Ramayana

by Daljit Nagra

  Monkeys on the field need scoffing!’

  said red-faced Raavana, once back at the palace.

  It was a task making Koombarkana yawn

  for the six months of his sleep had not ended yet.

  A small army blored trumpets and whacked drums

  and pulled that dire Oooloo’s hair.

  Food hall was bubbling juicy vats

  with creamy kidneys, hearts and limbs

  from God knows whatever beast.

  Koombarkana would be wolfing from the pillow:

  he’d make a meal

  of whoever he could grab when he stirred,

  so it was best to have food steaming.

  No more casualties during war needed!

  Still asleep, elephants were ridden over his tummy.

  Tickled by this, Koombarkana finally roused.

  Loudest trumpets now performed most cacophonic

  to bring him home

  from the land of nod.

  Koombarkana finally yawned and whilst yawning

  he popped with greedy speed

  a handful trumpet-wallahs in his gob!

  Burping and rousing to consciousness

  he slobbered on corpulent gobfuls of meat

  and quaffed war-wine gallons.

  He farted till the palace air was unpalatable.

  Advisers filled him in about a somewhat major rumpus.

  Temporarily sated

  Koombarkana was then hugged by his dearly Raavana.

  ‘Rama has our measure. He is with too many monkeys.’

  Koombarkana, that proper fellow,

  showed how he could stir-in the serious

  whilst making light of the most knotted drag,

  ‘Beloved brother, I am eaten up by your gloom.

  But shouldn’t a king adopt lean counsellors?

  Any jabbering adviser who says wrong conduct

  is correct, I say feed him to the dogs!

  Listen hard, Raavana: you should have spies chewing

  on every word of your foe. If you guard your ground

  how can power go plump belly up!?

  War is the final fatal morsel to be chewed on

  by noble kings when all arguments are famished.

  You began the last course, passing on the starter!

  Did any adviser wake you from your craving,

  your rushing on another’s man’s dessert?

  If one did, what did you consume?

  But fret not your brows.

  I love snacking on live meat.

  You rest, Raav-ji, I will go for a solo paseo

  and on the way I may just fetch my own din-din!’

  Then rolling up his jolly giant sleeves

  and expanding in size at the thought of food from battle

  that Oooloo Ballong was

  Down the slope he thud-dud-dud-dud-duddered

  but seeing the millions monkeys still active

  he snacked a dream

  where he was a double-roti din-din for Death.

  Yet for his Raav-ji he would happy go down dining.

  Straight off, his big blam!smash! palms

  grabbed any amount monkeys then down his chompy gob

  they juiced, like puréed ants!

  Like ants, monkeys clambered

  all over him. Any got grabbed got noshed.

  And bones

  like pips

  were spat out

  becoming clubs bludgeoning the monkeys.

  At best, the monkeys stabbed the giant with pointed

  trees, firing stones at his face.

  But all was pinged out and pinged back

  so the monkeys lay punch-drunk or dead.

  Koombarkana went after their king

  but Sugreeva flew upwards, saying,

  ‘You can brag fame now

  by killing so many of my army.

  Let us ruck so you can check an Oooloo foe, ho!’

  Said Koombarkana, ‘Brahma is your ancestor.

  Why brag?

  Show me your candy!’

  Sweet flying Sugreeva whirled a rock cone

  whipped fresh from a mountain crest.

  It cycloned for Koombarkana’s head!

  But Koombarkana thrashed his arms about

  grinding mountain-matter to a dusty phenomena

  that

  simoomed

  for the ocean.

  At the receiving end of Sugreeva’s whizzing about

  and rock chucking

  the giant finally zoomed in on Sugreeva’s movements:

  his finger-flick beserked Sugreeva

  from his spinwhizz

  and sent him spiralling

  downward.

  Koombarkana shoved Sugreeva under his arm

  and waved the other arm in victory, yaaah!

  King as hostage would weaken monkey morale.

  But who fears most

  the thing in the thick of their grip …?

  Who doesn’t become like the ape

  that the higher he climbs in the world

  the more he shows his arse!?

  O sloppy-cocky Koombarkana! Look under your arm

  on your way back to the palace!

  Sugreeva has roused from near-death

  and is about to make his sharp attack.

  Before even the Oooloo noticed,

  with crystal-pointed teeth and nails

  Sugreeva bit and clawed at the bulbous ears and nose.

  Near scrambling them off.

  Poor Koombarkana was dizzied.

  His small army was trounced

  and he was all on his lonesome

  save for the monkeys now furring him …

  Rama blasted his sharpest arrows,

  they fell away

  but for the one that he had sunk in Bali.

  It took a dozen such arrows for the end-result.

  A dozen such arrows before those giant arms were slit,

  were discommoded

  limb to limb

  plop to the ground like puddings!

  Queasy Koombarkana

  kicked about and head-butted

  biting

  at anything by his chomp-yard.

  Finally though

  Rama shot a flank of tight-knit blade-like arrows at his neck,

  so many arrows they beheaded

  that bullied bugger!

  Oooloo Ballong bombastic bum-up thud.

  Then permanent sleep.

  Then grand hoots bore at the blood-bloated hills.

  Chapter Eight: The Dream Arrow

  Indrajit is encouraged to be visible when fighting. The citizens of Lanka mourn.

  I

  Overnight, Sugreeva had sent an army

  with firebrands to set alight towers and mansions

  and smoke issued in the morning. Rama’s army

  had the upper hand. On the fourth morning

  Vibishana had leapt from sleep, and seeing Lakshmana,

  ‘I have been remiss for I have been forgetting

  that my nephew, Indrajit, has the power to summon prayers

  that will harden his body so he is free from injury

  eternally. He will be able to grant his soldiers immortality.

  He can achieve all this only in battle.

  We must go to him. I know where he prays.’

  They crept behind a hill

  then stole behind a banyan tree.

  Indeed it seemed Indrajit was in full spiritual flow.

  Indrajit fed his altar with butter from a ladle of black iron

  and rubbed marks with ashes on his brow.

  Whispered Vibishana to Lakshmana,

  ‘These marks will grant him invisibility for long enough.’

  They watched cracks

  in the ground broaden and from the underworld

  Naga serpents whirled forth to bathe Indrajit’s javelins

  with their karella-flavoured venom.

  Nearby a black goat at a stake

 
which Indrajit bled for new blood.

  Indrajit was then about to use the blood in an offering

  that might be making him immort –

  when, ‘What coward seeks personal reward in battle?

  What coward fights invisible?

  Come and fight me face to face and show the gods

  you are deserving immortality,’

  roared Lakshmana from behind the tree.

  Indrajit, who saw his uncle step out, cajoled him,

  ‘How can a raksassy betray his own blood?

  In times and times to come, dear uncle,

  I envision you fleshed

  in stone or ink as a traitor, or, as we say, a pandy!’

  ‘Have I not been serving dharma only? As one serving dharma

  you too must regard the pandy truly as the hero.’

  ‘My dharma is to support my father, your brother!

  Is there any greater loyalty?’

  Vibishana spoke firmly, ‘When two factions

  are not equally clean

  how can we be leaving behind what is a stain on Truth?

  ‘Despite brotherly affection securing your safe release

  from Lanka, you return having judged your brother.

  Now this Rama, your new star

  blazes all in his path

  so Yama erase the ghost of his parting …

  Even a sun when it cools leaves a blot.

  What blot can ever be cleansed

  from Sita, from Rama?’

  Vibishana was inwardly torn

  to see his nephew perilously visible.

  But he could not kill him himself.

  Lakshmana called out coward! again.

  Indrajit had never before been, who dare do it,

  called a coward!

  Indrajit was on his chariot and said,

  Lakshmana, if you have missed seeing my power before,

  I pray you see it now. I ask for the gift of single combat.’

  ‘I give it.’

  Both boys twanged their bows then fought.

  They would fight for hours.

  Neither backing down.

  The boys were near deaf and blind with focus.

  Lakshmana admired Indrajit’s speed and stamina.

  The stalemate needed unlocking,

  Lakshmana stepped up a level

  and from his celestial gear he fired a missile

  presided over by the Water-God, Varuna.

  Indrajit saw the missile

  looping towards him

  and fired back his celestial missile

  presided over by Havoc-God, Rudra.

  Rudra annulled Varuna.

  And on they went till it must be curtains for one:

  Indrajit plucked an arrow given him by Yama.

  Lakshmana recognised it. He matched it

  with an arrow given to Kubera in a dream:

  it was invincible, it was invisible!

  It swallowed Indrajit’s javelins as they were fired.

  And forwards it continued till it realised its aim

  in Indrajit’s ever-so-wide windpipe.

  Indrajit was choking

  like a child who mistook the size of the stone in his mouth.

  In mercy,

  Lakshmana pulled out an arrow that was too hot to hold

  but demanded to be the rending shaft.

  Reciting a mantra,

  whilst the arrow was burning his fingers,

  Lakshmana shot the flame into Indrajit’s heart.

  Indrajit’s innards were instantly barbecued.

  II

  Lay slain in Lanka, besides Indrajit,

  lakhs upon lakhs dead bodies. Not buried yet

  and become a banquet for flesh or fowl …

  From Lanka came outdoors lakhs upon lakhs

  raksassy women

  some were there they lost their husband,

  some were there they lost a son,

  some were there they lost a brother, a cousin or uncle.

  All were there feeling all now was lost.

  Some blamed Soorpanaka for her Rama adoration,

  some scorned Sita’s charmed beauty.

  They gathered at Lanka gates and huddled one another,

  they locked arms and embraced in a tight circle.

  They locked tight then set free one huge hush cry –

  one soft lamentation.

  Their cry went unstraightforwardly ascending –

  its heart-breaking tenderness vapoured

  and sheared off at the fringes

  Then rising

  through that soft

  cry’s pollen core

  Raavana’s harsh

  sob that had shot

  separately from

  the highest palace

  turret

  momentarily deafening space.

  Chapter Nine: Attack of the Astras Mega-Fantastic to the Death!

  Rama and Raavana fight again.

  At the palace, Raavana attended a ritual bath.

  His special prayers were assisted by Mandodari,

  his dearest wife. She suggested,

  ‘My Lord, if we end Sita – we end Rama …’

  No answer. She tried distracting him,

  ‘You have captured my heart always.

  I love our life.

  I pray the omens are bad … O do not go

  where our son has gone.’

  Raavana’s master magician, Vidyujjivha,

  was waiting in a chamber and finally had his meeting,

  ‘My Lord, do you not hanker for a head or two?

  A gore head of Rama … has been prepared …

  The living dead-head double of this saviour …

  perchance we show it to Sita? Would it send her

  to sleep … Would this end Rama’s halo-headed cause?

  Or … on a platter I have garnished,

  with a Choodamani, Sita’s mimic head … Take it to

  the battlefield …?

  My Lord, what say you to my …

  … dainty pair of beheaded …

  lovers?’

  Vidyujjivha wore his glacial air,

  his skin seemed made of glass, his cheeks

  in the sunniest day looked scabbed with frost

  and his words fell faintly as though heard

  from the other side of a window pane, more seen than heard

  and being seen merely guessed at …

  Vidyujjivha kept his head down. Raavana, emphatic,

  ‘You do well to ready your deceits but I am

  already the victor, for another’s wife lies in my grip.

  And though it be my privilege, my prerogative

  to expatiate my conquest upon the flesh of the defeated,

  I would not.

  Sita is our guest and must be honoured to the end.

  No chink or junk thinking will blink me

  from my fair fight to the death. Are we not ever

  in the eyes of the heavens?’

  Raavana returned to his chambers and Mandodari

  knew that with so many now fallen

  her duty lay in helping her gentle husband

  fasten his battle dress, armour, armlets and crowns.

  She ensured that protective armour covered all his broad-bulk.

  She silently tightened his sword-belt

  then bolstered him with accoutrements:

  decorative yet also protective. In his ample hands:

  a special sword from Shiva, a double-edged scimitar, a mace,

  an axe,

  a shield, a bow and so on.

  Raavana was now on his chariot. The gods feared

  his deaf mood. And feared earth’s fate.

  They rained blood as a harbinger

  and even though Raavana saw the blood

  with his twitching left eye

  he remained steadfast: do or die.

  So the gods sent Rama their special chariot.

  Rama watched the vehicle descend fro
m the skies.

  He was bowled over by a chariot and charioteer, who said,

  ‘Lord Rama, my name is Matali.

  We can move faster than light itself.

  Lord Brahma has sent me to help you.’

  The beat of war drums.

  Lord of Mortals versus Lord of Raksassy.

  Raavana blew his conch

  and its shrill call resounded through the universe.

  The battle that must bring both men to the end of the road …

  Raavana’s and Rama’s chariots smashed hard.

  Raavana glared up at the heavens.

  Both held ground.

  They took their chariots skywards

  and fought above the clouds.

  They conjured ample diamond-hard Maya-made missiles.

  The strength of each in the bobbing and firing back redoubled.

  Instead of one, Raavana now went twenty-fold with bows

  for his twenty arms.

  Rama’s arrows

  broke no end Raavana’s arrows.

  The gods were

  horrified for the

  haemorrhaging

  earth.

  Rama and Raavana were an inferno!

  Wherever their missiles crashed

  they blackened measureless green things