Raavan looked down, deep in thought. His right hand instinctively reached for the pendant around his neck.
Kumbhakarna moved to kneel beside his brother. ‘Dada, you have to punish Prahast. We cannot allow adharma like this. An example has to be set.’
Raavan remained silent for some time before looking up at Kumbhakarna.
‘Dada?’
‘Yes, an example has to be set,’ Raavan said. ‘So, here’s what we will do. Prahast will be transferred. The wealth he looted from Mumbadevi will be confiscated and added to the Lankan treasury. And we will send out raiding parties after the deserters. A few of them will have to be publicly executed.’
Kumbhakarna looked at his brother in shock.
‘Kumbhakarna, I agree with you. Prahast overdid it. But we cannot remove him from the army. We are hated by most of the world. We need his ruthlessness on our side. Also, we simply cannot allow desertions. It would destroy our army. We don’t have to go after them all, that would take too much effort. We just need to find a reasonable number, maybe one or two hundred of the deserters. And execute them. That should serve as a warning for the rest.’
‘Dada… but…’
‘Do it, Kumbha,’ said Raavan, the tone of his voice brooking no further disagreement.
The king of Lanka turned towards the door and clapped his hands. The dancers came rushing back in, some of them removing their blouses as they ran. Kumbhakarna knew that the meeting was over.
Chapter 23
Eleven years after the Battle of Karachapa, Lanka’s domination of global trade was complete. Not only had Raavan’s personal wealth grown beyond measure, but he had transformed the small island kingdom into a world power. The heavy taxes levied on the Sapt Sindhu were bleeding the Land of the Seven Rivers dry, but even in its vastly reduced state, it remained wealthy. There was plenty for Lanka to continue to extract from.
Lanka by now had absolute control over the trade routes and every major port in the Indian Ocean. Consequently, it dominated the flow of trade across the world. The kingdom glittered with riches and had come to be known as Golden Lanka—with zero taxes, heavily subsidised living, free healthcare and education, twenty-four-hour water supply to homes through lead pipes, sprawling public gardens, sports stadiums, concert halls, and so on. There were no poor people in Raavan’s Lanka.
Raavan himself, now thirty-eight, had acquired a God-like status in the kingdom. People had begun to worship his likeness in a few temples that had come up over the past year. Only his mother Kaikesi dared to oppose this deification: she had publicly declared that Raavan was dishonouring the ancient Vedic ways by encouraging such worship while he was still alive.
On the personal front, too, things had changed for Raavan. He had finally given in to Kumbhakarna’s persuasions and taken a bride. Mandodari was the pious and beautiful daughter of a minor noble called Maya, who was the landlord of two small but prosperous villages in central India. Unfortunately, it soon became clear to her and to others around them, that Raavan had only married her to spite the land he professed to hate. As though he wanted the great empire of the Sapt Sindhu to acknowledge that he had the power not only to defeat their armies and seize their wealth, but to take away their women too. The only positive consequence of the ill-fated union was the birth of a son, Indrajit, whom Raavan truly loved.
The twenty-nine-year-old Kumbhakarna, meanwhile, had become increasingly melancholic. He cherished his brother but was unhappy about some of the things that he was forced to do because of his unwavering loyalty to him. Torn between his love for his brother and a desire to follow his dharma, he had begun to look for excuses to escape Lanka as often as he could. He travelled far and wide, sometimes on trade missions and negotiations, and other times on military expeditions, to put down the menace of piracy on the high seas. He grasped at any legitimate reason to stay away from Sigiriya.
It was on one such trip that Kumbhakarna found himself in the Ethiopian kingdom of Damat, a long-standing ally of Lanka. For as long as anyone could remember, trade between the West and India had flourished via the Western Sea, access to which was through the narrow Mandab strait in the Red Sea or the strait of Hormuz in the Persian Gulf, also called Jam Zrayangh by the locals. Any Egyptian or Mesopotamian trading ship had to enter the Western Sea at either of these points before sailing on to India. In a master stroke, Raavan had conquered the ports of Djibouti and Dubai, which controlled the two straits. Now, ships from Damat and other kingdoms that lay further west had to pay heavy Customs duties at either of these two ports to enter the Western Sea and the main Indian Ocean trade routes.
Kumbhakarna was in the kingdom to meet its ruler and fix the trade quotas and Customs duties for the next year. After the meetings were done, he had decided to stroll around the markets of the city of Yaha-Aksum, the capital of Damat. With just a day to spare before he left for Lanka, there wasn’t enough time to explore all the sights and sounds of this beautiful city he was visiting for the first time.
Suddenly, a familiar sound caught his attention—a drumbeat that he did not expect to hear so far from home.
Dhoom-Dhoom-danaa-Dhoom-Dhoom-danaa.
Dhoom-Dhoom-danaa-Dhoom-Dhoom-danaa.
He started walking in the direction of the sound, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
Dhoom-Dhoom-danaa-Dhoom-Dhoom-danaa.
A few minutes later, he found himself in front of a graceful stone structure that looked unexpectedly like an Indian temple—a large platform made of red sandstone at ground level and a spire shooting high up into the sky, like a namaste to the Gods. The outer walls were decorated with beautifully sculpted figures of celestial nymphs, rishis, rishikas, kings and queens, all of whom were dressed Indian-style. The only difference was that their faces were distinctly African.
Kumbhakarna had met a few people from the African continent who had settled in India. He also knew of some rishis and rishikas who were originally from Africa. However, nothing had prepared him for a temple dedicated to Lord Rudra in the heart of Yaha-Aksum.
As he entered the temple, the drumbeats grew louder.
Dhoom-Dhoom-danaa-Dhoom-Dhoom-danaa.
Large stands were placed at different points in the main temple hall, before the sanctum sanctorum. On each of these stands were placed three massive drums, in a row. Tall muscular men, holding long drumsticks, stood on the sides, beating the drums rhythmically. The temple compound was filled with people dancing. A dance of sheer, ecstatic abandon.
The mood was electric, and it instantly infected Kumbhakarna. His body began to move of its own volition, and soon he was dancing as well. The booming ecstasy of Lord Rudra’s music filled his mind and soul.
As the beat picked up pace, the dancing grew frenzied. The temple compound was alive with the raw energy of Lord Rudra’s devotees. Gradually, the tempo built up till it reached a crescendo and ended with a loud triumphant cry of ‘Jai Shri Rudra!’
Kumbhakarna raised his voice in ecstasy to join the call to the Lord.
Glory to Lord Rudra!
‘Jai Devi Ishtar!’
Glory to Goddess Ishtar!
Kumbhakarna looked around at the happy faces around him, sweaty from the exuberant dancing. Some had tears of happiness flowing down their cheeks. Some were still in a trance. Strangers hugged, wishing each other well. Kumbhakarna too was embraced. No one seemed to notice that he had deformities, that he was a Naga.
‘What brings you here, Kumbhakarna?’
Kumbhakarna turned to see a tall, distinguished-looking man with unblemished chocolate-coloured skin. While his features made it plain that he was a local from Damat, he was dressed in a saffron dhoti and angvastram, the colour of detachment and monkhood. A knotted tuft of hair at the top of his shaven head announced that he was a Brahmin. A flowing salt-and-pepper beard softened his face, and despite his imposing physical presence, he conveyed an impression of tranquillity, with his calm, gentle eyes. He was clearly a man at peace with himself.
K
umbhakarna frowned. ‘I’ve seen you before.’
The Brahmin smiled and nodded.
‘Yesterday, at the court?’
‘Right,’ said the man. ‘I was standing at the back. You are observant.’
‘I tend to notice important people,’ said Kumbhakarna, smiling politely and folding his hands in a respectful namaste. ‘But I didn’t know you are a fellow devotee of Lord Rudra. What is your name, my friend?’
The man smiled and responded with a namaste. ‘You can call me M’Bakur, my friend.’
‘M’Bakur?’ Kumbhakarna was surprised. ‘Do you know, there’s an old Sanskrit word called Bakur—it means a war trumpet.’
‘I do. And, in our language, when we add the sound M to it, it means a great war trumpet.’
Kumbhakarna smiled broadly. ‘Great name. But you seem to be a man of peace.’
‘I’ve had enough of war. And I have the scars to prove it.’
‘So the mighty sword has been put down in favour of temple drums?’
M’Bakur laughed softly. ‘Dancing is much more fun than fighting, wouldn’t you agree?’
Kumbhakarna laughed too, and nodded.
‘I had my reasons for becoming a temple priest,’ said M’Bakur. ‘What is your reason for being a trade negotiator when your heart is clearly not in it?’
‘Excuse me? Are you telling me I am not good at it?’ Kumbhakarna was not sure whether to take offense.
‘I didn’t say that. I just said your heart isn’t in it. I watched the negotiations yesterday. I was surprised. You could have asked for better terms. You left too much on the table for us.’
Kumbhakarna remained silent.
‘It seemed to me that you were compensating for something. Overcompensating, perhaps. Like helping us would take some load off your mind.’
Kumbhakarna looked around. The temple had largely cleared out. Most of the devotees had left. He looked back at M’Bakur. ‘Who are you?’
‘Sit with me, my friend,’ said M’Bakur in a gentle voice.
They sat in the main temple hall, resting their backs against the pillars. Kumbhakarna looked towards the sanctum sanctorum in the distance. It housed a life-size idol of Lord Rudra: a tall, muscular figure with long, open hair and a flowing beard.
Lord Rudra, as he had been in real life—magnificent and fearsome.
Kumbhakarna folded his hands together and bowed in deep reverence, as did M’Bakur.
The idol of a Goddess placed to the right side of Lord Rudra was nearly as tall as the Lord himself. The serene face had African features, though the body was dressed in an Indian-style dhoti, blouse and angvastram. An egg in the left hand and a long sword in the right identified her as the Goddess of Love and War. Kumbhakarna and M’Bakur bowed to the idol of Lady Ishtar as well.
The Lankan asked once again, ‘Who are you?’
‘Someone who can help you,’ answered M’Bakur.
‘Who says I need help?’
‘Not everything needs to be said. When you see someone attempting to harm themselves, it is evident that they need help. But I guess you’re wondering if you can trust me…’
Kumbhakarna remained silent.
M’Bakur bowed forward and whispered, ‘I am a friend of Hanuman.’
Kumbhakarna looked at him, startled. Hanuman was a member of the legendary Vayuputra tribe. A gentle giant with a heart of gold, he was always on hand to help anyone in need. He had saved Kumbhakarna’s life once, a long time ago. But he had extracted a promise from him never to speak of it, and Kumbhakarna had honoured that promise. However, he had remained forever grateful to Hanuman, and had always looked for an opportunity to repay that debt.
Any friend of Hanuman’s was a friend of his.
‘Are you a Vayuputra?’ asked Kumbhakarna.
M’Bakur nodded. Yes.
‘And you don’t hate me?’
M’Bakur laughed softly. ‘Why should I hate you?’
‘I mean…’ Kumbhakarna sighed. ‘I am…’
‘Go on.’
‘Look, you are from the divine Vayuputra tribe. The tribe left behind by Lord Rudra. You are tasked with protecting the holy land of India. And I am the brother of the man who is destroying India.’
‘Destroying India! Really?’ asked M’Bakur, his eyes widening in mirth. ‘Do you think your brother is all that powerful?’
Kumbhakarna was nonplussed. He was used to people speaking of his brother in exalted tones. He had never heard someone question his power or the extent of his influence. ‘What? I don’t understand.’
M’Bakur smiled. ‘Tell me, how do you feel about someone destroying India?’
‘It’s… it’s my land. I love my motherland.’
‘And is your motherland so weak that one man can destroy it? Or, let me put it another way. If a land is so fragile that a single man can destroy it, does it even deserve to survive?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Have you heard of Matsya Nyay?’
‘Who hasn’t? The bigger fish will always eat the smaller fish. I suppose you could call it the law of the fish.’
‘You do know the law does not just apply to fish, right?’
Kumbhakarna laughed. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘It’s about the law of Mother Nature. The survival of the fittest.’
‘Yes, and it’s a cruel law. That’s why we’ve moved away from it. We don’t kill those who are weaker than us. We protect them.’
‘That is the human code of conduct, but nature doesn’t work that way. Cruelty and kindness are human concepts. Nature prioritises balance. And balance sometimes calls for tough love.’
‘Tough love?’
‘There’s love that weakens you, and then there’s love that prepares you for what lies ahead. Sometimes that love may appear tough, but it’s necessary. If you are a parent who is only concerned with the here and now, you will give your child whatever she wants, because you want to see a smile on her face. But if you are a parent thinking of your child’s future, you will realise that spoiling your child is the worst thing you can do.’
‘Yes, but if you are too tough, the child will break.’
M’Bakur smiled. ‘And that is the difference between nature and us. Mother Nature doesn’t keep track all the time, she lets the laws of survival take over. And yes, sometimes the weak break and go extinct. But human beings are different. We can think and… well, we can keep track. We can modulate the tough love to the right level; tough enough to strengthen, but not so tough as to break.’
‘What does this have to do with my brother, or me?’
‘Have you ever stopped to consider whether, like the play of Mother Nature, there are some larger forces controlling our lives too? That possibly, your brother is a puppet in the hands of such a force?’
Kumbhakarna was too surprised to answer.
M’Bakur changed tack suddenly. ‘Have you ever seen forest fires?’
‘I have.’
‘Are they good or bad?’
‘It depends.’
‘Depends on what?’
‘Depends on whether the fire is controlled or uncontrolled.’
‘Exactly. A controlled forest fire removes all the deadwood; deadwood, beyond a point, can turn toxic and destroy the forest. If small, controlled forest fires are not used to clear the ground, the chances of a massive, uncontrolled fire breaking out would increase. And an uncontrolled forest fire could destroy everything. That’s not good, right?’
‘That’s not good at all.’
‘Exactly. So a small forest fire is like using a small poison to kill a bigger poison.’
Kumbhakarna stiffened. ‘My brother is not a poison.’
M’Bakur smiled. He didn’t answer. He didn’t apologise either.
Kumbhakarna got up, ready to leave.
‘We haven’t finished,’ said M’Bakur.
‘What makes you think you are so much better than my brother?’ Kumbhakarna asked, sitting down again. ‘To me,
your casual acceptance of people suffering for some apparent “long-term good” seems as wrong as what my brother does.’
‘You know, from Mother Nature’s perspective, the opposite of right is not wrong, it’s left.’
‘That’s just sophistry. What the hell do you mean?’
‘I mean that there is no one right way, no ideal solution. The world usually suffers most at the hands of those who believe in perfection, those who don’t realise that there is no one ideal. The truly wise, however, realise that you can only look for an optimal solution, not an ideal solution. A solution that could help most people is worth pursuing. Because there can’t be a solution that will help all people. India is suffering because the Kshatriyas have become all-powerful, and in their arrogance, they have been oppressing the Shudras and the Vaishyas. We need to break their stranglehold before society can be set right again. And that is the role that Raavan is playing. He can break the Kshatriyas.’
‘Why are you telling me all this? I could go and tell my brother how you are using him.’
‘And you expect him to listen to you?’ asked M’Bakur. ‘Do you think he will suddenly turn dharmic?’
‘Do you expect me to believe that you people are dharmic?’
M’Bakur smiled. ‘If only questions on dharma could be answered so simply.’
‘Try me.’
‘Dharma is complex. We could spend whole lifetimes discussing what it is and what adharma is. But what truly matters is whether our intentions are dharmic—the outcome is beyond our control and cannot therefore be a measure of dharma.’
‘Intentions?’
‘Someone may try to do good for others, like the Vayuputras, for instance, are trying to do. Will we actually succeed? Only time will tell. But we know that our intentions cannot be doubted. We are thinking of the good of others, and not just our own objectives. That is the first step towards dharma. When you ignore your own selfish interests for the sake of others.’
Kumbhakarna leaned forward. ‘Once again, why are you telling me all this?’
‘Because Raavan’s demonic nature may well be used for the greater good. But we want his soul to be saved as well.’
Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Page 23
