RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Atikaya issued a sound that was neither human nor animal, but resembled something between a lion’s cough and a horse’s snort. “Believe your girlish fairy tales if it helps you stay sane. The truth is, everything that happened, from Rama’s birth itself and before it, right to this very moment, was planned and meticulously put into place by my father. The genius of Ravana engendered the very existence of Rama Chandra. For without Ravana, there could be no Rama. And without Rama, we would not be here today. Nor, perhaps, would the world itself.”

  What did he mean by that? Even Sita could not fathom those cryptic words. Yet she sensed that despite his nauseating arrogance and nerve-rasping tone, he spoke without any trace of deception. She pushed the thought aside. There would be time later to muse over and analyze; now, it was time to turn this confrontation back to her advantage, and quickly. She did not like the way Atikaya had pretended to be cowed at first, then turned the tables on her so abruptly. She must regain control of the situation. Too much depended on her doing so.

  “You can weave your myths and fancies all you wish, rakshasa,” she said coldly. “It does not change the fact that you went against your father’s wishes. That you murdered your own mother because you knew she would not cooperate with your change of plan. You are nothing but a rogue and a renegade seeking to aggrandize yourself by vaulting piggyback over the great history and painstakingly acquired shakti of your great father. Yes, I acknowledge Ravana’s greatness, though it sticks in my gullet to even speak his name. He was a great king, a great master of the Vedas, a mighty brahmin and a devout Shiva worshipper. All his immense shakti came from the same sources that empowered Vishwamitra, Vashishta and the other saptarishis who walked the earth since time immemorial. But he corrupted the use of brahman shakti. He turned it to the devises of asura maya. For self acquisition. Personal gain. Lust and avarice. Greed and profit. Rape and reaving. Conquest and subjugation. These were not acceptable under dharma and by violating dharma he violated the natural order of the universe itself. Therefore he had to be stopped. Had not Rama stopped him, some other champion would surely have risen to do the needful. Ravana’s time had come. Rama merely happened to be the right person in the right place – and Ravana’s abduction of me the mistake that cost him his life.”

  Atikaya smiled, flashing teeth so flat and blockish they seemed incapable of biting or tearing even the softest food. Teeth quite unlike that of any rakshasa Sita had ever seen. Yet there was such menace and forbidding in that grin, it made her pray she never had those teeth at her own throat in a fight.

  “That is where you are mistaken, queen of Kosala,” he said in a voice suddenly reduced to a very normal – almost human – level and tone. The transition was as shocking as if he had ratcheted up to a louder rather than softer level. “And that mistake, and that lack of acceptance of the truth, and that yawning gap in your otherwise impressive stable of knowledge, is what will cost you your husband’s life. For all this, this mad bloody game of kings, is but a small part of the greater dance being performed at the end of days. And we but bit actors in a lavish production. The real drama is elsewhere. Offworld. The real war is being waged in other realms, other times, other universes. Your husband, the one you still foolishly believe to be Rama Chandra of Ayodhya, is there, fighting those battles, waging those wars. Not entrapped in this minor realm in that flesh cage you recognize and assume to be his only form. I said this before and I say it again now, and mark my words for they are true: Rama is not Rama. Ayodhya not Ayodhya. This world is not what it seems. Nothing is as it appears. And we are pathetic unfortunate beings banished out of our true time and place and the worse for it.”

  He raised the moon-sword and as Sita watched with bewilderment, it pulsed stronger and stronger, its blazing effulgence growing to an impossible degree, bathing Atikaya himself in a wash of dazzling white light tinged with grey and green in swirling patches. And as its light increased, so did its song.

  “I know now how you knew what you knew,” he said, his voice slowly overwhelmed by the rising shriek of the swordsong. “You were able to channel the flow of the chandra-shakti. The power of the moonsword. And since my consciousness and the sword’s are one, you were thereby able to read the contents of my uppermost thoughts as well.” He chuckled wistfully. “That is how you were able to discern everything that was in my mind. A simple yet effective device and one that threw me off-guard for a brief moment, I admit. But that was the extent of your ability. The moonsong that burns in your veins can do no more for you. Your puny Mithila steel toothpick cannot match the power of Chandrahas. Nothing and nobody can. And now, it is time for me to complete my small part in this very great game. Time for me to slaughter your husband in this flesh form, and his entire family and dynasty. And then,” he glanced towards the city behind her, “then I shall unleash the vengeance that you glimpsed in my vision before. And this time, Ayodhya shall truly fall. And burn to ruination.”

  He held the sword in both hands now, and chanted a mantra that was drowned by the deafening banshee wail of the swordsong. Sita cried out in agony as the waves of energy rammed into her senses like a stone wall falling and she sensed dimly that the sword had fallen from her hands. Then her knees struck the dirt and her forehead bent over until it touched the ground, obeising herself against her will to the deity that was the moon Himself incarnate now. This amsa of Chandra-deva. The progeny of Ravana. Her brother in blood if not in spirit and intent.

  “BEHOLD!” Atikaya’s voice rang out with the clear sharpness of a metal hammer striking a clear brass bell. “BEHOLD THE VENGEANCE OF RAVANA!”

  And he matched word to deed, bringing the sword down to cleave the ground itself with a force that shook every bone in Sita’s body and threw her a dozen yards up into the air, flying backwards like a pebble slung from a catapult to land in a shattering impact. Then she saw no more.

  Everyone frozen by the spellsong of Chandrahas watched and listened with impotent horror as Atikaya brought the moon-sword down with a mighty force, smiting the ground and cleaving it like a woodaxe cleaving a chip. The ground beneath their feet shuddered under the impact and a great crack appeared in the great avenue that led from the foremost gate into the city. The force was great enough that the vibrations caused buildings to tremble and dust and plaster to fall in a shower. Had the entire populace of Ayodhya, and all fauna in the Sarayu Valley itself not been frozen by the asura sorcery, the shock would have drawn a reaction no less than an avalanche or an earthquake. As it was, the world shuddered visibly and the crack in the ground spread in outwardly radiating ripples, creating a spiderweb tracery into which the dust and gravel of the avenue crumbled and fell in a steady shower. Dust rose up in a blinding cloud, and when it settled several moments later, there was a roughly Y-shaped jagged crevasse some fifty yards in length and as much in width. How deep the crack ran below ground, it was hard to tell, but an observer standing on the rim looking down would have seen nothing but darkness for several yards downwards.

  Sita lay crumpled across the far side of the crevasse, rendered unconscious by the force with which she had been flung and fallen. Had she struck a wall or post at that speed, she would no doubt have broken her back and body. As it was, she lay bruised and battered, but merely unconscious, not seriously hurt.

  Or so Rama assumed. And hoped. And prayed.

  Sita’s boldness in facing Atikaya alone was breathtaking. But his heart had been in his mouth when she had moved of her own volition, shrugging off the spell’s miasma, climbing down the stairway, then leaped down the last few yards to land on the street and confront the rakshasa armed with nothing but an ordinary sword. A Mithila sword against Chandrahas? A mouse battling an elephant would have stood a better chance: at least the mouse could slip into the pachyderm’s trunk and block its air and food passage; it could do something. Sita could have accomplished nothing by that risky manoeuvre. It made Rama seethe with impotent anger that she had put herself and their unborn children into harm’s way without an
y forethought or expectation of a successful outcome. But he could not deny that it also made him proud. She was truly a queen of Ayodhya. A monarch of the Kosala nation. And she had proven that yet again, this time in full view of all those whose opinion counted in this kingdom. That would go far in helping her gain the trust, love and respect of everyone – if she survived.

  But she hadn’t stood a chance against the son of Ravana. Nor did anyone else in this land. Not so long as the young matricide carried that sword.

  The first order of business was to take that sword away from Atikaya before he could wreak havoc with it and fulfil the terrible nightmarish vision that he had forced all their captive minds to share only a short while earlier. Or, if it was not possible – or too costly in terms of collateral damage – then the next best tactic would be simply to negate the power of the sword itself, render its epic shakti utterly meaningless…

  By countering it with an even greater weapon.

  FOUR

  Atikaya laughed.

  The rakshasa was in his element. Nothing, nobody, no power could thwart him. Ayodhya lay before him like a calf beneath a naked blade. Prithvi-loka itself lay unguarded beyond. Soon, he would achieve even greater glory than his father ever had. He would rule the three worlds for all time to come. With Chandrahas he was indestructible. And once word of the slaughter and havoc he was about to unleash upon Ayodhya spread, few would dare oppose him. The world would open before him like an oyster offering up its prize.

  The crack in the ground he had cut open with a single downstroke of Chandrahas yawned wide, running like a jagged streak of lightning away from him. Had he chosen, he could have made a crevasse large enough to swallow entire buildings – or half the city. But that would be too simple. He intended to make the most of his time in Ayodhya. The Unconquerable? Not to Atikaya! The Conquered, it would be known as henceforth. He chuckled at his own wit and hefted the great sword, relishing the thrumming power of chandra-shakti that sang from the face of the open blade and reverberated through his entire being. It evoked powerful lusts within his libido, and he licked his lips in anticipation of the havoc he would wreak today. Finally, he would reap the rewards of a childhood and youth spent in silent patient suffering and preparation. All he had been until now was a weapon of vengeance, a weapon created, tooled and honed by his father and mother. Now, he was to be unleashed. And he would show no mercy, give no quarter, yield not an inch.

  A sound rattled through the roar of shakti that enveloped him, cutting through the raging song of Chandrahas like a bell heard faintly from across a valley. He frowned. Had that foolish woman regained consciousness? Did she really think she could stand upto him for even a fraction of an instant? He glanced in her direction: No. There lay her body, still crumpled in a heap. She was stone-cold unconscious, or worse. Which was all to the better. For he craved tastier meat than that. His cravings were far deeper and darker than mere flesh-lust could satiate. He desired the dark secret terrors of the flesh that to most mortals resembled the workings of hell-demons. After all, he was a rakshasa, was he not? And he had 17 years worth of abstinence, deprivation and isolation to make up for today. And in the days and aeons to come.

  Again that sound.

  What was that?

  He turned his head to seek out the source.

  And saw the man standing in the centre of the sprawling avenue. A dark-skinned skeletal-thin man in a ragged dhoti. Some kind of religious priest, the kind that sat in deep jungles or high mountaintops and meditated till they were skin and bone, surviving on spirit alone. What were they called? Sadhus? Rishis? Munis? All of the above? This sadhu looked like he had until recently been covered in some kind of unguent and had wiped it all off hurriedly – most of it anyway. His skin also looked raw and tender, as if he had been exposed to great heat very recently, a flame great enough to blister and peel the skin off. His eyes were bloodshot, his weight supported upon a charred staff that looked like it had been turned almost to coal in a fire, and his striking egg-shaped head was denuded of hair, as bare as his beardless face. The man had definitely been in a fire quite recently and looked more like a sickbed patient than even the average wandering mendicant begging for alms.

  Atikaya grinned, feeling the energy pouring out of his mouth, wafting on his breath, tingling in his fingertips and toes, waiting to burst free.

  “What do you want, old one? And how is it that you’re able to withstand the song of the moon-sword?”

  The painfully thin rishi – or perhaps he was a sadhu? Was there a difference? – leaned heavily on his blackened staff and raised his head a fraction. Enough so that his eyes met Atikaya’s gaze levelly. Instead of showing fear or the abject terror that ought to have been there as a mark of respect for the one who wielded Chandrahas, there was only a sad bewilderment. A look of loss. As if the old sage was looking at an animal or something to be pitied rather than the most magnificent rakshasa ever to walk the streets of Ayodhya – perhaps the only rakshasa apart from great-uncle Kala-Nemi who had played such a significant part earlier this morning.

  As if reading his mind, the rishi said aloud, “Your father’s uncle did his part well. I will admit I too was duped by the appearance of Kala-Nemi, dramatic as it was. I assumed that it was the crisis I had dreamed of these past several months. The great and terrible crisis to befall Ayodhya that would change the course of mortal history forever. But in fact, the resurrection of Kala-Nemi from the subworld of Naraka into which he had been relegated was merely a ploy, a clever conjuror’s trick to distract the city from the real enemy threatening it this day. And that was you, son of Ravana. Kala-Nemi’s cleverly staged resurrection, timed to the minute, was only a ruse to distract Rama and his family from the army approaching the city. Had they not been occupied by the crisis at their very gates, they would surely have thwarted your arrival and brought matters to a head long before you could approach the city proper. But as it so happened, they were kept occupied long enough for you to move into position, close enough to work your asura-maya and unsheath the sword where it would work most effectively.”

  The rishi gestured towards the main gate of Ayodhya, to his left and now to Atikaya’s right. “Yet, even that army outside only serves the purpose of minor pieces in a game of chaupar. I see your shrewd plan now. After you wreak your havoc, you will leave those allies of Ayodhya to take the blame. And thereby cause the outbreak of an internecine war between the Arya nations, even as you continue to freely rove the mortal realm and rape and pillage and destroy at will. A clever plan it is. And one that you probably feel is foolproof. But of course, the only fool who is proof against that plan is yourself, son of Ravana.”

  Atikaya was sure he had misheard. Surely the tottering, half-dead, starving-thin old man had not just called him a fool? But he had of course. What impudence. What folly! He began to lower Chandrahas in a threatening gesture towards the old rishi. To his surprise, instead of blanching with fear or turning tail and running for his life, the brahmin mortal actually looked as if he had expected Atikaya to do just that and continued speaking unperturbed.

  “Yet there are greater plans than your little boy’s game. Laid out since before the beginning of time, some of them. By minds greater and quite unfathomable to one such as you, or to most beings for that matter. Those plans are the maps by which the course of human history moves, along predestined paths and byways. Nothing is truly random or unexpected, not even randomness itself. Even the tiniest flea nipping at a horse’s flank in a remote stable serves a purpose. Not necessarily a purpose of any particular benefit to the flea or the horse, but to the plan itself.”

  Atikaya almost giggled. What was the old man blathering about? Fleas and horses?

  “You’ll make a nice bed for the fleas to nest in very soon, old one, if Chandrahas leaves enough of you for the fleas!”

  And he levelled the sword without further ado. Enough of this nonsense. He had waited long enough for this day, this moment. He had no intention of being interrupte
d any further by a brainless old sage mouthing incomprehensible inanities.

  Chandrahas spat a swell of blue flame. A jagged bolt of blue fire shot out from the tip of the moon-sword and struck the old man with an impact that flashed like lightning striking a lone tree on a mountaintop. Atikaya turned away without bothering to even look at what remained. He leaped across the crack in the earth he had made, landing on the far side with a spring in his step and glee in his heart: A great deal of killing to be done and a whole city filled with people to do it too.

  The blow caught him totally unawares. One moment he was striding towards a band of armoured soldiers in the distinctive purple-and-black uniform that most of the Ayodhyan gate-defenders were clad in, intending to start by despatching the frozen men with a few deft flicks of the moon-sword. The next moment, he was hurtling sideways through the air.

  He struck the wall of a structure made of stone with force enough to rattle his bones.

  That’s impossible. I should not even feel any impact, with Chandrahas in my hands, its energy protecting me.

  He slid down the wall, scraping the side of one arm painfully against the rough stone – “Aaah!” he cried out, the pain shockingly unexpected and inexplicable – and landed on bent feet that crumpled underneath, toppling him face first onto the dusty avenue. He spat out dirt and rubbed the back of one hand savagely against his mouth, his rage mounting uncontrollably.