat than he had ever been before.
EIGHTEEN
When Ravana’s voice spoke within Rama’s mind, he was not surprised. He had been expecting some kind of mindgame. The only surprising thing was the softness of Ravana’s tone. It sounded almost … gentle.
Are you pleased, Rama?
He answered by speaking quietly, preferring to use natural speech rather than respond to Ravana’s magicks. ‘I am ready.’
But you must be filled with joy and relief. You finally have me at your disposal, the war is won, and you will soon regain Sita. You have achieved a great victory, one that will be remembered and celebrated for millennia. In some future age, you will be worshipped as a deva descended to earth in mortal avatar for your accomplishments and deeds in this life.
‘I am a warrior performing his duties. It was ever my task to work diligently to achieve my goal, regardless of the fruits of success. I neither desire to be worshipped as a deva nor think that I am one.’
Are you quite sure of that?
Rama frowned. ‘What do you mean? If you seek to dupe me somehow, you will not succeed, rakshasa.’
Succeed? I have already failed! Do you wish to hear me say it? I have failed, Rama. I have lost to you. Lost everything. My kingdom, my army, my wealth, my power … and now, I am about to lose my life. I have nothing to gain now by lying to you. This is perhaps the only time that Ravana has nothing to say but the truth.
Rama was nonplussed by this admission. Of all the things he had been expecting, this was not one. Still, he could not be wholly convinced that the rakshasa was not employing some device so clever it seemed entirely naive. He could not believe that it was in Ravana’s nature to admit defeat, and to admit it so openly, honestly and graciously.
But what do you really know about my nature, Rama? Like everyone else, all you know of me is based on my behaviour, my words and my deeds.
‘That is how all men are judged by their fell
ows, on the basis of their words and their deeds.’
But which words and which deeds, and at what time?
Rama shook his head. ‘I do not follow your meaning.’
If a son sees his father steeped in wine all hours of the day, indulging himself in fleshly pleasures with three hundred and fifty wives, while he neglects his mother painfully, grows too corpulent even to lift a sword, let alone wield it, how would that son judge that father? Why, he would think him to be a mere debauch! Whereas that same debauch, only a decade or so earlier, might have been one of the greatest warrior-kings that ever lived, leading a vast host against great odds, and winning unwinnable wars against the most terrible warring demon races that ever existed. If we are to judge people by their deeds and their words, then we must also weigh which deeds and which words, and at what time.
‘Do not refer to my father. He has nothing to do with this.’
But of course he does. Why do you think he was named Dasaratha: He Who Fights in Ten Directions? He spent his life fighting me and my minions, and now his son is about to become legendary for his defeat of a certain villain named Ravana, who happens to have ten heads?
‘Names and numbers, they mean nothing to me.’
Much more than names and numbers, my young god-in-themaking. There is the matter of Vishnu, who is destined to have ten avatars, the Dasavataras as they are called. Of whom seven have already been born and passed by.
Rama frowned again. He knew of only six avatars of Lord Vishnu. Who was the seventh that Ravana was referring to?
Every hero must have a villain to destroy, in order to prove himself a hero. But not every villain needs a hero in order to prove himself a villain.
‘What does that mean, rakshasa?’ Rama asked bluntly. He could not understand what Ravana intended with this debate—or lecture, really. But he did not wish to deny his enemy the right to parley, if that was what this unusual exchange was to be called.
That I existed long before you, Rama Chandra, came into this world in this form, and I will exist again, and again and again, long after you take your samadhi and depart this mortal coil.
‘If I have to be born again a thousand times to rid the world of your menace, I shall.’
A thousand times is too many. Thrice more would be sufficient.
‘Enough talking now. Come down from your chariot and face me on the field of battle.’
So you prefer violence to civilised conversation, then? And they call me a villain.
‘You were given several opportunities to talk civilly, rakshasa, and you chose to eschew them for violence. You have left me no choice but to speak in the only language you seem to understand.’
I am sure that kings and leaders of great nations will justify their wars and invasions of foreign lands in much the same terms in future ages. That does not make those wars and invasions any less evil. But perhaps you are right. The time has come at last to end this particular conflict. Already it drags on past my endurance. You do not know how long I have awaited this day, this hour.
‘Then come and reap the harvest of your actions,’ said Rama and raised the Bow of Vishnu and drew the Arrow of Shiva.
***
Ravana stepped down from his chariot. The lord of Lanka was clad in the traditional garments of civilised Arya everywhere— for Arya meant literally ‘noble’, and was not a race or creed, but a way of life—a pristine white dhoti around his lower limbs and a white anga-vastra draped loosely around his upper body, the end of the strip of cloth wrapped around his lowermost right forearm. He wore no crown on any of his heads, and every one of his foreheads had been anointed with the red-ochre marks that signified that he had performed his acamana ritual that morning and offered suitable prayers. Rama had received reports that the king of rakshasas had been spotted entering the Shiva mandir earlier, although he still could not fathom how he had travelled there from the palace in the inner quarter of the city without being seen by Rama’s troops, who were everywhere now. It did not matter any more; they were now at the end of all deceptions and subterfuge. Whatever sorcery Ravana had planned, Rama would counter it with his dev-astras and his will. He would not let the rakshasa leave the field alive this time.
When Ravana was perhaps fifty yards away, he stopped and faced Rama. The rakshasa carried a throwing javelin covered with gold-plate and carved in exquisite detail: the filigree working was visible even at this distance, catching the light of the rising sun. It was an unusually ostentatious weapon to bring to such a vital encounter. Rama had expected something more deadly or exotic. But then, perhaps Ravana thought to confuse and deflect his attention with such an object, while his real attack would come from a wholly different direction. He remained alert for any and every possibility. Hanuman was already overhead, hovering in midair, arms across his chest as he watched the contest sternly, ready to intervene on Rama’s behalf at any time that he saw deception on Ravana’s part. Lakshman, Angad, Sugreeva, Nala, Jambavan … all were stationed at strategic points, ready to face an attack from the most unexpected quarter, be it from below the ground, from the sky, the ocean, or even the very air itself. They had become veterans now of the wiles and ways of rakshasa warfare. They were masters of this field.
One last thing, Ravana’s voice said in his mind.
‘I am done with speaking, rakshasa. Raise your weapon and strike if you will. Or I will strike at you first, it does not matter to me either way. But cease your speaking and act.’
You may strike at me any time you wish. But I shall say this one thing anyway. After I am gone, care well for the twins. For they are my legacy to the world, and my parting gift to you.
Twins? Legacy? Gift? Rama found himself growing angry and impatient with the rakshasa’s riddles. ‘I do not know what you speak of, Lanka-naresh. But I will hear no more. Now, raise your weapon and fight.’
And with those words, Rama pulled back the Arrow and prepared to loose it upon Ravana.
Ravana nodded. All his ten heads dipped and rose in unison. Then he hefted the ornately worked gold spear in one hand, raised it, pulled back his arm, and flung the weapon hard towards Rama.
Rama stood his ground, allowing the spear to fly straight at him. He had promised himself that he would let Ravana have first strike—and even first blood, if it so transpired—so that when he fired upon the rakshasa, no one could question his right to do so.
He knew he could move and dodge the spear should it threaten to impale him in some vital organ. But because of the miracle herbs, even that would not be needed. And he would rather endure even a mortal wound manfully than step aside and dance for Ravana. So he braced himself, fully expecting the spear to pierce him fatally, prepared for the impact and the pain.
Every pair of eyes in both the assembled armies watched the spear as it flew through the air towards Rama.
The spear sped towards him, and then, when it was merely yards away, fell like a dead weight, piercing the ground almost half a yard short of his left foot, which he had placed forward in his usual archer’s stance.
He was shocked as well as suspicious. Surely Ravana could not have missed? The master of war himself? No, there was something deliberate in this near miss. Of that he was certain. But he would not waste time trying to fathom it. He would act before the rakshasa’s plan, whatever it might be, took effect.
With a shloka on his lips, he loosed the Arrow of Shiva.
The missile flew across the field, blazing with blue flames clearly visible in the morning light.
And struck one of Ravana’s heads, the one on the extreme left side. The head was decapitated and fell with a dull thud to the ground, rolling several yards away. The Arrow returned to the Bow in his hand. Without hesitating, he fired it again, decapitating another head, this time the one on the extreme right hand side of Ravana’s rack of heads. He saw the blood spurt and the head lopped off, falling beyond the rakshasa. He fired again. And yet again. Nine times in all.
Until only one head remained.
Rama paused, staring at the lord of rakshasas. Why was Ravana simply standing there, doing nothing? Why did he not retaliate against Rama’s attacks? Surely he had other weapons, other devices? Why was he not acting, using them, deploying sorcery?
Because you shot so swiftly, he told himself, stilling the uneasy voice in his head. You shot so swiftly that he had no time to retaliate.
But now Ravana did have time, as Rama paused and wondered at his inaction.
And as he watched, the rakshasa raised his six hands, flexing his powerful muscles, and gestured, as if unleashing a sorcerous spell.
At once, Rama loosed the Arrow a tenth time.
And decapitated Ravana’s last head.
For a long moment, the king of Lanka stood there on the field, headless, blood pouring from ten separate wounds, the white bone that fixed each head to his unusual spine visible in some of the cavities.
Then, slowly, almost majestically, with an illusion of dignity and grace, the demonlord’s body pitched forward and fell on the mud of the field. It lay there, still and lifeless, to all appearances dead.
Rama lowered his Bow and stared at the fallen body of his enemy. It could not possibly be that easy. Surely Ravana had engineered some deception here, some sleight of hand or asura maya.
It occurred to him that perhaps the rakshasa had used a shape-shifter in his place, instead of appearing himself. That seemed unlikely, since this combat was now a matter of honour, but who knew how low Ravana would sink?
Unconvinced, he called out to Lakshman and Nala to check the body and confirm that Ravana was dead.
They did so. Lakshman bent down, examined the body closely, then rose and nodded. ‘He is dead, Rama.’
Even then Rama was not satisfied. ‘Call someone who can identify him.’
‘I will identify him,’ said a rakshasi stepping forward. Rama had noticed her earlier, standing to one side along with several other rakshasis, but had assumed they were widows seeking the corpses of their fallen husbands among the dead, or perhaps even one of the many delegations that had been approaching him to beg for mercy for themselves and their surviving relatives. Now, as she removed her veil, he saw that she was clearly a woman of some distinction. Vibhisena started forward from his place among Rama’s supporters. ‘Mandodhari,’ he called. The rakshasi paid no heed to his call but as he approached, she permitted him to walk alongside her. Together they went to where Ravana’s body lay and bent down over it.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 90