The Sapt Sindhuans were now battling at both ends—at the frontlines against Raavan’s soldiers at the Karachapa fort walls, and at the rear, with the unexpected attackers from the ships, led by Kumbhakarna.
The trained instinct of a skilled warrior seemed to warn Dashrath that something terrible was ensuing at the rear guard. As he strained to look beyond the sea of battling humanity, he detected a sudden movement to his left and raised his shield just in time to block a vicious blow from a Lankan soldier. With a ferocious roar, the king of Ayodhya swung brutally at his attacker, his sword slicing through a chink in the armour. The Lankan fell back, as his abdomen was ripped open and blood spurted out, accompanied by slick pink intestines that tumbled out in a rush. Dashrath turned away and looked behind him, to his troops in the rear formations.
‘No!’ he yelled.
A scenario he had never foreseen was playing out in front of his eyes. Caught in the vicious pincer attack of the archers and the foot soldiers at the fort walls in front, and the fierce Lankan cavalry from the beached ships at the back, the spirit of his all-conquering army was collapsing rapidly. Dashrath stared in disbelief as some of his men broke ranks and began to retreat.
‘No!’ he thundered. ‘Fight! Fight! We are Ayodhya! The Unconquerables!’
Meanwhile, with everything going exactly as he had expected, Raavan kicked his horse into a canter and led some of his men down the beach on the left, skirting the sea. It was the only flank that was open to counter-attack by the Ayodhyans. Accompanied by his well-trained cavalry, Raavan hacked his way through the outer infantry lines before they could regroup. He had to hold his position at the fort walls while Kumbhakarna massacred the rear lines.
Raavan wasn’t interested in killing Dashrath. That didn’t matter at this point. His focus was on victory. And to achieve that, he had to break this last remaining holdout of the Ayodhyans.
Slowly but surely, hemmed in by the soldiers at the fort walls, the attackers led by Kumbhakarna at the rear, and the crushing attack by Raavan’s men along the flanks, Dashrath’s army fell into disarray. Panic set in among the ranks. And before long, a full disorderly retreat began.
This was not a battle anymore. It was a massacre.
But Raavan did not stop. He did not order a ceasefire. He did not allow his troops to show mercy.
His orders were clear and he shouted them aloud: ‘Kill them all! No mercy! Kill them all!’
And his soldiers obeyed.
Chapter 20
Raavan tapped his empty wine goblet reflectively. An attendant at the other end of the chamber began making his way forward, but slowed as he noticed Kumbhakarna rising from his seat to attend to his brother.
Kumbhakarna refilled the goblet before pouring some wine for himself. Then he looked up and signalled to the attendant to leave. The man saluted and withdrew from the room.
It had been five months since the rout of the Sapt Sindhu army in the Battle of Karachapa. Dashrath had barely survived, saved by the bravery of his second wife, Kaikeyi, the daughter of the king of Kekaya, Ashwapati.
‘Do you think we should have killed the emperor?’ asked Kumbhakarna, taking a sip of wine and settling back in his comfortable chair.
‘I did consider it,’ said Raavan, shaking his head. ‘But I think it’s better this way. A quick death on the battlefield would have been a blessing for him. The humiliation of the defeat will extinguish his spirit little by little. The military failure, and the treaty we have imposed, will destroy his mental peace. With an unstable and insecure leader, the morale of the Sapt Sindhu is unlikely to recover. They are not going to give us any trouble as we slowly squeeze the empire dry. If we had killed Dashrath, we would have turned him into a martyr. And martyrs can be dangerous. They can trigger rebellions.’
‘So you think the bravery of Queen Kaikeyi has actually helped us.’
‘She wasn’t trying to help us, she was only trying to save her husband. But she is a brave woman. And I have no doubt she will be treated poorly by her ungrateful subjects. They don’t know how to honour their heroes.’
‘Apparently, Emperor Dashrath and his first queen Kaushalya were blessed with a son the day we defeated him in Karachapa. They call him Ram.’
‘After the Vishnu?’ asked Raavan, laughing softly in derision. Ram was the birth name of the sixth Vishnu, more commonly known as Parshu Ram. ‘They must have high expectations of that baby!’
‘The funny thing is, they blame the poor child for their defeat in Karachapa. Apparently, he brought them bad luck.’
‘So our victory had nothing to do with my brilliant war strategies? It was all because some queen went into labour at the same time?!’ Raavan laughed.
Kumbhakarna grinned back at him.
‘You should laugh more often, Dada,’ he said. ‘Vedavatiji would have liked you to.’
‘Stop telling me that again and again.’
‘But it’s the truth.’
‘How do you know it’s the truth? Did her soul come and inform you?’
Kumbhakarna shook his head. ‘Dada, you will not be healed till you are able to think of her with a smile on your face. If you feel sadness and anger each time you remember her, you’ll turn a beautiful memory into poison. It’s been so many years. You have to learn to move on.’
‘Are you saying I should forget how she died? That I should live in a state of foolish oblivion?’ Raavan snapped.
Kumbhakarna remained calm. ‘I did not say that. How is it possible for us to forget how she died? But that’s not the only memory of her we have, right? It’s one of the many memories she left behind. Spend time with those other memories too. The happy times you had with her. Then you will not drown in sadness whenever you think of her.’
‘Maybe I like the sadness. It comforts me.’
‘If you spend enough time with anything, you start liking it, even sadness.’
Raavan shook his head. Clearly, there was to be no more conversation on the subject.
Kumbhakarna fell silent.
‘Anyway, when is the first instalment of the war reparations reaching Sigiriya?’ asked Raavan.
‘In a few weeks, Dada. In a few weeks, Lanka will go from merely rich to fantastically wealthy. Perhaps the wealthiest kingdom in the world.’
Before the Battle of Karachapa, Lanka was entitled to retain only ten per cent of the profits from its trade with the Sapt Sindhu. Ninety per cent belonged to Ayodhya, the representative of the empire. Ayodhya would, in turn, share this commission with its subordinate kingdoms. After the battle, Raavan had unilaterally slashed Ayodhya’s commission to just nine per cent, keeping the rest for Lanka. In addition, he had drastically reduced the prices of all manufactured goods purchased from the Sapt Sindhu. If that wasn’t enough, he had also ordered Ayodhya to return, with retrospective effect, the surplus amount that the kingdoms had been paid over the previous three years, going by the new calculation—as war reparations. Raavan knew that this sweeping reduction in commissions would pauperise the empire over time, while making Lanka extremely prosperous. Of course, since he was going to keep half the increased Lankan profits, he would soon be stupendously rich as well. And powerful.
‘What next, Dada?’ asked Kumbhakarna.
Raavan walked over to a large window in the chamber and looked out at the verdant gardens beyond. His mansion in Sigiriya was a short distance from the giant monolithic rock that housed the palace of Kubaer—chief-trader of Lanka and the richest man in the world.
Kubaer may not have known too much about warfare, but he did understand the need to protect his immense wealth. Over the last few decades, he had vastly improved the defensive systems of the city. Sigiriya was surrounded by rolling boulder-strewn hills. Each of the tall boulders had structures built on their flat tops, to house soldiers who could fight off any trespassers from an unassailable height. This was in addition to the sturdy walls and moats that surrounded the city.
But Kubaer did not concern himself only with sec
urity. Despite his garish taste in clothes and jewellery, he had a surprisingly fine eye for architecture. And he had turned what was already an achingly beautiful city into a truly exquisite symbol of grace and elegance.
The city, built on a large plateau, was adorned with stunning gardens and public walkways. Beautifully landscaped lawns, irrigated by waterways and underground channels, dotted the outskirts, while tall, evergreen trees spread their branches on either side of the main roads. Even the many boulders within the city had been incorporated into what the Sigiriyans called boulder gardens, with intricate fountains adding to their grace and beauty. There were tastefully designed halls for public functions, libraries, amphitheatres, lakes for boating, and everything else that was required for civilised living. Lanka was a part of the larger Vedic world and many temples to different Vedic Gods graced various parts of the city. The largest of the temples, of course, was dedicated to Lord Parshu Ram, the sixth Vishnu and the founder of the Malayaputra tribe. This temple had been built and consecrated by the great Rishi Vishwamitra himself.
Raavan, however, was not swayed by all of Sigiriya’s fineries. His attention was focused on the monolith called Lion’s Rock, which rose a sheer two hundred metres from the surrounding countryside. The city was named after this rock; Sigiriya harked back to the Sanskrit Sinhagiri or Lion’s Hill. At the top of the monolith was the massive palace of Kubaer. It represented the triumph of human imagination over nature’s bounty. Colossal, and yet delicately refined.
At the base of the monolith were roughly concentric terraced gardens that showcased the skilful use of water-proofed brick walls. Each of these gardens rose a little higher than the one next to it, and a winding road led up to the rock, through lush parks speckled with fountains. The pathway from the northern side led up to one of the most stunning architectural achievements of Sigiriya: The Lion Gate.
The Lion Gate was called so because there actually was a gargantuan lion’s head carved high above the entrance. The gate stood between the lion’s two front paws, each the height of an average man, while the massive head reared up, visible to all the citizens of Sigiriya from far and wide. The monolith itself was shaped like the body of a colossal lion, seated in regal splendour, its head surveying its territory from high above.
It was a magnificent sight.
On top of the monolith, across an area spread over two square kilometres, stood the massive palace complex of Kubaer, complete with pools, gardens, private chambers, courts, offices, and unimaginable luxuries designed to please the richest man in the world.
‘What is next is that we take control of that,’ said Raavan, pointing towards Lion’s Rock.
‘What!’ Kumbhakarna couldn’t conceal his shock. ‘Isn’t it too early to get rid of Kubaer, Dada? We are still not strong enough and…’
Raavan frowned. ‘Not that,’ he clarified. ‘That.’
Kumbhakarna followed the pointing finger more closely this time. Raavan was pointing towards Lion’s Rock, but not at Kubaer’s palace. The steps going up from the Lion Gate led to a mid-level terrace, about one hundred metres lower than the top of the monolith. The pathway carved into the rock and leading to the terrace had a wall alongside it that was made of evenly cut bricks covered with polished white plaster. So highly polished that anyone walking by could see their reflection in it. It was called, rather unimaginatively, the Mirror Wall. Beyond the Mirror Wall, the rock was designed to look like a cloth saddle for the massive lion that the monolith represented. The saddle was covered with gorgeous frescoes depicting beautiful women. Nobody knew who these figures represented. They had been painted during Trishanku Kaashyap’s time, and had been lovingly maintained. Beyond the frescoes, the pathway led to the lower-level palaces, behind lavish gardens, ponds, moats and ramparts which protected the upper-citadel, where Kubaer’s personal palace stood.
It was these lower-level palaces that Raavan was pointing at.
‘Meghdoot?’ asked Kumbhakarna.
The lower-level palaces housed some of the concubines and younger wives of Kubaer. But one of these palaces was the home of Meghdoot, the prime minister, who was in charge of revenues, taxes, Customs and general administration. Raavan, being the general in command of the Lankan army and the police was, effectively, the head of all the muscle power. Meghdoot was head of all the money. Together, they ran the kingdom for Kubaer. If Raavan were to add Meghdoot’s portfolio to his own, he would effectively have more power than the chief-trader. After that, replacing him would only be a matter of time. A soft coup.
Kumbhakarna was careful with his words, even though they were alone. ‘You do realise that we would have to—’
‘Yes, I do,’ interrupted Raavan. ‘But it must look like an accident. Otherwise it will be difficult for me to take over.’
‘Hmm…’
‘It’s a difficult task. We can’t have a thug do it. We need an artist.’
‘I’ll find someone,’ Kumbhakarna said thoughtfully.
It had been a month since Raavan had ordered the assassination of Meghdoot, the prime minister of Lanka, but Kumbhakarna had been unable to find a way forward. He had finally turned to their uncle for help. And today, Mareech had informed him that the man for the job had been found.
Eager to update his brother with this news, Kumbhakarna went looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Finally, he went down to the secret chamber hidden away in the deep interiors of the palace. No one apart from the two brothers was permitted entry here, just like in Raavan’s private chamber in Gokarna.
As soon as he walked in, Kumbhakarna turned and locked the door behind him. A single torch had been lit. His brother was inside.
The first thing he saw in the semi-darkness was a gold-plated Raavanhatha. It lay on the ground, broken, its strings ripped apart. In the deathly quiet of the chamber, he thought he heard the sound of someone crying.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Kumbhakarna saw Raavan slumped on a tall wooden stool, his back to the door. His head was in his hands and his entire body shook as he cried. Deep, anguished sobs wrenched from the depths of sorrow and despair.
In front of Raavan stood an easel. On it, a vaguely familiar image had been scratched out with rough, angry strokes that nearly concealed its outlines. It took a moment for Kumbhakarna to decode the drawing, but then he saw that it was an unfinished profile of Vedavati. Pregnant, her form full and voluptuous. The outlines sketched and ready for the colours to be filled in. The eyes were half drawn—and that’s where Raavan seemed to have given up.
Kumbhakarna knew that Raavan had stopped painting Vedavati since that day of the gruesome killings. Until then, she had grown older in his imagination, gradually, year after year. And he had been able to see her in his mind’s eye, in fine detail, almost as though she stood beside him while he painted. But after her death, the will to paint had died too, and now, when he sought to capture her on canvas again, it seemed that the blessing, the power of creative vision, had vanished.
Kumbhakarna was aware that even he couldn’t fully comprehend the rage and resentment his brother felt. Only an artist can understand the despair of being abandoned by his muse, his lifelong inspiration. Only someone who has loved can know the immeasurable agony of losing the object of one’s passion. Only a devout believer who has touched the Divine can know the soul-emptying misery of his Goddess being taken from him.
Kumbhakarna walked over to Raavan quietly.
He knelt beside his elder brother and put an arm around him. Raavan turned and buried his face in his brother’s shoulder, weeping as though nothing could comfort him again, ever.
They held each other for a long while, not saying anything. Their shared grief drowned everything else out—all thoughts, all words.
It was Raavan who broke the silence. ‘I need control… of Lanka… quickly.’
‘Yes, Dada.’
‘I need to destroy… I need to… those bastards… Sapt Sindhu… destroy completely…’
Kumbh
akarna remained silent.
Raavan controlled himself with some effort, then said, ‘Get me that assassin.’
‘Yes, Dada.’
‘Quickly.’
‘Yes, I will.’
When you fill a clogged drain with more water than it can hold, it’s bound to overflow and contaminate everything around it. When grief overwhelms someone, when they are enraged at what fate has done to them, their fury often overflows and is inflicted upon the world.
That’s the only way in which they can cope with their own life—a life that holds no meaning anymore.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Raavan, his expression quizzical.
Raavan and Kumbhakarna had travelled to Gokarna for this meeting. They didn’t want to risk anyone in Sigiriya getting even a whiff of their plan.
Mareech and Akampana had just entered the house through a side entrance, hidden from view. They were accompanied by a young, wiry man.
Mareech said to Raavan, his voice soft but confident, ‘Trust me. I have seen some of his work myself. He is exceptional. Right up there with the Vishkanyas.’
The Vishkanyas, or poison-bearing women, were renowned assassins. They were raised from a very young age to be killers, with small doses of poison being administered to them daily. Eventually they became immune to the poison. But even a kiss from them was known to be fatal. And if their poison didn’t get you, their weapons would. They were the deadliest killers the world had ever known.
‘Right up there with the Vishkanyas?’ Kumbhakarna did not try to hide his scepticism, as he looked at the man who stood next to Akampana. ‘Really, Uncle, there has to be some limit to exaggeration.’
Mareech looked at the potential assassin. He could see why they did not think much of him. Of small build, with long curly hair and dimples on both cheeks, he exuded a genial charm. There was not a scar in sight. More than a cold-blooded assassin, he looked like a no-good philanderer who knew only how to seduce women.
Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Page 20
