Vanara

by Anand Neelakantan

  ‘I can’t walk anymore,’ Sugreeva said. Baali smiled at him and nodded.

  ‘Let us rest here,’ Baali said. Ignoring Sugreeva’s protests, he sat down on the roots of a giant Banyan tree.

  ‘There could be ghosts living in the tree. They would be happy to know that their dinner has arrived’, Riksarajas said, looking up the huge tree which had many prop roots that hung like monster hands stretching to strangle them. Sugreeva’s heart skipped a beat. He could imagine ghosts—all species of them—vetalas, pisachas, raktarakshas, brahmarakshas, hanging invisibly from the branches of the tree. They would come alive once the darkness gripped the topmost leaf of the tree. They would start their hunt and would find that their dinner had walked to them. Had his brother got no sense? He regretted that he had requested they rest.

  ‘I think we should climb up. Sugreeva, don’t you find those thick branches inviting?’ Baali said, stretching his limbs

  No, I don’t, Sugreeva wanted to scream. Riksarajas muttered some swearwords and took out his customary pot of gooseberry arrack. He took a swig of it and settled on a thick root. Baali was climbing up the tree like a monkey. Sugreeva hesitated. The forest looked ominous and the drone of the crickets and the distant hoot of owls added to the eeriness. Riksarajas was busy with his drink and was humming some song about some beautiful Vana Nara girl who had skin as luminescent as the blackberry. When she smiled, it was like a full moon rising in a cloudy sky. Memories of Tara came like waves and Sugreeva felt despondent. Would he ever see her again? His brother was calling him up. Sugreeva could see his silhouette over a thick branch and with a sigh, he started climbing. There was moss over the tree trunks and it was slippery. Sugreeva cursed and fretted, as he scrambled up. His brother lent a helping hand and made him sit atop a branch. The branch swayed and when he looked down, Sugreeva felt dizzy. He balanced himself gingerly and carefully placed himself. Baali smiled at his discomfort and said, ‘They call us monkeys and it’s a shame if we can’t even climb trees.’

  Sugreeva was watching a leech that was crawling towards him. He extended his fingers to flick it away, but before he could, Baali picked it and casually put it on a nearby branch. For some inexplicable reason, it made Sugreeva angry. Should he be so irritatingly good?

  ‘Do you know where our father is taking us?’ Baali asked with a distant look, a smile playing on his lips.

  Father? Who’s our father? Sugreeva wanted to ask. As if in reply, the song of Riksarajas rose in the air. Through the cracks in the canopy, moonlight fell like butter oozing out of a sieve. Sugreeva didn’t want a father, nor a mother now. He wanted Tara. He was already missing her laughter, her smell when she came near and her playful talk. The last thing he wanted was to consider the fat, ugly eunuch as his father.

  ‘Riksarajas wants us to study,’ Baali said in a conspirational tone.

  Study? Study what? They knew all about tending cows, hewing wood, drawing water, carrying the night soil discreetly and burying it away, sheering sheep and watering plants. What else did they need to study?

  ‘He is taking us to Mahabali,’ Baali said and Sugreeva saw he was excited. Mahabali who? Sugreeva was least interested. He never wanted to go away from Tara. He had to make her understand that he was not an evil boy. He had to make her speak to him again. It was unbearable that for five months she hadn’t spoken a word to him. He was her best friend. How could she do that to him? That too for nothing. Was it such a big crime?

  ‘Mahabali is the Asura emperor. Sorry, he was the Asura emperor, who ruled from the great city of Muzuris,’ Baali said. From below, Riksarajas started singing some folk songs about the golden age of Mahabali where everyone was considered equal and there was no discrimination based on caste or gender, and where no children died. Baali waited for him to finish his song and laughed when the eunuch ended with some choice expletives about some dwarf Brahmin who ended Mahabali’s rule. History had always bored Sugreeva. He had seen Baali trying to pick up whatever knowledge he could between the household chores in the ashram of Sage Gautama. For Sugreeva, the constant arguments about Atma, Moksha and many such weird words that the Ashram inmates flung at each other made no sense.

  ‘Are you even listening to what I have been saying,’ Baali asked with a trace of irritation. Sugreeva scrambled for a response. He didn’t want to hear his brother’s tirade against his carelessness and lack of attention.

  ‘Why’re we going to an Asura? We’re Vana Naras and Asuras hate us,’ Sugreeva said. He wanted to say they should have stayed back at Sushena’s place and he could’ve made up with Tara.

  ‘You speak the truth, Sugreeva. Both Asuras and Devas have hated us. We’re crude, black, good for nothing, forest dwellers. We’re as low in caste as it could get for them. For either of them, we’re no better than monkeys and hence they call us Vanaras. But why did we become like this? From many folk singers I have heard that there was a time when we roamed as free as tigers, from the roaring seas of the south to the cold snowy mountains in the North. We belonged to this soil and this soil belonged to us. When did we lose it all, first to Asuras and then to the Devas? When did we become slaves? How long will we remain like this—to be oppressed, to be ruled over, to be treated like animals? We need to learn their ways, we need to understand how they rule us. We don’t want to rule over them or anyone else. We just want to be left alone. For that, we need to know how they became so powerful,’ Baali said excitedly.

  From below, Riksarajas cried, ‘Baali, I have been telling this to our people but they blame the fate, they blame the wrath of the great God Ayyan, they blame the displeasure of the giant birds and the mountains, but they never blame themselves. You’re too wise for your age. How many rains would you have seen? Thirteen, fourteen? Your enthusiasm is giving me hope, my son. My boy. I have been telling, you ask Ayyan for little things, he gives us little things. You ask Ayyan for big things, he will give big things. Baali, you’re asking him the freedom of our people. Believe this eunuch, if you’re ready to work for what you believe, Ayyan will give you that and more than that. No one believes this eunuch when I say this,’

  Baali cried, ‘I believe you, father.’

  Sugreeva watched the eunuch trembling with ecstasy, his eyes shining with wetness. Riksarajas saw the teenagers looking at him and turned away hurriedly. He started reciting some old chants that made no sense to Sugreeva. There was a small clearing a few feet away where a branch of the giant Banyan tree had collapsed. Riksarajas swaggered to the clearing and looked up at the sky.

  ‘What are you staring at, father?’ Baali laughed.

  ‘Hush,’ Riksarajas’s said. ‘If Ayyan believes in me, he will send a signal.’

  ‘If you believe in Ayyan is what you mean,’ Baali shouted from the tree branch.

  ‘No, fool. Of course I believe in Ayyan. It’s he who needs to believe in this eunuch,’ Riksarajas cried and Baali laughed. Riksarajas stared at the distant sky and sprinkled his arrack in a circle around him. He started chanting again.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Sugreeva asked with rising distaste. This man was becoming an embarrassment. He and Tara used to laugh at his antics behind his back. The memories of Tara shredded his mind.

  ‘There, there,’ Riksarajas’ sudden cry startled Sugreeva. The fat eunuch was jumping up and down and pointing to the western sky.

  ‘Ayyan has spoken, Ayya . . . Ayyaa . . .’ Like a mad man, he rushed towards the west and crashed into the bushes. They could hear swear words but could not see him.

  ‘He is drunk,’ Sugreeva said and Baali laughed.

  ‘Yes, he is. And happy,’ Baali chuckled. He pointed to the sky, ‘Sugreeva, see that shooting star. It’s believed Ayyan gives signals like that to say he will fulfil our wishes. Ayyan is smiling at us. Let us pray.’

  Baali closed his eyes and started swaying from side to side. The branch shook and Sugreeva feared they would lose balance and tumble down. He had nothing to pray for. The face of Tara flashed in his mind and he angrily pushed i
t away. He looked around. Far away, from some remote Vana Nara village, floated the rumblings of drum beats.

  From the bush, Riksarajas croaked, choking with emotion, ‘Oh, Ayyan, oh the God of the mountains, at last, you’re showing this accursed race some mercy. You’ve given us a boy who’s wise beyond his years and brave enough to fight the giant bird. Finally, you’re lifting your curse, the Lord of the Jungle. I believe, you’re saying to us, one day we would be free. Let the great Asura not deny him the knowledge. Bless us, for one among us may one day grow worthy of your worship.’

  Sugreeva was thankful that there was no one else to watch this spectacle. Had Tara been there, he would have been embarrassed. Why the hell was he thinking about that girl? She is no one to me, he asserted himself and his heart felt heavy. He sighed. He heard the roll of distant drums. Maybe there are Vana Nara villages deep inside the forest. The tribe might be hiding from the raids of Devas and Asuras who often came to pick them up as slaves. Their number was fast dwindling and by drumming so loudly the fools were sending invitation to slavers to capture them. Perhaps, a festival might be going on, perhaps a wedding, a birth of a girl child, or even a funeral. For Vana Naras, everything was a celebration. Birth was when Ayyan decided to let his spirit, Uyyir, dwell in the form of a Vana Nara. Death was when he decided Uyyir should come back to him. Both were Ayyan, so was the life in between. Ayyan’s Uyyir dwelled in the trees, in the worms, in the birds or the beasts, in the rocks or in the river. Every moment had an Uyyir, a spirit that changed form before one could blink. Vana Naras and countless creatures that made up the universe, everything had the same Uyyir of Ayyan. There was nothing that had no Uyyir, the earth, the mountains, the trees, the stones, the stars, the sky, the sun, the moon, everything lived and throbbed with the spirit of Ayyan. Riksarajas had told them of the glory of Ayyan many times. But Sugreeva didn’t know what to pray for or how to pray.

  The forest was washed in the dull silvery moonlight. To his east, the Tungabhadra river snaked its path to the distant sea. Bats skirted above the hills far away. Countless stars blinked in unison as he looked up. A gentle breeze tingled his skin. It was getting cold. The cicadas, with their unceasing symphony from the bushes, filled his ears. He looked at his brother mumbling prayers and listened to the murmuring of his adoptive father. What were they praying for? If everything was Ayyan’s will, why should one pray? He looked around and smiled at the fireflies dancing above the jungle. Were they drawing some pattern? Were they telling him something? He smiled at his folly. The air had the sweet stinging smell of Saptaparni flowers. He took a deep breath and chilled air traced a path to his chest, making him shiver. Sugreeva wished he could capture the ethereal beauty of the forest, the giddy fragrance of Saptaparni flowers, the dance of the fireflies and the coldness of the distant stars and preserve the moment for eternity.

  The prayer to Ayyan continued in fervour. The eunuch had transformed his brother, Sugreeva thought ruefully. Suddenly, he paused his rumination. Did he hear something odd in Baali’s prayers? Every nerve of his body became taut. Anger had started raising its ugly fangs, so had jealousy. He listened to confirm whether he had heard it right. His brother was praying for the countless Vana Naras who were slaves to Devas or Asuras. His brother was praying for the few free Vana Naras who ecked out a living and hid deep inside the forest, fearing the raid of Devas or Asuras. Sugreeva didn’t care for either of them. But he had heard a familiar word which made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He waited impatiently for his brother to finish his prayers or repeat the word that alarmed him. To his dismay, Baali went silent and stood with his eyes closed. Sugreeva fidgeted with the corners of his dhoti, twiddled with his fingers and waited, gritting his teeth.

  ‘Sugreeva,’ his brother’s soft voice startled him. Baali appeared to be in a trance.

  ‘Ayyan spoke to me, brother.’

  From below, Riksarajas cried in ecstasy, ‘Ayya . . . Ayyaaa . . .’

  A strong breeze rustled the leaves, sending a wave of chill down Sugreeva’s spine. Baali closed his eyes and said, ‘He spoke to me about a great tomorrow. Ayyan said we’re the chosen ones. Together, we shall free our people.’

  Sugreeva stared at his brother in silence. He was not bothered about tomorrow. He was worried about today, about the words his brother had uttered in his prayers.

  Baali opened his eyes and pointed his fingers towards the river. ‘Mark that place brother. If Ayyan wills, we will make a city by the river, for Vana Naras. See those Kishka trees by the river. Seven of them. They’re the mark. That is where Ayyan’s spirit will be the strongest. By the side of that holy grove, we shall build our dwelling place. We will call it Kishkinda, a city for our people. The black-skinned, broken, monkey people. Ayyan asked me, why do I get angry when someone calls us Vanara? Monkeys too are my sons, so are all of you—he told me, brother, and he opened my eyes. Be proud of who you are, Ayyan told me.’

  Riksarajas cried in ecstasy, ‘Ayyaa . . . my Ayyaaa . . .He is right. We’re Vanaras. We’re monkeys. We’re anything that Ayyan wants us to be. We’re everything what we want to be.’

  Baali started thumping his chest with both his hands. He stretched himself, threw his head back and let out a wild howl, ‘I’m a Vanara!’ After a moment’s pause, the valley echoed back its reply many times, ‘I’m a Vanara.’ It amused Baali and he repeated his scream. Each time, the forest replied with vigour. He and the forest were one. They were Ayyan, one and the same.

  After some time, Baali got tired of his screams. His voice had an unusual strain that made it appear comical. He put his hand over Sugreeva’s shoulders and said, ‘Tomorrow, we will reach the Asura Emperor, Mahabali, and perhaps stay there for another five years. By the time we return, we will no longer be teenagers. We will be young and strong enough to lead our people and make them free. We shall—’

  Sugreeva cut short Baali. He didn’t want to stand through another rant on how oppressed his tribe was or what Baali was going to do about it. He was dying to clear his doubt. Gathering courage, he asked, ‘Brother, I heard you mention that girl’s name in your prayers.’

  Baali stared at him for a moment and Sugreeva waited with a throbbing heart. Baali’s face broke into an impish smile, ‘Oh, you heard that. I had always wanted to tell you, Sugreeva, but somehow I felt awkward. I . . . I . . . I prayed to Ayyan that when we come back and win a place where our Vanaras can no longer be slaves, Tara shall be my wife.’

  Chapter 11

  Tara waited excitedly at the river bank. It was almost noon and the summer heat was unbearable. The forest had lost its lushness and the river flowed lean. If not for the dry dusty breeze that blew from the north, it would have been impossible to stand in the scorching sun. There were a few old men and women scattered by the river bank, chatting with each other. She could sense the excitement in them. They had travelled from deep inside the forest, from the caves where they dwelled, from the little huts to the Vaidya’s home. They had come to see the first men from the Vana Nara tribe who had gone far away from the forest to study and were returning home. There was a sense of achievement among all members of the tribe. Tara felt proud that she had known them from childhood. Though it had been six long years since they had left the forest, she had fond memories of her childhood friends.

  ‘Why isn’t this girl married yet?’

  Tara heard one of the old women say loudly. She ignored her and continued to stare at the far river bank. They should be here any moment and she felt she could not wait any longer. Many pleasant memories about the days the brothers had spent in the hut made her smile.

  ‘The Vaidya is giving the girl too much freedom. Girls of her age have at least a couple of kids,’ another old woman prattled.

  ‘These days, girls have become too irresponsible. In our times, would our father allow us such liberty? I hadn’t even seen my husband’s face. Elders decided and before I could blink, I was married and had half a dozen kids tugging at my dress.’

  �
��I can’t believe she is eighteen and still single.’

  ‘Who knows, maybe the girl has someone in mind.’

  Tara moved away from the chattering old women. She had taught herself to go numb to such complaints and comments about her continuing spinsterhood. The old aunties would be shocked if they knew her father had never even broached the subject with her. She knew the reason and felt sorry for him. He had little money for dowry and the marriage expenses that he would have to incur were far beyond his means. He had to invite every Vana Nara family. Marriages were one occasion where slaves working in faraway lands would get a few days of freedom. There would be thousands turning up for the wedding. People would come at least a week before the wedding and it was the bride’s family that had to feed them and entertain them.

  Her father was someone who refused to take even the little gifts his impoverished patients brought in lieu of fees. After more than thirty years of serving as the only Vaidya of Vana Naras, his possessions were two faded dhotis, a few clay utensils and the hut with a leaking roof. Even the land where the hut stood belonged to the Vana Nara council. Since he was the only Vaidya, they allowed him to stay on the land. Some time ago, Tara had seen some silver ornaments tied in a bundle. Those were her mother’s ornaments, the only thing that connected her to her mother who she had never seen. One day, that too disappeared. She was shattered when she found that the bundle was empty and questioned her father. He sat without a word as she cried and accused him of being heartless. She slept with the empty bundle under her cheeks, but a little after midnight, she felt her father’s loving fingers running through her hair affectionately. She hadn’t opened her eyes. She was still angry with him and waited him to go away and leave her alone to cry for her mother. Her father never loved her mother, she thought bitterly. It was after a couple of days that she came to know what had happened to her mother’s ornaments. A man had come with a small boy and fallen at Sushena’s feet. He thanked him for loaning him the amount for freeing his son from slavery. The child’s mother had died, and the Deva master was a kind-hearted man who accepted the money and gave back the boy to his father. Tara then knew where her father had got the money to gift the man. When the man and his boy had gone, it was Tara’s turn to fall at her father’s feet to beg for forgiveness. Sushena kissed her on her forehead and went back to his work.