RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  He opened his eyes. His eyes narrowed, the fur of his face rippling in distress.

  Rama is in trouble. Someone means to do him grievous harm.

  He needed no commands, orders or instructions. He was a force unto himself. He leaped off the verandah with a careless ease that startled the wits out of sentries on the lower level who were still nervously apprehensive and overly alert – he waved to them to reassure their scalded nerves – touched ground briefly, then launched himself up into the air. He felt it was necessary to move swiftly: running or bounding would not do; he must fly. And so he rose up, above the palace, above the tall ancient trees in whose shelter royal Suryavansha Ikshwakus had played and danced and strolled and reclined for centuries, above the height of the Seer’s Eye, the tallest structure in the Arya nations matched only by its counterpart, the Sage’s Brow in Mithila, the capitol city of neighbouring Videha. And now he was above the map of scents, gazing down at Ayodhya once more, for the second time that morning – for it was only a brief hour or two since the greatest crisis in Ayodhya’s history had begun to unfold. And he soared through the air, the wind buffeting his limbs and flattening his plush fur as he soared the mile or so to his destination.

  He slowed in mid-air, using the strength of his mind more than the muscles of his body, for his power to defy Prithvi Maa’s hold was more a spiritual one than a physical ability, and required the use of mental commands rather than mere bodily movements. His face grew grim and his warm brown eyes, ever brimming with adoration and affection for Rama, turned cold and steely as he saw what had alerted him.

  The army that stood at the gates of Ayodhya did not startle or surprise him one whit. He had sensed its presence out the corner of his eye even as he had done his best to aid and assist Rishi Valmiki in his desperately heroic effort to save Ayodhya from the final villainous ploy of the rakshasa Kala-Nemi. He had not given it a second thought because he was wholly engrossed in one task at the time; that was his way. Rama was able to deal with myriad things at one time and handle them all effectively and with astonishing dexterity. But that was not the vanar way, and Hanuman was, after all, a vanar. At that time he had sensed that the forces amassed outside the gates were not an immediate threat. Just as he sensed that they had become a threat, gravely urgent and demanding critical attention right now.

  He hovered in the air above the gates, too high for anybody on the ground to notice him – even if they looked up, he was in the sun – yet low enough to easily see and hear everything that transpired below. He had observed crucial battles during the war of Lanka just so, hovering a hundred yards or so above ground, arms folded, tail twitching lazily in the wind; weeping as he witnessed the brave sacrifices of his fellow vanars as they stood against the bone-crushing onslaughts of hulking rakshasa hordes, grinning with joy as he viewed the same hulking rakshasas routed and decimated by the superior strategic skills and persistent stubbornness of Rama’s armies.

  He prayed now that he would not witness such carnage here in Ayodhya.

  Sita started at the sound of the woman’s voice. Surely it could not be— Mandodhari? Yet the haughty tone and regal condescension were unmistakable, as were the mannered Sanskrit with not so much as a hint of commonspeak. She had heard the voice often enough to know it well and hate it even more. She looked around at the tense, waiting faces of everyone around, cloistered in the shelter beneath the high spot. She saw her mother-in-law standing not far and their eyes met for a brief moment, exchanging a warm if necessarily distracted silent greeting under the circumstances, then turned her head this way then that, trying to think of a way to gain sight of the events transpiring outside the gate. There was no way, except…

  She ducked her head beneath the crisscrossing diagonal struts and taking hold of the ladder, began to climb quickly and efficiently. Perhaps she moved too quickly, or perhaps it was the angle she chose. A sudden spasm struck the lower left side of her abdomen and she paused, feeling the blood drain from her face at the impact. It felt as if…as if something had twisted within her. Something? Or someone? She swallowed nervously, guiltily almost and glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Bharat, Shatrugan and the others avoided looking at her in a way that suggested they knew what she was up to and did not intend to bar her. But Kausalya was gazing directly at her with a clear view of her face and she bore a faintly curious expression. Sita swore silently at her own lack of self-control. Kausalya had noticed the spasm and now her eyes drifted down to Sita’s midriff. Sita swallowed and forced herself to resume climbing, exercising more caution this time. Just before the interlinked crossbeam structure of the high spot obscured her view of Kausalya, she saw the queen mother’s eyes find her face again, and there was a knowing yet sympathetic look in those upward-turned eyes that made her certain that Rama’s mother now knew that she was to be a grandmother. She put that out of her mind and climbed on, reaching the top of the high spot with her heart pounding more rapidly than she would have liked. The months of imprisonment – and pregnancy – had taken a double toll, and she was paying the price now. She reached the top of the high spot and stepped out onto the sturdy platform protected by a wooden escarpment that reached up to her shoulders – and up to Rama’s lower ribs, leaving enough viewspace to observe efficiently while still providing protection. It was used for defensive purposes during a siege – such as pouring vats of boiling oil, which was the reason for the pulleyrope system dangling down the centre of the central structure – but also for parleys involving a monarch. She suspected it had not been used for either in decades.

  Rama, ever alert, shot her an appraising glance as she came to stand beside him, with no trace of commentary in his look. He was too focussed on the person who had addressed him moments ago. Sita glanced down as well, and at the sight of the tall, fair rakshasi standing beside the palanquin below, she felt a rush of mixed emotions, like oil and camphor mingling to give off a tiny explosive burst of boiling fumes. She forced herself to remain calm; merely standing beside Rama helped. His steadfastness was the stuff of which legends were made.

  “You do recall me, do you not?” asked Mandodhari from below as the muscled rakshasis set a travelling seat behind her with practised efficiency. “I am the widow of the lord of Lanka whom you slew during your invasion of our nation and genocide of our people.”

  “I recall you well, Queen Mandodhari,” Rama said in a voice of steely calm. “But my recollection of you is as the widow of the abductor of my wife and the precipitator of a tragic war that could well have been averted had he but abided by the law peaceably and admitted his guilt. I remember you also as the sister of the noble brahmin rakshasa Vibhisena whom I left in charge of the reconstruction of Lanka after the close of that unfortunate war, and as the reigning queen of the nation. You are welcome here to Ayodhya at anytime, and I would bid you kindly enter our happy city and enjoy the hospitality deserving of a queen and ally. But since you arrive at our gates with what appears to be a hostile armed force, dealing threats and slander, I have no choice but to have this conversation in this awkward manner.”

  Bravo. Well said. And from the dark flush that crept across the lower part of Mandodhari’s face, Rama’s eloquence had struck home. Like most of her countrymen, the rakshasi had that excessively pale complexion and translucent white skin that made visible any movement of blood to her upper extremities. It was a stark contrast to the dark-hued skin colouring of most Aryas, and one of the qualities that helped distinguish the rakshasa race in general. Mandodhari’s servers had placed the travelling seat in a suitable position behind her and awaited their mistress. But instead of seating herself, Mandodhari remained standing, glaring up at Rama. Her eyes flicked briefly, contemptuously to Sita, and despite herself, Sita felt a surge of coiled anger: Have you not had enough yet of war and violence, rakshasi? Go home and lick your wounds in peace. An enemy should know when it is beaten!

  Aloud, she said nothing, but her hands gripped the wooden railing tightly enough to turn her knuckles
white.

  Mandodhari shrugged, a regal tossing of her glossy, burnished mane that reminded Sita of her favourite stallion back in Mithila, the one she had ridden from the time it was a foal and she an unbled girl. Except that Mandodhari’s action conveyed not merely pride but threat as well: You fools. Do you not know who I am? You shall see soon enough!

  “I expected no less from you, Rama of Ayodhya,” the rakshasi queen said loftily, glancing around as if addressing all those on the wall rather than Rama alone. “Or from your blood-thirsty warmongering countrymen. Ayodhya’s reputation for war and invasion are legendary. Even today, the mere mention of your father Dasaratha is enough to put little rakshasas to sleep, over three and a half decades after the Last Mortal Invasions.”

  Said the rakshasi with an army behind her come to lay siege to us, whose husband is known to itihasa by the title ‘He Who Makes The Universe Scream’ – the literal meaning of ‘Ra-van-a’. Sita resisted the urge to speak out, not out of concern for breaking protocol but because she knew the importance of Rama appearing totally in charge.

  “Mandodhari-devi,” Rama said in a voice that was loud enough to carry to all in earshot yet still managed to sound ‘quiet’ in its tone somehow. “Your wildly inaccurate recall of history would be more credible without an army at your back and threats and assaults preceding your entry upon this…” he gestured, “this theatrical setup you seem to have designed for our entertainment this morning. As it is, this kind of behaviour is in extremely poor taste and a gross violation of the rules of war. If you or your minions have a grievance with me, you should have forwarded your request for a formal visit through normal diplomatic channels. By arriving unannounced with an armed and self-evidently hostile force, you undermine your own shaky credibility and absurd claims.”

  He paused a moment to let the words sink in. Sita resisted the urge to grin: Rama rarely spoke this much or made the effort to be this eloquent to hostile opponents, but once he decided to do so he was as effective as when taking lives in battle. The years of leading ragtag bandits and outlaws through enemy-riddled wildernesses had only honed his oratorical skills further. He was a natural crowd-appeaser.

  “I have cautioned your associate already. Now I address my cautionary warning to you as well. If you have diplomatic business here in Ayodhya, go away and send an emissary who shall be received with due respect by my court. If not…”

  He paused, to let the import of those last two words sink home.

  “If not, then be prepared to face the consequences of making hostile advances against the city-state of Ayodhya. We do not take such actions and words lightly. Those who act or speak against us should be willing to deal with the repercussions of doing so. I strongly advise you now to either hold your peace – or go speak your piece to those whose ears are not already deafened to your words by the thunderous roar of a million bestial rakshasas whose barbaric cruelties to the mortal race are as well

  known as your own late husband’s rapaciousness. Any further threats or unsubstantiated allegations shall be regarded as direct declaration of war.”

  SIX

  That’s telling her, Sita thought with secret satisfaction, wishing she could applaud and cheer Rama’s response. Somewhere along the wall, someone did thump the haft of a spear or hilt of a sword against the dense wood of the seventh wall, and she suspected it was a sly gesture in that very direction. Ayodhyan soldiers were far too disciplined to openly display such emotion, but that did not mean they did not feel the elation and pride she knew they must be feeling at the way Rama was handling the situation thus far.

  Mandodhari sighed and cocked her head. She glanced around, seemed to notice the travelling seat placed for her comfort, gestured curtly – the waiting rakshasis bent their powerful backs and removed the seat with practised efficiency – and then, glanced up at the high spot, staring not at Rama, but at Sita. Her eyes found Sita’s and locked onto them.

  “I am not surprised to hear your hostile response,” said the Queen of Lanka haughtily. “Nor your unwillingness to see reason. And as you can see, I have come fully prepared to undertake whatever measures are needed in order to restore justice to my people and vindication to my late husband’s memory.” She gestured at the long winding row of armed soldiers stretching down the raj-marg behind her. “But before we turn this war of words into a war of acts, let me point out two salient facts: One, you are not Rama Chandra, and therefore you have no authority to even address me directly let alone lord over Ayodhya as you now do, you imposter! Two, the woman that you call your wife, and whom you repeatedly claim was ‘abducted’ against her will by my late husband… this woman is the only genuine heir of Ayodhya’s throne and the future leader of its destiny. As such, it behoves the people of Ayodhya to know her true identity and the reason why she has been the crucial element in all the events of the preceding years. The bone of contention, you might say. And that reason is simple enough.”

  Mandodhari raised her right hand and pointed at Sita. “Sita Janaki of Mithila is the daughter of my late husband Ravana Pulastya and the bearer of our unborn grandchildren. And I am here to claim the throne of Ayodhya as ours by right.”

  Time stood still for Sita. The world stopped turning. Breath and life and existence were suspended and held hostage in a place within her heart so small that a butterfly would have suffocated within that space. Motion itself ceased. Birds flying somewhere to the far left of her field of vision seemed to slow in flight, as if suddenly battling a powerful windcurrent.

  She stared down at the Queen of Lanka, unable to fully comprehend her words.

  She stared so intently that she could see every line, every detail of the rakshasi queen’s features. That proud, pale, angular face; those broad cheekbones and finely-shaped jawline; that flowing forehead with the vertical slash of the hairline truncating it inches lower than most foreheads of women her age; that proud stance; that impressively taut figure, no longer slender but not weighed down by indulgence either; that regal bearing and manner.

  And despite herself, some part of her mind was already trying to assess if there was any similarity at all in the woman standing below and the face and body of Sita’s own reflection.

  Ravana’s Daughter? No. How can that be?

  And yet.

  And yet…

  Sita was still staring down dumbfounded when a dark streak arrowed from left of field into her sphere of vision and intersected with the rakshasi queen. It was a javelin thrown from somewhere below the high spot. Thrown with vicious force and perfect accuracy. It struck Mandodhari with sufficient force to drive the queen of Lanka backwards and off her feet to crash against the side of her own palanquin with force enough to shatter the woodwork and send splinters flying. Blood spurted from the rakshasi’s chest. So intense was Sita’s concentration in that moment – she was still in shock from Mandodhari’s words – that the globules of blood seemed to hang heavily in the air, suspended for a moment before gravity resumed and they sprayed the ground like a spatter of red raindrops. An ominous wetness blossomed on the Lankan queen’s pearl-white gown, accompanied by a wheezing sound that Sita, battle-veteran that she was, recognized instantly as the sound of the air being propelled out of the rakshasi’s punctured lungs.

  The world froze motionless for an instant, during which Sita could hear a distant drumming that she recognized only much later as the pounding of her own racing heart. Then motion and colour and sound and fury returned with a shocking assault and the world was never the same again for her.

  Hanuman felt something strike him with the force of a Himalayan mountain. He felt the invisible force crumble to tiny sand-sized particles as it struck his virtually indestructible body and shattered. It was intense enough to have reduced most beings to fragments as well; but then, he was not most beings; he was Maruti Anjaneya Hanuman. He was flung back up, up, to the sky, flung like an arrow from a siege catapult, arms flailing as he struggled to regain control of himself. Wind screamed and howled in his
ears and his vision was reduced to a foggy blur as the air itself appeared to fragment. He fought furiously to slow his backwards and upwards flight and after several moments of struggle, finally succeeded in slowing his ascent. He brought himself to a halt with a teeth-gritting effort and hovered momentarily, trying to assimilate what had just happened. Then he shot forward and downwards, shocked to see how far he had been flung in mere moments – which indicated how powerful the force that had struck him must have been. He was instantly enveloped in a bank of dense, foggy clouds so thick that all he could see were swirling smoke-like billows. The wind sang in his ears as he increased speed, jaw tightening as he recalled the last thing he had seen and heard before the invisible blast struck.

  The rakshasi speaking those terrible words.

  The javelin streaking from the direction of the seventh gate.

  The javelin striking the rakshasi in the chest.

  Blood spurting – bright red blood, heart-fresh blood.

  The rakshasi flung back, with enough force to break her spine if the javelin had not already done her in.

  And then a blast of shakti as powerful as any he had witnessed being unleashed, accompanied by a sound so awful he had never heard the likes of it before.

  For long moments, he seemed to shoot endlessly through the bank of clouds, blinded by fog, despite the fantastic speed with which he was flying. A roaring filled his ears yet it could not entirely drown out the sound from far below, the sound that had accompanied the explosive force that had flung him skywards like a pebble from a child’s catapult.