Suddenly, Mandodari grew still and her sobs were replaced by silence. Sita stopped speaking and saw the queen staring at her, transfixed. What had happened to her, wondered Sita. Were her senses disordered by her losses? Mandodari placed her arms around Sita and hugged her close, though her prisoner shrank in fear and astonishment. ‘Who are you?’ she asked Sita. ‘Where were you born? What is your lineage?’
‘I am the daughter of King Janaka of Videha,’ said Sita, held in thrall by the other’s expression. The two now stood close to each other, talking in whispers while the rakshasis watched and wondered. ‘My father named me Sita as he found me in a furrow when he ploughed the earth during a yagna. When Sage Narada came to our court, he told us that my mother had been forced by circumstances to set me adrift on the ocean. The sea god Varuna had saved me and entrusted me to Bhudevi who in turn ensured that I would be found by the king. But why do you ask?’
‘This sapphire pendant around your neck!’ whispered Mandodari, grabbing it fiercely so that Sita was dragged closer. ‘Who gave this to you?’
‘This was round my neck when my father found me and is the only link to where I came from,’ said Sita. ‘I have worn it always, hoping one day to find my mother and ask her why she so cruelly abandoned me.’
‘It was the only way I knew to protect you before I set you afloat, my child. Forgive me, forgive your accursed mother!’ said Mandodari as she drew Sita again into a fierce embrace. ‘I have caused you so much pain, dear Sita. And to meet you now in such desperate circumstances! What an unnatural mother I must be to not know that my child was so near!’
‘It was you then . . . it was you who cast me away?’ asked Sita, trembling at the revelation. The thought that followed next was too monstrous for her to acknowledge. If this queen was her mother, was Ravana then her father? ‘Am I so cursed that my own father lusted for me?’ she asked, her voice hoarse with distress.
Mandodari shook her head in fierce denial. ‘You were born from me, but not from his energy,’ she said. ‘The most that could be said is that you are the fruit of his sinfulness, come to claim his life. Allow me, daughter, to explain what transpired.’ Her eyes widened then as another memory returned. ‘A heavenly voice predicted that my daughter would cause Ravana’s death! So I am the cause of this tragedy, for I hid the secret of your birth from my king. O my child, I must go to him at once. I must warn him that you are his daughter in spirit if not in body. He will set you free at once, for I know him well. Forgive me, beloved Ravana. Do not enter the battlefield before I can speak to you.’
Mandodari ran from the garden as if Yama’s messengers were after her. She must save Ravana. She must confess the truth that could save him.
The demon army marched out of the fortress gates like a mighty flood, their banners casting dark shadows that swallowed the light of day. The rhythmic pounding of their feet on the trembling earth sounded like Shiva’s tandava of destruction. But the rakshasas saw dark omens and dreadful visions that foretold doom. They saw a headless corpse obstructing their path, its pale arms swinging at them in a frenzy. Jackals howled at the palace gates and the sun was attacked by stars though it was day.
However, the dauntless Ravana was everywhere—on land, in the air and in several corners of the field. The elements did his bidding, snared by his occult powers. Flames danced around his head and lightning crackled in the hair that tumbled to his shoulders. The rakshasa danced like Yama himself, his fury a crimson tide that charred his foes like the fire in cremation grounds. The wind wailed a dirge for all those fated to die that grim day.
The devas saw the avatara confronting the asura who was girded with boons from Shiva and Brahma. ‘It seems like a fight between mighty Garuda and the thousand-headed Adisesha,’ they whispered. ‘They look like two of the mammoths bearing the world, readying for a clash that will end in the destruction of the universe. Who can win when mighty Shiva and Vishnu fight?’
‘Do not forget that this is not a fight among equals but a fight between good and evil,’ said Shiva. ‘Rama must win or the three realms will be destroyed.’
Indra sent down his own vaahana with the charioteer Matali and a quiver of supernal arrows so that Rama could fight the rakshasa on an equal footing. The chariot shone brilliantly and was hung with shining rows of weapons. It was drawn by fleet horses with silvery manes and lightning hooves. However, Rama hesitated to mount the ratha, wondering if it was yet another of Ravana’s illusions. Sensing his doubt, the celestial horses chanted the Vedas softly and Rama bowed to them and mounted the chariot.
The arrows of the avatara and the asura clashed in mid-air, sending the vanaras whimpering to cover while the rakshasas stood transfixed. Their astras hurtled forth like thunderbolts, destroying the tallest summits and setting the eight directions on fire. Their chariots flashed over the seven seas and continents, the seven mountain ranges and worlds. Their wheels turned so rapidly that those watching on heaven and earth could not tell which was Rama’s chariot and which Ravana’s. Meteors fell down, rain clouds dried up, the earth stopped its revolution and not a single wave ruffled the oceans.
Ravana unleashed the Tamasa astra from which emerged monstrous arrows tipped with fire and blood, and arrows with the faces of asuras, goblins and cobras. Rama destroyed them all with his own astra blessed by Shiva. Ravana could no longer see Rama but only his Kodanda from which the arrows flew like a river of fire. He grew weaker by the moment, as if a heavy burden was crushing his limbs and his head.
Desperate to end the war before he collapsed, Ravana took up his trishul, his weapon of darkness, and hurled it at Rama. Rama’s death appeared certain as the flaming weapon hurtled towards him, but at the last moment, the prince countered it with a Shakti that incinerated the trishul.
Rama’s arrows continued to find their mark on the rakshasa’s body while Ravana faltered in his attack, benumbed by a vision of Vedavati’s angry face. Mandodari’s voice rang in his ear, telling him that he was making a huge blunder. He felt weak, burdened by the immense losses he had suffered. Indrajit, Aksha, Kumbhakarna, his loyal guard—so many deaths that he could have prevented. Nevertheless he would fight on, to the very end.
Rama’s masterly arrows broke Ravana’s flagpole, tore through his armour and took off his crown. The final one sheared off Ravana’s head and sent it flying through the air, still howling.
‘The demon is dead!’ shouted the vanaras, erupting in cheers. ‘Victory to Rama!’ But then they retreated in fear when they saw a new head emerge from the bloody stump of Ravana’s neck, roaring vile challenges. The Kodanda twanged and another arrow scorched the air and carried away the new head. But this too was replaced by another, more hideous and wrathful. Strangely, whenever the new head howled its defiance, the others that had been torn off earlier also roared, no less loudly.
The rakshasa could not be killed. And the sun was rapidly sinking to the west. Night approached—the night of the new moon, when Ravana would become invincible. Was this the night when virtue would be vanquished?
13
The Setting Sun
Must I behead him ten times to destroy his ten heads? wondered Rama as he continued his attack. But ten heads emerged, and twenty, and a hundred, before Rama realized that this was a futile endeavour. The asura was standing still, though he was weakening rapidly due to his grievous wounds and the terrible loss of blood. Suddenly, Ravana swooned and the next moment, he and his chariot both disappeared, whisked away by his skilful charioteer.
Rama descended to the ground in his ratha and Sugriva said to him anxiously, ‘If we do not find a way to kill him before night, Ravana will be unstoppable. He will kill you and earth will be plunged into ruin.’
The vanaras chattered in agitation. Rama and Lakshmana were greatly disturbed. Were they fated to lose their battle after sacrificing so much? Would Sita be bound hand and foot and delivered to the rakshasa’s bed?
Vibhishana looked thoughtful and then told them a story that he had heard when
he was young. ‘They say that Shiva gave Ravana a potent astra and told him to keep it safe, for it was the only weapon that could kill him,’ he said.
‘I must find it then, without delay,’ said Rama. ‘As Sugriva warns us, there is very little time before Ravana’s strength grows beyond our own.’
‘The astra must be hidden in Mandodari’s chamber, for she is the only one he trusts,’ said Vibhishana. ‘Hanuman must go to her in the guise of an ascetic to win her confidence and then snatch the weapon.’
The vanara turned himself into a gaunt ascetic and appeared before the distraught queen. ‘The king’s life is in your hands, O queen!’ he said. ‘Vibhishana has revealed the hiding place of the astra that is the only one with the power to kill Ravana. Hurry! Hide it elsewhere before Rama’s spies come here looking for it.’
Tortured by guilt, tormented by fears for Ravana’s safety, Mandodari ran quickly to a crystal pillar in her chamber and removed the astra that was hidden within. Hanuman returned to his vanara form, leapt forward and seized the astra.
‘No!’ screamed Mandodari, running towards him to retrieve the weapon. ‘Have pity on me, vanara, and give it back!’ In her desperation, she held out a basket of choice fruits to him in exchange for the astra.
Hanuman laughed gently down at her from his perch near the ceiling. ‘O queen, of what use are these fruits to one who cherishes Rama, the Parama Phala—the ultimate fruit of wisdom?’ he said. The next moment he had bounded through the doorway and vanished, hastening to give Rama the astra.
The dazed Ravana had been revived and he returned to the battlefield to face Rama. He raised the Chandrahasa in a final show of defiance. But the sword vanished from his hand when touched by Rama’s arrow, for it could not be used against a righteous opponent.
Ravana gasped and trembled when he saw Shiva’s astra glinting in the kshatriya’s hand like the fire of annihilation. The next moment, it was shrieking through the air in a fiery arc. It pierced the rakshasa’s armour and cleaved his stomach. Ravana swooned from the agony and his life began to seep out of his body. The weeping charioteer brought his ratha down to earth.
The vanaras watched fearfully and exploded in joy when Ravana did not rise to his feet again. ‘Ravana is defeated! Rama has destroyed the rakshasa!’ they whooped in delight. Rama joined his hands in respect to a worthy foe who would have been invincible if not for his vices. Mourners from Lanka’s capital flooded the field, looking for their loved ones. Moans and wails rent the skies.
Many of Ravana’s women had grown to love his passion and magnificence. They came now in their hundreds to weep over the fallen emperor. ‘How are we alive still when our king lies dying on the harsh earth?’ they sobbed. ‘Are you not the lord of the eight directions, the warrior who lifted Kailasa in his arms? How can death claim you when you are master of Yama himself? You protected your wives with valorous arms and high walls. But now we are bereft, exposed to the harsh light and wind and to the avid glances of commoners. How can you bear to see all this happen, O lord? Take us with you, great soul!’
Meanwhile, in the palace, Mandodari’s attendants waited for their queen to acknowledge their presence. But she was lost in prayer, tears streaming down her cheeks. Finally, one of her maids clutched the queen’s shoulder and shook her until she looked up in a daze.
‘Dearest queen, we have dreadful news for you,’ the girl said.
Mandodari reeled back, her hand outstretched as if to ward off a blow. She gasped, her face turning red and then ashen. Her eyes clung to the maid’s, a fearful question in them.
‘Yes,’ the girl nodded in reply.
‘O great king! My protector, my soul!’ sobbed Mandodari.
‘The guards have arrived to take us to him,’ said the maid, helping the queen rise to her feet. Mandodari’s eyes were unseeing and she clasped the maid’s hand so tightly that the girl bit her lips to stop herself from crying out. A chariot waited, the one Ravana had made especially for the queen—with horses white as the ocean’s surf. Around the queen’s neck were huge pearls brought as tribute by Varuna, vying with the sheen of her skin. Ravana had always liked her to wear white, for it highlighted her purity. ‘Your innocence and luminous beauty drew me to you and made me fall in love,’ he had said. She had worn white thereafter, foregoing the brilliant colours that she liked herself. The white was however embellished with gems of varied hues—rubies, emeralds and amethysts. And her chamber was always vibrant with gorgeous flowers that were yellow and pink and red. Their love had been so complete that his likes had become hers and her wishes had become his.
Mandodari sobbed now, realizing that white was also the colour of death and mourning. It appeared now to be cold and desolate, as her life had become. How could she bear to look upon the warrior king lying bloodied on the field, his body torn by arrows? Perhaps she would never hear his voice again, or feel his touch. He was her companion, her soulmate, the one for whom she had been created. Was he alive still or dead? She was too afraid to ask.
‘We must hurry,’ said the guard escorting them. ‘Our emperor holds on to life, as if waiting for his queen.’
‘Fly like the wind then!’ she ordered, a flash of red sparking her cheeks. She would see him then, say her final farewell. She would weep over him and then join him in death.
‘You have killed the rakshasa!’ shouted Lakshmana as he rushed to embrace his brother. Then he looked askance at Rama who was strangely silent, showing no signs of elation.
‘He is not a mere rakshasa, Lakshmana,’ said Rama. ‘Ravana was Brahma’s great-grandson and won great boons from him and from Shiva through his austerities. His knowledge of the Vedas and Upanishads, of statecraft and astronomy are unmatched. Go to him now and garner his wisdom to guide us after he is gone.’
Bowing his head to his brother who could see virtue even in his deadliest foe, the obedient Lakshmana went to stand near Ravana’s head and sought his message for the world. However, Ravana turned his head away without answering. Seeing this, Rama hurried to him and stood by the rakshasa’s feet with his hands joined in respect.
‘Lord of the three worlds, learned Ravana, share the wisdom you have gleaned with the mortal who stands before you,’ he said.
Ravana’s eyes grew moist as he looked upon Rama’s face. ‘Sri Rama!’ he said. ‘You stand at my feet as a student should, unlike your brother. You are indeed worthy of receiving the knowledge I have gathered over my long life. Your humility when you are yourself the abode of all wisdom shames me, for it was arrogance that brought about my downfall. I had wealth, learning and the blessings of the gods. I had the love of a wife who was not just devoted but was also wise and strong. Fool that I was, I craved more, wishing to reduce all that was noble to my own level. I had the opportunity to do good, but squandered my blessings through greed and desire. I committed the ultimate sin of abducting Sita, not realizing that she was glorious Lakshmi herself. Now I lie here, having lost everything, my kingdom, my sons, my dignity and my life. And if there is one lesson that I have learned through my experiences, it is this:
‘Good and evil thoughts arise in our minds every day. It is easy to embrace evil which is alluring, but difficult to do good, for it requires immense self-control. We defer good deeds and find excuses for our behaviour while rushing to give in to our temptations. I knew well that abducting your wife was sinful, but I did so readily. I avoided facing you, though I knew in my heart that you were my redemption. This then is my message to all men. Control your ego and your senses and choose the right path at all times, for you never know which day will be your last.’
He wept as he joined his hands in reverence. His ten heads, his twenty arms, his occult chariot and his golden mansions had no value now. All he craved was forgiveness from the lord of lords.
14
Will Love Triumph?
The queen’s chariot made its way swiftly to the edge of the field from where Mandodari ran to Ravana who lay on the harsh earth, his body covered now with fl
owers that concealed his wounds. Though he was in great pain, he had refused any potions that would cloud his brain.
Mandodari’s cry of anguish silenced the other mourners who watched sorrowfully as she raised Ravana’s head to her lap. It seemed as if Ravana had yoked all his spiritual powers in order to stay alive until he could see her one last time. His eyes lighted up and his hand lifted slowly to wipe her tears.
‘Alas! Your body is torn by arrows as if Rama sought to root out your mighty spirit,’ she sobbed. ‘Or did he pierce you so deeply to find out if a part of you still loved his Sita? I shudder to see the arms that held me close lying powerless and to see your eyes glazed with pain. How I wish that we could live out the rest of our days in peace, sharing the pain of our losses . . .
‘. . . If only your sister had not come that day to tell us about Sita . . . If Sita had not come out of her hermitage to welcome you . . . If you had looked upon Rama first and realized the purpose behind his birth . . . If, if, if . . . Alas! Kaala and karma wait for no one, deva or danava.’
The rakshasis and the vanaras stood watching helplessly, moved by the intensity of her grief. Ravana’s eyes were closed and tears spilled out in an unending stream as he knew that the time of parting was near.
‘There is a final “If”, my king,’ Mandodari continued. ‘If I had told you the dreadful secret that I concealed . . . we could have avoided this tragedy. But I discovered the truth too late to save you, to warn you . . .’ Ravana’s eyelids rose slowly and he struggled to keep them open amidst the pain. ‘Sita is my daughter, born of the poisonous brew of sages’ blood that you had stored in my chamber, Ravana. I drank the potion one day in an attempt to kill myself, for I feared that you no longer loved me. But the milk of the durva grass that you stole from Sage Gritsamada and added to the pot saved me. The sage’s penances to acquire the lustrous Lakshmi as his daughter bore fruit in my womb. But sinner that I am, I concealed this from you and set our daughter afloat on the ocean.’ Mandodari wept uncontrollably, consumed by guilt. ‘It is I who brought about your fate, my lord. Fool that I am, I thought that casting the child away would remove the threat to your life. Forgive me, oh forgive me!’ she wept.
Prem Purana Page 19