‘Even the word Vaashi is so appropriate, Dada. The sound of a blazing flame—isn’t that its original meaning? I doubt you can get more evocative than that.’
‘Hmm.’
Kumbhakarna touched his brother on the shoulder almost tentatively. ‘You know, they say grief and tragedy often bring out the best in an artist.’
Raavan looked at his brother in irritation. ‘And who are these “they”? Whoever they may be, they are morons! Nobody goes looking for tragedy. Nobody wants to experience grief just to be able to create art.’
Kumbhakarna realised his brother was not in the mood for this conversation. He tried to change the subject. ‘I am happy that work is consuming more and more of your time, Dada. Drowning oneself in work is the best way to push negative thoughts away.’
Raavan truly had been busy. Over the previous year and a half, he had leveraged his vast wealth and control over the only credible armed force in Lanka, to inveigle himself closer to the Lankan throne. Kubaer, the ruler of Lanka, had come to depend on him to provide security for his trading ships. Many other traders had taken to paying for the services of Raavan’s security forces. And since, unknown to most, Raavan controlled both the pirates and the militia, whenever someone hired his men for protection, the pirate attacks on their ships stopped. Raavan’s wealth and resources had grown exponentially, as had his clout and reputation. He was now on the verge of being formally appointed as the head of the Trading Security Force of Lanka. His plan was simple: to get his private militia appointed as the official Lankan Security Force. Not only would the cost of maintaining and arming his soldiers fall to the Lankan treasury, the soldiers would remain loyal to Raavan, even after their transfer. Over time, he would expand the force to make it as large and well-equipped as a regular army. An army trained to take on the Sapt Sindhu empire.
‘Yes,’ said Raavan. ‘Work is a good distraction.’
Kumbhakarna smiled, glad to get a few words out of his brother. But he wasn’t prepared for what came next.
‘This silly female notion maa has, that talking about problems can help one come to terms with grief, is utter nonsense. The masculine way is better. Drown yourself in work. Suppress the grief. Don’t think about it and don’t let it come out. Let it remain trapped in some deep, dark dungeon of your heart, even if it festers there. And when you are old and tired, have a nice fatal heart-attack, and it’s all over,’ Raavan finished.
Kumbhakarna thought it wise to not say anything. It was obvious. Let alone suppress his grief, Raavan remained crushed by it. He had thrown himself into work with the single-minded ambition of bringing the Sapt Sindhu down, but nothing seemed to give him pleasure anymore. Kumbhakarna had thought he would tactfully broach the suggestion his mother had made, of an early marriage. But perhaps this was not the right time to speak of it.
Kubaer looked extremely nervous. ‘Raavan, I am not sure it’s advisable to take on the most powerful empire in the world.’
Four years had passed since Vedavati’s death.
Kubaer and Raavan were in the Lankan ruler’s private office. Raavan and Kumbhakarna had moved to Sigiriya some time back, leaving their mother in Gokarna. As soon as he had been appointed head of Lanka’s Trading Security Force, Raavan had started making preparations to move closer to the Lankan throne. He had bought a huge mansion not far from Kubaer’s palace.
Since moving to the Lankan capital, Raavan had also started working on his plan to trigger a war against the Sapt Sindhu. He needed a plausible reason to provoke the empire into attacking the small island kingdom, and he knew what it could be. As a first step, he proposed reducing the share of the profits that the Sapt Sindhuans appropriated from cross-border trade. After months of persuasion, he had finally managed to engage Kubaer in a discussion on the matter. Kubaer, a prudent sixty-nine-year-old compared to Raavan’s impetuous twenty-six, was not a warrior; he was a businessman who valued pragmatism. He privileged profit over pride and thought caution was a necessary quality. His skill lay in charming and negotiating a beneficial deal, not inviting trouble.
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Why should we give up nine-tenths of our profits to the Sapt Sindhu?’ asked Raavan. ‘Why should we do all the hard work and let them take most of our money?’
‘We are not actually giving them ninety per cent, Raavan,’ said Kubaer with a sly smile. ‘Our accounts are creative. We overstate our costs. In actual fact, they don’t get more than seventy per cent.’
Raavan had already anticipated Kubaer’s comeback, but he decided to play along. He would not make the mistake of underestimating the chief-trader of Lanka, like the Sapt Sindhuans did, solely because of his physical appearance. Kubaer’s round, cherubic face and smooth complexion belied his advanced age. But he was so obese that he waddled ponderously, like a duck. He usually wore brightly coloured clothes; today, it was a shocking blue dhoti and a yellow angvastram, and his body was bedecked with ornate jewellery. His effeminate mannerisms and life of excess had made him an object of ridicule for the warrior class. But Raavan knew the effete exterior hid a sharp, ruthless mind, devoted to one cause alone: profit.
‘But even seventy per cent is too high!’ he countered.
‘Thirty per cent is good enough for me. I save a considerable part of it, while the Sapt Sindhu squanders away most of its share. So my wealth is greater than theirs. And do you know why they don’t save anything?’ Kubaer asked.
‘Forget about their savings, Great One. Why should we care about how much money Ayodhya or its subordinate kingdoms have? We should care about our own wealth. If we reduce their commissions, we will have more profit for ourselves.’
‘You didn’t answer my question. I’ll tell you why we have higher savings than they do, even though we earn less. It’s because the Sapt Sindhu wastes a lot of money on unnecessary wars. We don’t. War is bad for business, it’s bad for profits and wealth. If we reduce the commissions, they will certainly attack us. We will then be forced to mobilise our army and spend money, no, waste money, on a silly war. And that’s—’
Raavan interrupted Kubaer. ‘What if I agree to fund our war effort?’
Kubaer frowned with suspicion. ‘The entire war?’
‘Everything. You won’t have to spend a single coin. I’ll pay for it all.’
Kubaer had the natural mistrust of an astute trader for a deal that sounded too good to be true. Raavan, he knew, was too shrewd to do something only for glory. ‘And why, pray, would you help me at all?’ he asked.
‘Because you will then share half the increased commissions with me.’
Kubaer smiled. Any kind of selfish interest, he understood and respected. Experience had taught him that the best business deals were struck when both parties were honest about their own interests. ‘So, let me make sure I understand this. You can’t declare war without my approval. And you think this war will be profitable.’
‘Yes to both.’
‘But what guarantee is there of victory?’
‘None. But is there any guarantee that our ships will not sink in the sea when we send them out to trade? We estimate the probabilities and take the best bet. A calculated bet. We are traders. That’s what we do.’
‘All that is very well, but what if we lose?’
‘Then you should do the pragmatic thing.’
‘If we lose the battle,’ said Kubaer, choosing his words carefully, ‘the pragmatic thing would be to tell the Sapt Sindhuans that this was all your idea.’
‘You are right. That would indeed be the pragmatic thing to do. If we fail, let me take the blame. It’s my idea, after all. Keep yourself, and the other traders of Lanka, safe. But if we win, I get half the increased commissions.’
Kubaer smiled. ‘All right, Raavan. You will have your war. Just make sure I don’t make a loss. Nothing spoils my day like an unanticipated loss.’
‘Honourable One, have I ever let you down?’ Raavan asked with a smile.
Kumbhakarna was worried. ‘Dada, we may b
e over-reaching with this.… Are we biting off more than we can chew?’
The brothers were at home in Sigiriya, the capital of Lanka.
‘We are not, Kumbha,’ said Raavan. ‘We’ll bite it all. We’ll chew it all. We’ll digest it all.’
‘Dada, the Sapt Sindhu rulers do nothing except fight wars. We are traders. Our soldiers are essentially pirates. They fight for money, and money alone. If there is no profit in sight, they will abandon the battle. But the Sapt Sindhu soldiers actually celebrate “martyrdom” in battle. They die for bizarre causes like honour and glory. How are we supposed to defeat such morons?’
‘Through good tactics.’
‘I think you…’
‘No, I am not being overconfident.’
‘But even if we can defeat them, how are we going to turn a profit from it? The cost of the campaign will be too high.’
‘Don’t worry. Once we win, we will start taking ninety per cent of the profits, if not more.’
Kumbhakarna nearly choked on the wine he was drinking. ‘Ninety per cent! For us?’
Raavan frowned. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Dada, I don’t think we can enforce a treaty like that. It will be too much for the Sapt Sindhu kings to swallow. They will have no choice but to keep on fighting. The ensuing rebellions will destroy them, but they will wear us out too. And we simply don’t have enough soldiers to control all the Sapt Sindhu kingdoms and their people in peacetime.’
‘We’ll break their spirit in one major battle. Destroy their entire army. I am not interested in imposing our rules on their citizens, so where is the need to control them? We’ll only impose our trade conditions on them. And slowly suck them dry.’
‘But, Dada,’ said Kumbhakarna, ‘a commission this big will destroy the Sapt Sindhu economy over time. We would end up killing the golden goose that feeds us.’
Raavan’s expression gave little away as his eyes met Kumbhakarna’s.
‘Precisely,’ he said.
Burly soldiers rowed the large boat in quick strokes towards the shore. Raavan sat in front, his right hand on the gunwale. Kumbhakarna sat behind him, observing his flexed arms, the massive triceps that were visibly tense.
Dada is upset.
Raavan looked straight ahead, towards the Sapt Sindhu—the Land of the Seven Rivers.
Kumbhakarna looked to his left, at Kubaer’s boat being rowed rhythmically towards the shore by ten sailors.
It had only been a year since Raavan had convinced Kubaer to wage war against the Sapt Sindhu. Events had proceeded rapidly after that.
Within a matter of months, Raavan had mobilised and trained his army. He had also brought in mercenaries from around the world, promising them a rich share of the spoils.
Once the Lankan army was ready, Kubaer had sent an official communication to the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu, Dashrath. When his message reached Ayodhya, the capital city from where Dashrath ruled all the northern parts of the Indian subcontinent, it immediately set teeth on edge.
The old-elite royal families of the Sapt Sindhu, with their disdain for the trader-class Vaishyas, considered the effete Kubaer an upstart. They just about tolerated his existence. To receive a ‘royal communication’ from the trader-ruler of Lanka was seen as an affront. Traders were not supposed to send royal communications to emperors of ancient imperial dynasties. They were supposed to send humble, grovelling petitions. And as if that wasn’t outrageous enough, the demand to reduce the empire’s commissions on profits was seen as an intolerable insult to Kshatriya pride. Such a dishonour could not be stomached.
Dashrath had immediately rallied all of his subordinate kings across the land and mobilised an army. The plan was for his troops to march to Karachapa, one of Kubaer’s biggest trading hubs, on the west coast of the Sapt Sindhu. Dashrath planned to destroy the Karachapa fort and trading warehouses. He had assumed that this would be enough to bring Kubaer to his senses. If not, some of the other ports held by Kubaer would also be destroyed, and ultimately, Lanka itself would come under siege.
Raavan had anticipated that the Sapt Sindhuans would take exception to Kubaer’s message and march out to war immediately. His own troops were in a state of readiness. His specially designed ships, buffed with the enigmatic cave material, were prepared for battle. As soon as he received intelligence of the Sapt Sindhu army mobilising, and the direction of their march, the ships set sail, moving quickly up the western coast of peninsular India, to arrive at Karachapa.
There were too many ships in Raavan’s navy for even the massive Karachapa port to accommodate. Besides, Raavan knew the Sapt Sindhuans had spies within Karachapa and the last thing he wanted was to generate curiosity about the radically different designs of his ships. They were a part of his battle plan, his secret weapon. So most of the ships were anchored offshore.
Later in the day, Raavan and Kumbhakarna boarded a rowboat and headed up to the beach of Karachapa. The rowboat hit the sand with a lurch and four soldiers jumped off, into the shallow waters, and pulled the boat onto the beach. Raavan remained immobile. Looking straight ahead.
Kumbhakarna could feel his breath quickening. They were returning to the Sapt Sindhu after five years. The last time they were here, they had immersed Vedavati’s ashes in the holy Ganga.
It is said, and rightly, that whatever the memories associated with the past, every person’s heart beats faster when they return to the land of their roots. The pain of separation, and the joy of homecoming, are universal. And nothing can compare to the sheer relief of returning to the lap of your mother, the most comfortable place in the world.
Kumbhakarna jumped off as soon as the boat was out of the water. He bent down and picked up some wet sand, the soil of his motherland, and with great veneration, brought it to his forehead. He touched it to both his eyes and kissed it. As he placed the sand back on the ground with utmost respect, he whispered, ‘Jai Maa.’
Glory to the Mother.
He saw Raavan, who had gone slightly ahead of him, bend down to pick up some sand too. Kumbhakarna smiled.
Perhaps returning to the motherland has finally thawed his heart.
Kumbhakarna watched as Raavan brought his hand closer to his face and stared at the sand in it for what seemed like an eternity. He hesitated to go closer. Perhaps he should let his brother have this moment to himself.
He felt a vast sense of relief that the past was finally behind them. His elder brother had been through so much, raged against the world for so long, but it seemed he was finally ready to welcome some peace within. This war would be fought, of course. It had to be done. For profit. But, at least, returning to the motherland had alleviated some of Raavan’s deep-seated sorrow. Or so Kumbhakarna thought.
Raavan opened the palm that cradled the sand, bringing it closer to his mouth. Then, slowly, deliberately, he hawked and spat into it. His entire body seemed to convulse in rage as he flung the sand to the ground and crushed it under his foot.
‘Fuck this land.’
Chapter 19
‘Shouldn’t we be going over to their camp?’ asked Kubaer nervously.
Dashrath, the overlord of the Sapt Sindhu, had marched right across his sprawling empire, from Ayodhya, its capital, to Karachapa. Within just a few hours of his arrival, he had sent a terse message to Kubaer, summoning him for a discussion on the terms of ceasefire.
In the early years of his reign, Dashrath had built on the powerful legacy he had inherited from his father, Aja. Rulers in various parts of India had either been deposed or made to pay tribute and accept his suzerainty, thus making Dashrath the Chakravarti Samrat, or the Universal Emperor.
‘We are not going to his camp, noble Chief-Trader,’ replied Raavan, trying hard to keep his irritation in check. ‘The Ayodhyan will see it as our weakness. If we have to meet, it has to be on neutral ground—neither their camp, nor ours.’
‘But… ’
‘No buts. We have come to fight, not to surrender.’
Raavan�
��s approach had been clear from the start. Over the last week, he had ordered his troops to destroy all the villages in a fifty-kilometre radius around Karachapa. Standing crops had been burnt down. Harvested grain and livestock had been confiscated and commandeered as food for the Lankan soldiers. Wells had been poisoned with the carcasses of dead animals.
A scorched earth policy.
The Lankan army would be well fed and rested within the Karachapa walls. However, the Sapt Sindhu army, camped outside the city, would find it difficult to feed their five hundred thousand soldiers, given the ravaged countryside. Their numerical advantage would turn into a liability.
‘But what if Emperor Dashrath doesn’t retreat despite the food shortage?’ asked Kubaer, anxiously. ‘What if he attacks immediately?’
Raavan smiled. ‘I am counting on you, great Chief-Trader, to provoke Dashrath to do precisely that. I will take care of the rest.’
‘Emperor Dashrath,’ corrected Kubaer.
Raavan preferred to speak only the man’s name. No unnecessary respect towards an enemy. ‘Just Dashrath,’ he said quietly.
Dashrath was in no mood for extended parleys.
‘I order you to restore our commission to the very fair nine-tenths of your profits and, in return, I assure you I will let you live,’ he said firmly.
After exchanging some terse messages, the adversaries had finally decided to meet on neutral ground. The chosen site was a beach, midway between Dashrath’s military camp and the Karachapa fort. The emperor was accompanied by his father-in-law King Ashwapati, his general Mrigasya and a bodyguard platoon of twenty soldiers. Kubaer had arrived with Raavan and twenty bodyguards.
The Sapt Sindhu warriors could scarcely conceal their contempt as the obese Kubaer waddled laboriously into the tent. The chief trader had disregarded Raavan’s advice to wear sober clothes and had dressed, instead, in a bright green dhoti and a pink angvastram. The jewellery he wore was flashier than usual. He had reasoned that a display of his fine taste would earn him the appreciation of the Sapt Sindhu leaders. What it did was to convince his opponents that they were dealing with an effete Vaishya; a peacock who knew little of warfare.
Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Page 18
