RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Yet she had no choice. She was Queen now. And a queen of Ayodhya did not frolic and flirt when crisis loomed; she stood in the frontline, gauging the threat, preparing to meet it head-on.

  She stepped forward, stepping to Rama’s left, onto the gentle rise that acted as a natural ledge overlooking the downslope to the riverbank, and looked at what Hanuman had brought them here to see.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She had no basis to comprehend what this meant. It was beyond the realm of any possibility or probability. Beyond anything she could ever have imagined, ever. She almost wanted to knock her elbow against the sala tree to her left just to wince and know she was still awake, not dreaming.

  “What does it mean?” she asked softly. “What is it?”

  Rama and Hanuman were silent for a long moment. Finally, Rama spoke slowly, as if he too was coming to terms with the sight and accepting reluctantly that he was awake and truly seeing what he was seeing, “I…” he began, then stopped. “I think…” he began again, then paused.

  “I think it is the end of the world,” he said at last.

  They gazed together at the phenomenon.

  Sita tried to explain the sight to herself. To use logic and language to make the shock of vision more palatable.

  They were standing on the shelf of rock upon which the sturdy old sala tree had taken root decades earlier. Behind and around to their right, like the incurve of a bow, the raj-marg curved, leading steadily upwards and out of the Sarayu Valley, thence towards Mithila Bridge and the border of her father’s kingdom, Videha. From here, they looked down upon a plunge of some ten or fifteen yards to the riverbanks. The Sarayu flowed in good strength, its steady roar so much a part of the background that Sita had already learned to ignore it in order to pay heed to other sounds. A rock in the centre of the flow, tumbled there years earlier either through mortal intervention or natural cause, caused the onrushing waters to splash and throw up a high wash of spray that drifted on this gentle breeze to limn Sita’s face.

  Several yards further downstream, at the point where the river rushed through a natural tunnel, disappearing for several dozen yards before reemerging on the far side to begin the headlong downhill race to Mithila Bridge where the upflung spray was no more gentle but a steady cloud of mist that hung over the structure at all times, lending it an air of mystery and majesty.

  But before that point, before the tunnel began, something new had appeared.

  A peculiar shimmering phenomenon hung in mid-air, barely a yard or two above the surface of the rushing river. It was hard to describe for Sita; the closest she could come to words was an arched entrance. Yes, that shimmering thing, gleaming with refracted light in a complex spectrum with more subtleties of shade than any natural rainbow, roughly took the form of a great arch, several yards high and perhaps three or four yards wide. It resembled the victory arch that most Arya cities had, and through which returning war heroes were paraded before being felicitated by their kings and queens. But it was made up of shimmering rainbow-hued light, insubstantial, impossible, yet very definitely there.

  As Sita watched, something began to happen. The space within the arch crackled and was shot through with veins of interlocking rays of light of different hues. The effect resembled a calm lake surface into which a pebble had been dropped, causing ripples. The ripples increased, multiplying and increasing in intensity as if more pebbles – or larger stones

  – were being thrown at a rapid rate. Sita wanted to step back, afraid at what might follow this peculiar phenomenon. She had never seen or heard of its like before in her life. What is that thing?

  Rama glanced at Hanuman. “Was it doing this when you saw it first?”

  Hanuman shook his head slowly. “Nor was it there at dawn this morning. It only appeared perhaps half a paw before I came to report its presence to you.” Vanars measured the passing of time in widths of a paw raised overhead to measure the sun’s or moon’s progress across the sky. ‘Half a paw’ would probably mean about one twentieth of a day. “I thought it best to report it to you directly, my lord.”

  Rama put a hand on the vanar’s shoulder. “You did well, my friend. In reporting it to me, as well as in being discreet.”

  Sita wanted to correct Rama, to say aloud that she wished now that she had insisted on bringing along armed PFs, instead of dismissing their personal guard as Rama had done, quite curtly when Saprem Senapati Dheeraj Kumar had grumbled openly about the king himself disregarding safety protocol. She wasn’t sure if a few quads of well-trained, well-armed soldiers would make any difference if that thing hanging over the river proved hostile or dangerous, but their presence would have made her feel better right now, especially if she was correct in guessing what was happening.

  “Something is coming through,” Rama said, echoing her own realization. The shimmering arch had begun blazing and crackling with increased agitation and it was evident that some major change was about to take place. Already she could see something forming in the central space – was that a mortal figure?

  “Or someone,” she added, then waited, breathless.

  EIGHT

  Old friend.

  The words were not spoken. Rama felt them as a vibration within the bones of his chest, thrumming and humming in the very marrow, as if the means by which they were communicated went far beyond oral speech, was in the realm of blood and bone, flesh and life-force. He felt the ensorcellment holding him in thrall melt away like an ice floe washed down the Sarayu in spring. He could move once again. But to his surprise, when he attempted to climb down the ladder of the high spot, he found his limbs responding oddly, as if he were moving through deep water rather than air. Even as he tried to make sense of what was happening, he felt himself rising, rising, and looked down to see the high spot already yards below, and his feet unanchored to any firm footing. He was floating in mid-air. As he had seen Hanuman do many times. Speaking of Hanuman, the vanar too was freed and floated now beside Rama. The golden furred face gazed with some puzzlement at Rama who inclined his head, blinking once for reassurance. The vanar nodded in response, resigning himself. Together they floated in the grip of the strange new shakti that was now controlling their physical forms – and were deposited, as gently as feathers, upon the ground near the spot where Sita stood, staring in abject amazement.

  The light bathing Sita’s profile, blazing white light tinged with blue and shot through with myriad hues, was like no natural light Rama had ever seen before. It was like light one might see in a dream, not in reality. Blazingly intense, yet with no apparent source. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. And there was that sound. Like a humming. But not quite. More of a…sussuration. Like an invisible ocean made of something other than water. Or the sound of countless voices all speaking at once, but heard from a very great distance, till they were all reduced to a single concatenated shirring. A chorus of apsaras could not have sung as sweetly.

  The instant he found his feet again, he went to Sita. Touching her forearm gently to avoid hurting her injured wrist, “Are you well?” he asked softly.

  She failed to hear him. Her eyes were fixed on the being that had come through the Vortal. Rama said again, more insistently, “My love? Vaidehi?” But she still did not answer.

  So finally he turned to look at what she was looking at.

  At the light.

  The blinding, blazing, eye-searing light.

  And the instant he looked, the light faded away, and was extinguished.

  And only a figure stood there, looming above the still-prostrated Ravana. A figure as dark-skinned as Rama himself, despite the ashes smeared across his body. With a throat as dark-mottled blue as deep midnight sky. A serpent coiled around that stained throat – neel kant – unwinding and winding its coils as it pleased, hood bared, forked tongue flicking and hissing. His hair matted in a hermitic bun above his head. And that face. The face. With the third eye nestled in the centre of the forehead, closed now, mercifully. And
that aspect so fierce that it had been known to freeze naked flames and melt stone to lava on occasion.

  But at this moment, it was not fierce or ferocious. The third eye slept. The serpent – Takshak, his name is Takshak, the last of his breed – hissed out of habit rather than bad temper. And the voice that spoke now, thrumming in the bones of Rama’s entire being, like a drumbeat sounding from within, a dumroo kettledrum in place of his heart, was gentle and kind, filled only with empathy and compassion, warmth and friendship.

  It is good to see you. As always.

  Rama realized the words were meant for him. He also realized that he had no need of vocal cords to express himself.

  And you.

  The three-eyed one smiled and spread his arms wide, as if desirous of embracing Rama. Then he stopped himself, seemed to recall something, and lowered his arms.

  Would that could I greet you as friends should. But your present form…

  Rama glanced down at his body.

  … it would not be able to withstand my touch.

  Without knowing how he knew, Rama knew that this was true.

  Yes, he responded silently. I am but mortal. And you, Mahadev… He paused. A part of him listened to his own words echoing through the ether, travelling outwards like invisible despatches to unknown destinations … you are yourself. This mortal flesh cannot survive an encounter with one such as yourself.

  True, Shiva responded with a tinge of sorrow. It is the eternal barrier between the dwellers of the mortal realm and those of us from the other lokas. But we must accept the limitations of the mortal form, for oftentimes that deceptively fragile container of flesh, bones and fluids is our only tool to accomplish that which must be accomplished. Had it been possible for devas alone to serve the end of the great brahman, then why should mortal beings have been created at all? Nay, brother of my mind and heart, your present mortal form was your sole means to achieve your goal. And you chose wisely indeed. For the mortal you selected as your vessel in this amsa is truly a rare example. This Rama Chandra of Ayodhya is perhaps the finest of all mortal men I have heard tell of. He deserves the appellation they have coined for him: Maryada Purshottam. Truly he is One Who Achieves His Goal, against all odds.

  Shiva paused, as if abashed at his own loquaciousness.

  But of course, I need hardly explain the obvious to Shri Haridev, Almighty Narayana! All things are known to you. The universe contains no secrets from you, great one. I merely restate these things to show my admiration for what you have achieved here upon this troubled mortal realm. And for setting free my loyal and devoted worshipper Jay.

  At this, Ravana raised his rack of heads from the ground with reverential slowness and joined his palms together in a namaskaram. “My Lord exalts me by taking my name. I am but a humble servant of Hari. It is I whom He has blessed by His acts. It was my supreme honour to be killed by His hand on the battlefield of Lanka.”

  Ravana turned and bowed to Rama as well, offering him the same grace he had showed Shiva. “I have long worshipped Mahadev. But as you well know, my Lord, I am eternally in your service.”

  Rama did not answer. He knew he was expected to speak here, to say something. But he found he could not. Out the corner of his eye, he sensed the sage Valmiki turn and look at him, sensed also the curiosity of the maharishi. But he held his tongue.

  Finally, Ravana bowed deeply again, then assumed a kneeling posture with heads bowed, at Shiva’s feet.

  The Three-Eyed One absently blessed Ravana with an open palm while keeping his gaze on Rama.

  You choose not to speak. That is your privilege, Narayana. Infinite are your methods, inscrutable your Leela.

  Shiva paused, gazing into the distance as if contemplating some obscure thought. Rama was looking directly at Shiva’s face at that instant and for a brief instant – barely a flash – he saw a strange and incredible sight: Shiva’s eyes had been replaced by views of something else entirely, the way a man’s eyes might reflect a fire or the sky at certain angles. Within Shiva’s eye sockets, instead of the ball of his eye, pupil, cornea, optic fluid and so on, there were immense events taking place on a micro-scale. In one eye, he glimpsed a view of a great war being waged, in a world where all things resided beneath dark waters. Then that eye afforded a view of another world or plane of existence where a great ceremony was taking place with pomp and colour – a ceremony involving beings that he could not begin to describe, let alone comprehend their existence. The other eye likewise flickered with such images of distant worlds, dimensions or times. Even in that flash of a moment, he glimpsed countless such images flickering in Shiva’s eyes and he knew that the Lord of Destruction was presiding over events on a cosmic scale in countless eras, infinite worlds, even as he spoke to Rama here and now…

  Shiva glanced back at Rama. A shade of his persona from some other time and place lingered momentarily, and Rama saw that both Shiva’s eyes were filled with crimson flames, consuming entire universes. Then the instant passed, and Shiva’s eyes were just normal eyes as before: inasmuch as a deva’s eyes could ever be considered ‘normal’.

  The eyes of a deva never blink. That is how we can tell them apart from other beings, asuras or mortals.

  Again Rama did not know how he came by this knowledge. He simply did. Just as he knew perfectly well what Shiva had been speaking of till now, and even what Shiva was about to say next:

  I have many other matters to attend to, Haridev. As do you. I will come to the point. I am merely here to congratulate you on a mission masterfully executed. Everything you accomplished while in this amsa was beyond praise. Your great task has been accomplished. The asura races are destroyed upon Prithvi-loka. The rakshasa threat is over. Their race shall never trouble the mortal race in any substantial way again, and over time they shall die out completely and their island-kingdom shall be occupied by the race of mortals, who shall then reign supreme for millennia to come. The brothers Jay and Vijay have been slain yet again, this time being the third occasion, which marks the end of their dand. Now that their penalty is over, they are free to assume their rightful place in Vaikunta in your service. As, I am sure, are you too.

  At this, Ravana raised his head and joined hands once more and bowed to Rama. The sheer reverence and adoration on all the rakshasa’s ten faces was unlike anything Rama had seen before in Ravana’s myriad expressions during the long years of their epic conflict. Yet there was no doubting the sincerity of that reverence and adoration. Ravana bowed his head once more, awaiting any words from Rama.

  Once again, Rama said nothing.

  Shiva seemed somewhat puzzled by Rama’s lack of response, but continued:

  Vishnudeva, I am here on behalf of the devas as well as in the capacity of a longtime dear friend to gently remind you that your goal in this mortal avatar has been achieved successfully far in excess of all expectation, and that your work here upon Prithvi-loka is done. It is time now for you and your eternal consort to return to your rightful place. That is why I come now. To urge you to return where your services are required far more urgently than upon this plane of existence.

  And then Shiva himself put his hands together, joining the palms and inclining his head.

  OM NARAYANA NAMAHA he said. And then HARI HARI HARI…

  Rama listened as the last reverberations of the words faded away, melding with the pulsing of his blood and the thump of his heartbeat.

  Then Shiva raised his head once more and gazed upon Rama directly. It was evident that the great Destroyer now required Rama to provide a spoken response.

  Rama felt Sita’s hand clutch his shoulder hard. His wife was strong; her grip was tight on the ball of his shoulder, fingers pressing deep into the tendons. He glanced at her briefly. Her eyes were wide with shock. Her lips were parted. Her face displayed her disbelief and incredulity.

  “Rama!” she said, pointing with her other hand. The word was whispered rather than shouted. As if she was afraid of being heard.

  He understood
how she felt.

  The scene they were viewing through the shimmering arch suspended over the river seemed so real, so immediate. As if they could simply step through that arch – if it were possible to walk over the rushing water, that is – and enter into that place. Wherever that place might be.

  It looked like Ayodhya, from what little he could glimpse. And that man and woman standing there looked like himself and like Sita. But that was impossible, surely? This was some manner of sorcerous illusion, yes? The product of asura maya?

  Yet he knew fully well it was neither asura maya nor an illusion. Whatever was happening in that place beyond the floating arch – a Vortal, that is what it is called, a Vortal, said a voice inside his head that he knew was his own yet not his own – was very real, and immediate, occurring right now, at this very instant in time.

  But neither of those observations were what scared Sita – and me, for I’m scared too, I admit – so badly.

  It was the person standing before Rama and Sita in the Ayodhya on the other side of the floating arch…the Vortal.

  That could only be one being.

  Shiva the Destroyer Himself.

  Yet how was that possible?

  He realized that none of it was possible, to his knowledge. Yet it was happening. That was all that mattered at present.

  With a warrior’s instinct, he pushed away the urge to question, doubt, wonder, gape, worry, and focussed entirely on observing, noting, studying, absorbing, analyzing… Upon the battlefield, that meant the difference between destruction and victory. It came naturally to him, and he knew that Hanuman had already slipped into that preternaturally heightened state: seeking only to view and study every notable aspect of what was occurring before their senses, in order to prepare for any inevitability. In a moment, he felt Sita’s breathing change as well, and her grip on his shoulder loosen, as she shed her own anxieties and conflicting concerns and focussed simply on observing.

  All three of them stood on the ledge and watched. And listened. Above the roar of the river, it ought not have been possible to hear much. Yet he comprehended every word, every syllable, understood every nuance of what was being communicated in that other Ayodhya beyond the Vortal. Even what was not said aloud. Especially what was not said aloud. For devas did not usually speak with the use of tongues and palates and vocal cords; they had no need to use such crude tools…except when addressing ordinary mere mortals.