by Daljit Nagra
on the power of a thought alone.
Yet Raavana hankered after more boons,
so many boons that even Vishnu, according to natural law,
had to hand them over.
Vishnu showed Raavana earning these boons by
fasting
atop a mountain
dining only on the air’s moisture
for a hundred years.
Boon-packed rock-hard Raavana was
now shown standing on a toe
without shifting a muscle
through heatwave or
whirlwind! One
tough-nut
toe
whilst simultaneously
reciting Vishnu’s beloved mantra
ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
for nine
hundred
solid years!
No surprise, in Vishnu’s next vision, Raavana was losing
his mind
and was holding a blade
to cut off his own ten heads.
Vishnu, from on high, stopped him by asking
what he is wanting.
Raavana boomed back,
‘Am I not a worthy King of the Universe, Lord?!’
Vishnu must have hoped Raavana would become
pure shanti, a bit like himself,
yet soon as Vishnu’s divine engine
touched
across each Raavana atom
in a somewhat unparalleled way
His ten heads, his ten sets of arm, trapezoid, rump, knuckle
and whatnot
juddered tsunami-volcanically
into a hardcore fierce firming-up!
His every milli-inch was muscling –
pinnacling with indestructibilitiness.
Roaring Raavana
simply leapt through
a spatial portal and
pegged it straight down
into the seventh, into
the lowest underworld,
Patala. The underworld
loaded with jewel-bubbling
gardens
from where he brought up
the vile hoard of the race
known as
raksassy!
Vishnu’s final vision displayed Raavana
and his raksassy chums
lording it from an earthly island.
The gods pitched in chaos, chorused,
‘What is to be done, Lord?’
Vishnu revealed a loophole in Raavana’s boons.
It’s true Raavana sought immunity
from demons and deities but he never
sought immunity from mankind.
So who’s to say a man
can’t make him meet his maker …
Said a god, flabbergasted,
‘How is it a measly ilk can dash him, Lord?’
Vishnu said that as the power bestower
he would become the power breaker.
He himself would end this havoc
by incarnating himself
as a human
god-killing
juggernaut.
The gods gasped.
Said one, as much to himself,
‘Lord, is it true you will turn into a meagre mortal …?’
All gods dropped to their knees, lower much than before
for Vishnu said that his conch
and the wheel in his hands
and the serpent coils he currently sat on
would all be born on earth as his brothers!
And some of the gods here now … be born as monkeys.
A god checked his hearing and spluttered,
‘Monkeys, my Lord? Is it monkeys?’
Vishnu explained that Raavana had been cursed
in previous lives
to expect his end from man and monkey.
Said Vishnu, that as humans and monkeys,
they would live normal-plus on earth –
a tiptop team plotting
against ever-toughening Raavana.
With his conch, wheel and coils, Vishnu
readied to find suitable couple
seeking strapping male babies
albeit with a tad complex background.
In the process, Vishnu hoped he may learn
what it feels being human.
Book First: Becoming Rama
CHAPTER ONE: I NEED SOME HEIR!
CHAPTER TWO: MARRIAGE/MISSION
CHAPTER THREE: KILL THAT MOTHER!
CHAPTER FOUR: OUR EXCHEQUER GANGA
CHAPTER FIVE: UTTER FOUL SACRIFICE
CHAPTER SIX: ROCKY WOMAN SHOW UP!
Chapter One: I Need some Heir!
A king needs male heirs. A sage is sought to help the king’s wives become pregnant.
King Dasaratha’s broad open-mouth laugh
reflected a kingdom where it was the bog-standard norm
for all and sundry to enjoy their ample corns and golds
and have time on their hands for travelling
across the double-wide roads
on polished horses and elephants that wore frilly tattoos
for no end of
festivals and general arty-crafty jocundity.
King Dasaratha’s palace was in Kosala’s capital, Ayodhya.
Ayodhya, famed for its tasteful stately mansions
that were gaudy in gorgeous ways
with jewels embedded to complement marble,
even modest homes were neat constructed so no leaks
loosened the masonry.
And forgetting now the houses
would you please notice all about abounding
nectars from sugarcane
or palmyra for wicker-workery
whilst the river Sarayu flowed
mellow from the mountains
to lay at each Ayodhyan foot
gems, flowers, sandalwood and peacock feathers.
Rose upward no war-fires
but many coloured smokes from fragrant incense woods, from
sacrifices and kitchen kilns for breads,
while steams performed their aerial sauna
when vegetables and meats tonked alike in the pot:
ecstatic bumper veggie and meat side by side harmony.
Nature loves mankind and puts itself on the plate!
But why today, why was the king
with his toddy tipple –
why was he from pearly-teeth drollery
utterly departed?
‘My Lord, is it possible, your solar dynasty,
notwithstanding your three wives, is destined with no son
to end?’
said a priest who’d been summoned by the king.
The mighty king, in despair, adding,
‘My line – any-decent-how can it be saved?’
The priest recalled to himself an inner vision
which revealed help might be on its way
from one of the …
lords of the cosmos!
The priest advised, ‘King Dasaratha, you must be ordering
a sacrifice
to win the gods for your cause
then your three wives
most likely can balloon with masculine babydom.’
The only sage with boost enough to flame a fertility sacrifice
and best butter-up the gods
was bottom’d in the bowels of a mountain retreat.
Meditating.
‘Dear Priest, how best can I recruit this sage?
I know sages must no way be disturbed
or their wrath may end one’s life!
Especially if they are disturbed from their meditation.’
‘Dear King, I have a plan to best recruit this sage.
If reports about this sage are correct
you must get hand-picking
the most beautiful damsels in your kingdom.’
The damsels were picked enough-quick
Said the priest,
‘Now send these super-beauteous maids
for stirring out the hidden sage.’
The super-beauteous damsels
traversed the valleys
and the mountains,
the woods and forests
to uproot the hidden sage.
The sage, who the damsels soon found and roused,
had never before seen a human, except his dad,
with only boars or goats for companionship.
So was he dazzled
by the sweaty
robe-flowing
damsels!?
He was almost cross-eyed
as he wondered what are these creatures …?
Sensing straight off their double curves
and extra-ample legs and feathery but cut-back handsome
eye-brows.
How juicy his loins jostled!
He enjoyed wondering why their faces seemed painted:
were they born with vermilion lips and hunter-green
lash lines?
His instinct was to put upon their gorgeous lips
what juiced about his loins.
Tact his conduct kept up.
Thankfully.
Despite the damsels distracting his meditation
the sage was far from upset and did not instant kill them.
Instead he see-sawed in a swoony mood
whilst being swept along by the jasmine-scented damsels
in a palanquin
across the misty mountains
then placed in Kosala,
in its capital, Ayodhya, and finally, in the king’s hall.
The sage admired the king,
a king whose creatures
had such beauteous bodywork!
He felt flush-feeling for one maid greatly
but would he be her magnet?
Luckily, the maid was drawn.
The sage bowed in admiration while the king said,
‘She is your wife, on one condition:
that you for a year will brave a sacrifice
with all its multiple tricky prayers
to help me with my … issue.’
The sage couldn’t begin his term soon enough!
One year braving
multiple tricky intensive mantras
at the banks of river Sarayu.
At the end of which he grew a sacrificial fire
with clarified butter and spellbinding mantras.
Kapow!
Shot up through the flames
a vast chubby being in a white shirt
with a hairstyle like the mane of a lion
and a golden medallion at his hairy chest.
This floating spirit held aloft a plate with special rice
which he placed before the king
before swizzling
head-first back down
the fire.
Before departing with his beauteous bride,
the sage told the king, ‘This rice is gharam-gharam.
A portion each, please, must be eaten now
by your three wives!’
Lo and behold, skipping past a few moons,
look how the first wife is ballooning baby Rama,
the second, the king’s favourite, ballooning Bharat,
and the third popping up with Lakshmana and Satroogna.
One morning, everyone awakes to hear
heavenly instruments twanging droll sounds across the sky.
And why so? It is the day of the same-day births
and no one knows the king’s sons are:
Lord of the Cosmos, Vishnu,
the lord’s serpent-seat
the lord’s divine wheel
and his conch.
No one knows because the detail is not relevant. Only godliness
turned manliness is relevant.
Also relevant only is that the kingdom
is simply visiting and cooing:
what gorgeous boys!
what gifted king!
Chapter Two: Marriage/Mission
Sage Viswamithra attends the king’s ceremonial party and is offered a gift of his own choosing.
A stonking new hall built to honour the king
and advertise his fit-for-marriage quartet boys
who have passed with flying colours
courses in spirit knowledge, law and latest science,
plus too sword fighting, archery and suchlike.
Into the hall for the ceremonial party
from the neighbouring states
comes each big wig, fat cat and hot shot
hoping his guava-yummy daughter
be blessed
by the promise of a bold Dasaratha boy!
To pamper the king’s prospects –
last guest in is a broad-foreheaded chunk-armed
one-time warrior king
famed for his tough-guy leadership skills and ever-expanding
kingdom. He had renounced it all, becoming instead an air-
sucking sage.
On his arrival, King Dasaratha rushes forward,
the guests part away to hear the exchange,
‘Sage Viswamithra.
What a fortune greeting the supreme sage.
My boys will be thrice blessed.
But please, from our salvers, come feast with us!’
‘No need,’ retorts the sage.
He has mastered bodies cravings, bodies stacked
famished pleadings for pamper and knick-knackery.
He is clean self-denial.
Uncomplicated male!
As the king’s fate becomes assured by this guest’s visit
custom demands a public gift; silence still,
‘O Sage, it is an honour to be honouring you.
Please request whatever is befitting.’
The sage, knowing an honour will come on cue, says,
‘I wish to perform a sacrifice
before the next moon.’
The sage knows how to steady
the storm to be stirred
by his party-pooper request
so he stirs it slowly,
‘Sidhasrama, you know the place … beyond the Ganges.’
‘But of course, it is the foul goondastan ground
bordering our kingdom. It has been dead-like since my sons
were born. Dead-like by those god-and-human hating
arsoora.’
The king hooked. The sage stirs further,
‘Man-and-nature killing province.’ The king
latches on, ‘It smirches our kingdom.’
‘The gods are granting me powers
to execute a gargantuan sacrifice.’
‘Sage Viswamithra, how buoyed we all are
that you will float a classic sacrifice
at the site
where the resonant priests once plied their craft.’
Applause from the audience.
The sage stays quiet.
In steps
the king, ‘But what
the purpose of this sacrifice?
Would you jeopardise your life
before the teeth of raksassy and overhead arsoora?’
Now booming his voice somewhat (this one-time king):
‘I seek to diminish these god-and-human eating
arsoora and raksassy
who not ever repent!
Our region once more will be safe for mankind.’
Again applause.
Words that act like arrows: unpullbackable,
once out in the unpluckable open, come from the king,
‘But Sage, my army and I will ensure your safety,
I, myself, the army will lead and protect your praying.’
The sage,
‘You are too kind to support my sacrifice.
But only is needed one … sole person.
Your son
Rama
is all,
all
-or-
none.’
‘Rama?
Rama
mine
stripling
son!?’
The air in the room
kills itself into a brittle ice mirror
which is magnifying the king’s tension wrinkles.
Yet how can he swallow his promise?
Or crack his pride before so many?
The king knows this goodly sage
is prodigiously versed in weapons unknown to all
except the gods
and may wish to hand these on to Rama,
yet he makes a final bid to keep
his connubially ripe, turned fifteen, son
by counting aloud the countless pleas
made to the gods for male heir … And now his heir
slipping from sight!
The sage replies, ‘Under my wings
Rama will bear a princely stature.’
The issue boils down to kingly face-saving,
and honour, which gives a name its lustre,
‘Rama has never been parted from his closest brother.
