Kausalya took the raj-taru as well, feeling the odd inequity of the cold gold-capped weight of the sceptre in one hand, and the grimy roughness of the wooden slippers in the other. And yet both were evenly balanced. She even found space in her mind to admire Bharat’s wisdom and foresight. Yes, he might be right. This might yet be the way to keep the kingdom peaceful and united. But fourteen years? She could hardly conceive of continuing thus for fourteen days! Merciful Devi give her shakti.
Shatrugan touched her feet reverentially. ‘Now give me leave, Mother. For I go to Nandigram as well, to join Bharat. We shall live as ascetics there until Rama’s return. On the day he comes out of exile, we shall return to honour and celebrate his crowning. Until then, I beg you, give me leave.’
As distantly as an actor in a Sanskrit drama, she gave Shatrugan the ritual blessings and watched him walk down the steps. He mounted his horse, turned its head, and rode away. Only a handful of his closest men followed him. The seemingly endless rows of armoured soldiers stood silently beneath the flickering lights of the mashaals of Raghuvamsha Marg, waiting for her command. She grew gradually aware of the weight of the raj-taru in her right hand. Now she was the closest thing to a ruler the land had left. She must do what must be done. So this is to be my dharma then. So be it.
She gripped the sceptre tightly. It was cold and hard to her touch. Silently she renewed the vow she had made to Dasaratha on his deathbed, Dasaratha who now lay embalmed in oil until his eldest son returned home to perform his funeral rites. Dasaratha who would lie thus until Deva knew when, for none of his four sons remained here to perform his rites any more. She missed him so much at this moment, as if a part of her own heart had been torn from her breast and embalmed with him. She would have to appeal to Bharat to return home to complete his father’s last rites at least. If he still remained steadfast, well, then … then under certain alleviating circumstances the scriptures did allow for a wife to perform the rites. My beloved Dasaratha, whatever happens, you will be given due honour, I promise you that.
And when all the rituals were done, and the official mourning period was over … what then? How would she go about the business of governing a kingdom without a king? Without even a prince-heir, or a prince? Bereft and begrieved as she was, could she bear this heavy burden? The raj-taru seemed to grow heavier by the second, bearing the weight of all of Kosala, in addition to her intimate grief. Yet she refused to yield to its pressing pull, steeling her arm to hold it firmly, strong and steady as her Kshatriya calling demanded.
The army waited for her next command. For she was all the authority that remained in Ayodhya now.
Steady, my queen.
The words were so gentle, so close, she did not have to turn her head to know it was Guru Vashishta who had spoken.
You hold not just the fate of a kingdom in your hands but also your legacy. Gather your strength and do what must be done. Fulfil your dharma.
She did not turn her head, for she was afraid that she would find that he stood not beside her, that the voice in her head was just that, a voice in her head. But how could the guru speak directly into her mind space? Then she remembered the shakti that Vashishta commanded. The shakti of Brahman; the power of belief manifested. And with that came flooding back the shakti of her own beliefs, her own bedrock of faith. Her arm gripped the raj-taru tighter, higher. Her chin rose, firm and without a quiver.
She remembered the words she had spoken. Rama will return and be crowned king of Ayodhya.
Even if she had to wait fourteen years to see that happen.
Rama will be king.
Slowly she raised the heavy sceptre as high as her hand would go. A sense of anticipation grew in the watching, waiting ranks. An elephant stamped its foot and raised its trunk, trumpeting once, commandingly.
She raised her voice to be heard all down the silent avenue, infusing her words with every ounce of strength and confidence she now felt. She spoke now not as a mother, or a queen, but as regent, wielder of the sceptre of power and heritage, upholder of dharma. She spoke now on behalf of Rama himself, the rightful ruler of Kosala.
‘Yuvraj Rama Chandra ki jai!’
Praised be the crown prince Rama Chandra.
The forces of Ayodhya echoed her words with all the energy and strength born of their grief and disappointment. The words were taken up by the citizenry next, echoing from the rooftops, the towers, the mansions, the hovels, the smallest hut and the largest palace. The echoes rang through the avenue, beyond its walls, rippling from marg to marg, house to house, neighbourhood to neighbourhood, across the seven walls and beyond them, to the farthest borders of the kingdom. And the words she did not speak aloud nevertheless rang out as clearly as the words of the guru spoken silently in her mind’s ear, filling every citizen with a sense of unwavering certainty.
Rama will return.
SEVENTEEN
Manthara stood in the Seer’s Tower, her arms held out to the wind and rain and elements. Her hair flew behind her, billowed by the powerful gusts of the stormy rain. It had been difficult getting up here. She had managed to stow away these past weeks somehow, hiding from the enraged citizens who sought to kill her for her role in Rama’s exile and Ayodhya’s misery.
Unexpectedly, the tantriks had come to her aid. Not all of them, just the few fringe ones who worshipped the older pagan gods, like the man who had helped her procure the Brahmin boys for her sacrifices – and whom she had killed for his part in her forbidden practices. The tantriks didn’t know that she was the murderer, of course; she had fooled everyone into believing that his death was the result of his attempt to blackmail one of the king’s concubines. To the tantriks, she was a celebrity. Just being thrown out of the palace had won her their eternal support: or so she’d thought. They had kept her hidden until now. But today, they had told her she had to leave. The captain of the palace guard, Drishti Kumar, had come by some information through the city spasas. A raid was expected at any time. That was how far their devotion to the old gods extended – only so far as it didn’t endanger their own precious hides. So they had turned her out as well, and with them she had lost her last allies. Where could she have gone next? Out of Ayodhya? To wander the countryside for ever, living in rags and picking at berries? She might have done that if she could. But with her distinctive appearance, even that option was denied her. A white-haired hunchback with a limp could hardly be missed. She would be stoned at the first village she passed, or speared by the first sudra hunter who laid eyes on her. To the tantriks Manthara was a celebrity; to the rest of the world she was a witch and a traitoress.
So she had come here. To play one final hand. Here, in this place of power, she would offer one last sacrificial rite, a final balidaan to the Dark Lord of Lanka. If Ravana yet lived, as she still fervently believed he did, then he must hear her plea. The Seer’s Tower was known for its ability to amplify prayers, shakti and supernatural force of any kind. Why not asura sorcery? So what if she no longer seemed to have the ability to cast even the simplest cloaking spell. She would do what she had done a hundred times before: cause herself untold pain as a means of showing Ravana how dearly she was devoted to his cause. And by doing it here, in this powerful place of magic, he would not be able to ignore her demonstration. He would come to her again, as he had before. And all would be well again. After all, she mused as she readied herself for the final sacrifice, she had carried out his plan with brilliant effectiveness. Rama was exiled, doomed to battle the rakshasas of Dandaka-van. He would barely survive the month, let alone fourteen long years. The Suryavansha family was broken, shattered to shards like a crystal goblet. So what if Rani Kausalya ruled as regent in Rama’s name?
If Ravana granted her shakti once more, Manthara would undo that as well. The fate of mortalkind hung by a thread. What Ravana himself could not accomplish with the largest asura invasion ever mounted, she had achieved with simple harem politics and shrewd deceptions. And now, with her master’s aid, she could finish the job
she had so well begun.
‘Hear me,’ she said aloud, removing a dagger from her waistband as she moved to the edge of the rampart, to the place where the stone floor ended and nothingness began. Far below her the lights of Ayodhya gleamed, subdued but still brighter than the lights of any other mortal city. ‘Hear me, my lord, hear the plea of one who has served you loyally and truly. Give me your shakti once more. Infuse me with your strength and let me serve you once again.’
And she slashed herself with the dagger. The blade bit deep and hard, drawing a gush of blood. Ah, lord, that hurts.
There was no answer. Only the wind, howling like a pack of wolves about her ears.
‘See my devotion, master,’ she called out, her words whipped away by the wind. ‘See how I suffer to serve you. Answer my plea. Give me your shakti again.’
Still no answer.
She cut herself again, a mortal wound this time. She staggered, barely able to remain upright. Somehow she managed to stay on her feet, her vitals a nest of fire-serpents gnawing and writhing. She put the last of her failing strength into one resounding wail of utter desolation.
‘HEAR ME, MASTER! SAVE ME! I GIVE MYSELF INTO YOUR HANDS.’
And then she jumped.
The night air was cool and pleasant on her face as she went down. Her blood gushed around her, flying up into the air, catching the bright lights of the city below, like a shower of rubies raining upwards to heaven. She fell towards the city.
Ravana! she cried out. My Lord, catch me!
There was still no reply.
The night receded into silent darkness around her, a black shroud falling over the universe entire. Her bowels gave way, her bladder lost control, her life-blood poured out of her gruesome wounds and was whipped away by the tearing wind, and then she was screaming wildly, knowing at last what she had not known all these years, seeing the truth beneath the pathetic ritualistic barbarism of her dark devotion, the skull beneath the skin of her foolish faith. She screamed, and for an instant, a sliver of a fraction of a second, she glimpsed the larger purpose behind it all, the great hand that moved the forces that moved those who thought they controlled all others. She glimpsed the face of Brahman itself, manifest and terribly physical. And for that brief flash of an instant, she knew all. And the knowing was more terrible than the ignorance that had shrouded her mercifully all her life. For complete knowledge cannot be contained within the constraints of a mortal mind, just as divine love will not be confined within the tiny sphere of a mortal heart. And in that penultimate moment, Manthara was given possession of both, complete knowledge and complete love. Love and knowledge, the most terrible of all burdens.
Then she struck the pavement three hundred yards below, and all knowledge, love, and life ended.
KAAND 3
ONE
Ravana.
The cries resounded through the ash-filled skies of Lanka. As the Pushpak moved smoothly above the ramparts and abutments of the fortress city, a million asura eyes turned skywards, gazing with fearful awe at the returning sky-chariot. Spirals of smoke rose desultorily from parts of the city where violence had erupted. The inter-species skirmishes and mini-battles that had begun breaking out even before Vibhisena had entered the volcano were still raging unchecked. They fell momentarily still as the shadow of the gliding Pushpak passed across them. To those below, the celestial vehicle must have made a compelling spectacle, its intricately designed structure gleaming burnished gold, silhouetted magnificently against the angry orange-red sky.
The volcano had ceased its eruption but the lava spewed out by its explosive spurts still flowed red-hot, winding its slow, sluggish way to the ocean. At the edge of the turbulent coast, flowing lava and raging sea met in a sizzling clash, exuding boiling gouts of ash-filled smoke that rose in thick, ominous coils. At the contact line of lava and brine, massive hundred-foot-high spouts of spray flew into the air like eruptions from a geyser. Steam roiled off this line of contact. The ocean was strewn with corpses of various species of asura killed by their rival species in the ongoing battle for control of Lanka. These corpses, as well as the carrion birds and sharks that fed greedily on them, floated on the incoming tide, igniting on contact with the lava. Many burst into flames. As Vibhisena glanced back, several carrion birds and a herd of shark writhed furiously in their death throes, burning black; their fellows feasted on their charring remains even before the flames could die out.
The odour that rose from this combination of toxic slag, volcanic smoke and asura offal would surely be life-threatening. Vibhisena turned his face away from the dark cloud through which they now flew, compelled by an instinctive urge to hold his breath, even though he knew full well that the Pushpak kept clean fresh air circulating for its passengers through its inscrutable mechanisms. As the cloud obscured the external view, he turned his head to glance at the figure seated within the central palanquin-like deck of the chariot.
The king of rakshasas sat exactly as he had been placed when extricated by Vibhisena’s Brahman shakti from the stone cage in which he had been imprisoned like a primordial insect in amber. He had not stirred or spoken a word since being freed. Vibhisena had thought it simple exhaustion at first. After all, it had taken an epic effort on Vibhisena’s part, and the application of all his knowledge, skill and physical strength, as well as the evocation of the natural forces of the volcano and the fumes and vapours exuded from the supernatural opening to the hell worlds. Vibhisena himself was exhausted by the time the deed was finally accomplished.
He took a moment to savour his accomplishment, even as a shadow of a doubt clouded his joy. Yes, Ravana was alive and whole, flesh and bone once more. He looked much the same as before, exactly as he had looked the day he left to invade the world of mortals. Vibhisena’s mind probed and swiftly returned the conclusion that, physically, the Ravana seated in the Pushpak before him was as healthy and robust as ever.
But other than that, he might as well be dead.
There was no similarity to the Ravana whom Vibhisena, and so many countless others, knew so well. This being that sat on the golden bench of the Pushpak a few yards from him, while outwardly identical in every way, was no more than a pale effigy of the Ravana that had been left to conquer Prithvi and subjugate all mortalkind. Strictly speaking, he was alive, if the action of a chest moving with the intake and output of breath alone could be taken as proof of life.
But simply living and breathing alone did not make Ravana Ravana.
The demonlord had not spoken a word since being freed from the Brahman cage. Not so much as one curse had left his leathery lips. His heads drooped inwards like wilting lilies, their faces blank and expressionless. All of the ten pairs of eyes were closed, even the central face slack-jawed and lifeless.
As he continued to observe his brother, Vibhisena felt a twinge of concern. Had he truly succeeded in resuscitating Ravana? Or had he only freed a wisp of shadow, fleshbound and alive only in its vital signs, a soulless walking corpse?
A piercing screel penetrated the dense smoky air, coming from somewhere high above. At the same time, the Pushpak was engulfed by a thick cloud of smoke and ash, partly the product of the volcano, partly the offal of some asura clash below. Vibhisena glanced skywards but saw only the blurry haze of the morning sky full of smoke and steam and ash. The sun was a miserable gold disc skulking in the east, obscured by the malicious fog that cloaked Lanka. The penetrating cry was repeated, and this time Vibhisena recognised the familiar pitch and tone of Jatayu. Like its earthbound asura colleagues below, the vulture king was expressing its agitation at the unexpected return of Ravana. There was more than a trace of acrimony in the cry. Ravana dead was better loved than Ravana alive, it seemed.
The Pushpak cleared the cloudbank, allowing a relatively more lucid view of the ground below, obscured only by twisting ribbons of smoke. Something had changed in the few moments that it had been hidden by the cloud. The sound of violence, suspended until now, seemed to have resumed with even g
reater ferocity than before. The naga and uraga quarters of the city were ablaze. Through the shifting curtain of smoke, Vibhisena glimpsed flashes of combat: metal weaponry glinting in the cold inhuman light, the glistening scales of striking serpent-demons, the ichor-splashed hoods of the enormous uragas battling their serpentine naga cousins.
Vibhisena shuddered as the sound of exultant roars and the terrible screams of victors and victims wafted upwards. The absence of any action or command from the Pushpak had been taken as a message of sorts by the feuding species below. Ravana would not have simply flown overhead and allowed such unbridled mutiny to go unchecked. The asuras of Lanka had tacitly decided that Vibhisena had failed in his task: from below they could not see the ten-headed figure seated silently in the Pushpak. They assumed their master was dead. Finally. And so the killing went on unabated.
But it will stop. I will find a way to make it stop, he promised himself. Perhaps in a way it is better that Ravana is so changed by the imprisonment; perhaps now I can bring peace to this tortured land at last.
He admonished himself guiltily for seeking gratification in his brother’s deathlike condition, but the thought persisted. Finally, the era of violence approaches an end. The bulk of Ravana’s blood-thirsty hordes had perished at Mithila, wiped out by the Brahm-astra. If these last few hundred thousand survivors decimated one another, so much the better. It would make his task that much easier for him. Now there would be a chance, however slight, to bring peace back to Lanka. And from the ashes and ruins of this new inter-species civil war, he would build a new Lanka. A Lanka pointed firmly towards peace and prosperity, and the pursuit of Brahman.
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