PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  There had been many moments during the fireside tale-telling when she had feared being caught. After all, the brahmarishi had potent magic; surely he could sense the presence of one rakshasi so close by? Then again, her disguise had always proved quite effective. In this garb, she was a doe. Even a brahmarishi would be hard-pressed to perceive her as anything but.

  Still, she had shivered deliciously, thrilled by the magnitude of the risk she was undertaking. And yet nothing had happened. Not only had Vishwamitra failed to notice her, even Rama, who had been preternaturally alert and on guard the whole evening, hadn’t sensed her presence. Now that had been disappointing. At times, she had almost wished he would see her. Perhaps even leave those other mortals and come visit her in the grove. After all, this was Kama’s Grove and this was Holi Purnima, a beautiful full-moon night in the most romantic lovers’ rendezvous. And if he had come, she would have taken on the most gorgeous feminine form imaginable, more alluring than any of Indra’s apsaras, and she would have thanked him for saving her life. She would have spent all night thanking him, in fact.

  But that was expecting too much.

  Now, miles away from the clearing, she shivered again. She had wandered aimlessly with her fantasies, hardly aware of where she was going. She was deep in the heart of the grove, in a place where the trees grew so thickly, the moonlight could barely reach the forest floor. As she moved on, lost in her reverie, the trees parted and opened out into a small clearing evidently created by lightning striking a tree and burning away a few dozen square yards of the grove. The smell of burnt timber and leaves still hung in the air, and as she moved across the clearing, the moonlight shone down as bright as silvery daylight, catching the motes of ash that were churned up by her hoofs. She was so absorbed in her reverie that she failed to notice the strange disturbance taking place only yards away.

  The trees were shuddering violently. Twisting and bending apart. One particular tree, the same gnarled dead trunk that had been struck by lightning at some point in the recent past, was the centre of the disruption. Its bark rippled like the surface of a lake in which fish thrashed about just beneath the surface, unseen. The wind grew stronger in the windless grove, raising micro-tornadoes that caught up leaves and loose soil and spun them like dervishes up to several yards high.

  A miniature storm cloud clustered into existence above the stump of the blasted tree, little bolts of lightning snaking out from its depths to strike at the stump. It was only when the lightning was followed by a deep ominous growl of thunder that Supanakha became aware of what was happening.

  As she stared at the unnatural storm-in-the-clearing, her eyes widened, her nostrils flared, and her heartbeat quickened to flight speed. A red eye began to grow in the centre of the storm cloud, and she tried to back away slowly, her hind legs stumbling against the roots of a tree, her rear end striking the trunk of another. She shuddered violently, nostrils flaring, snout raised in that characteristic posture of a beast-of-prey confronted by a feared predator.

  The trunk of the blasted tree began to uproot itself with a groaning vibration that reverberated through her body. The dust dervishes grew fiercer and faster and rose higher into the air, cutting cylindrical passages through the leaves of the overhanging fruit trees. With a shower of red sparks and a flurry of lightning bolts, the stunted tree-trunk separated from the ground, its dead but deep roots clogged with clods of soil, and began to alter form. As it grew greater in height and slimmer in shape, Supanakha herself began to change back into her natural rakshasi form.

  With a snort she fought the change, unwilling to return to the world of her own kind. Let me stay a while longer, she pleaded silently, her eyes wide and round with desperation. Just long enough to meet him again, just once.

  The tree-trunk had become something obscenely unlike any natural tree-trunk. Unlike anything that could possibly grow organically from the rich belly of Prithvi Maa.

  It was a being almost nine feet in height, with its heads adding perhaps two feet more. The being’s body was surprisingly proportional, much like that of a human. It could have belonged to any Arya Kshatriya, one who had spent a fair amount of time in rigorous physical activities. It was a superbly formed masculine body, muscled and toned to perfection. The skin was the colour of dark honey, almost blackish when seen in the darkness of the moonless grove, but glowing with a golden inner sheen on closer inspection. It reeked of good health and conditioning. This superbly formed body was clad in the minimum of clothing, just a warrior’s leather langot modestly concealing its maleness. Metal-worked leather straps were lashed across the chest and shoulders and waist and thighs in a puzzling pattern that made sense only when you perceived that their purpose was to carry weapons, not clothe the body. And weapons they did carry, a dozen or more, sheathed or clasped on every limb of the magnificent body. Each an exotic artefact of a different, alien design, some clearly intended for combat against creatures not human, others capable of inflicting brutal wounds on mortal bodies, yet others of no discernible purpose. Supanakha knew that they were weapons designed to be used against all the three species: asuras, mortals and devas. This creature had only natural enemies, no natural associates. The ultimate predator, fighting everyone, trusting no one.

  Above the impressively constructed body was a massively thickened neck, easily thrice the size of a normal adult Arya’s neck. Veins and muscles stood out on it in bas-relief, testifying to the weight it was required to bear. Yet the unnatural girth of this part of the being’s anatomy seemed oddly proportionate to the exquisitely shaped body below.

  The neck had to be that strong to support the ten heads of Ravana, Lord of Lanka.

  Each of these heads were about half the size of a human male head, with all the normal features in the usual places. The heads were arranged side by side, four extending beyond the creature’s right shoulder to about the point at which its right elbow would reach if that arm were held out. Five more heads extended over the creature’s left shoulder, just short of the left elbow if that arm were similarly held out. Each head grew out of the side of the previous one, joined at the place where the neck should have been, and joined at the ears as well. There was almost no gap between each head. Only those on either end had perfectly formed ears on their open sides. These were the auditory organs the creature used to achieve the task of hearing.

  In the centre of this row of nine smaller-than-normal heads, placed directly above the massive squat neck, was the creature’s primary head. This one was larger than normal size, as if to compensate for the relative smallness of its companions. Almost twice the size of a normal male head, it was unexpectedly striking. Though not exactly handsome by human standards, it had a masculine appeal that was unmistakable. This was a powerful person, its features insisted, a being accustomed to wielding and maintaining great forces. It had the arrogant, relaxed look of a being that had never known defeat and brooked no possibility of it.

  Each of the ten heads had a completely different face, none bearing the slightest resemblance to the others. Yet it was clearly the one in the middle that dominated the bizarre menagerie. It was evident from the glances of fear and hatred that the others shot at their central brother, and from the supreme indifference with which the central head regarded the world, ignoring its lesser associates to either side.

  Supanakha looked upon that massive central head of her cousin Ravana and felt her insides turn to mulch. With a snort of terror, she released urine involuntarily, the hot, acrid emission spattering on the leaf-carpeted floor of the grove. The rancid odour filled the little clearing at once. The ten-headed being, now fully formed from the mass of the uprooted tree-trunk, sniffed the air with his ten pairs of nostrils and snorted derisively.

  Cousin. You don’t seem pleased to see me.

  FOURTEEN

  The man with ten heads took a step towards the doe.

  Cousin, you have been in that wretched form so long, you have begun thinking and acting like a deer. Transform into you
r natural form.

  Supanakha shuddered as the last drops of urine squeezed their way out, but remained in her animal form.

  You defy me? I see that you have been corrupted by your contact with mortals. How many times have I warned you about this, foolish one? Why did you not report to me earlier as ordered?

  —I was injured, she replied, using the only language she could use, a kind of mental voicing that she shared with her cousin. — Some mortals attacked me while in this form. I was not prepared.

  She showed him the fast-fading scar of her wound.

  A scratch. I have seen you fight mortals. You can tear a dozen apart without thinking. Why did you not follow through on our plan when Kala-Nemi failed in his mission?

  —You know about that? She was surprised and guilty both at once. It had been her task to report back to him. Yet as always, somehow he had known everything that was going on. —I … I … was too disoriented. There were too many mortals about. They barred the gates. There was no way to enter the city.

  The creature with ten heads walked a few steps away, bowing to avoid touching the overhanging branches. His heads, displaying varying expressions, argued amongst themselves. Each offered a different set of opinions, different suggestions, ideas, orders. The majority seemed to be advising killing Supanakha. She had been tainted from contact with mortals. Had been tamed somehow. Her lapse bordered on treachery. She must be destroyed. She shuddered again, wanting desperately to flee yet knowing that there was no corner of the three worlds where she could escape the wrath of the ten-headed one. She stood her ground, legs still splayed in that defeatist attitude of the cornered animal.

  When Ravana swung back to face her, his central head was smiling.

  You have slipped, cousin dear. But not fallen. I see a way in which you may fulfil your obligations yet. A brief pause, a flickering of disagreement and doubt across the ten bickering faces. You do wish to continue serving me, do you not?

  —Of course, my lord. You know my allegiance is to you alone.

  A flash of a smile on several faces. Scowls on the remaining ones.

  Good, I knew you would see reason. You are not the first of our kind to be seduced by the gentle glamour of these soft-skinned animals. They have a certain … how would you put it? … charm?

  —Nobility, she said, excited. Then caught herself. —I mean, not the same nobility that you possess, my lord. But a kind of crude, animal grace that is quite attractive. In a primitive, unasura fashion.

  The central head was watching her closely. Other heads were speaking to each other or looking elsewhere, disgusted by the conversation.

  Yes, I see. Another long pause, but all the heads were silent this time, contemplating the words issuing from the lips of the central one. You have grown fond of them, in quite short a time. That is interesting.

  —Not all of them, my lord. Just one. She struggled to express herself in a way that would explain her inner turmoil without winning her a punishment from one of those gruesome weapons. —He was … good to me. I find it pleasing to be near him.

  Again, that continued silence among all ten. A deceptive sense of casualness, almost indifference. The opposite of the rage and fury she would have expected.

  In that case, go on. Pursue this mortal. Stay as near him as you can. Indulge your desire.

  —Cousin? she said, too surprised to remember to use the more formal form of address. —You do not object to this?

  He waved a muscled arm derisively. The ears on either end-head twitched.

  As long as you do not seek to consummate this obsession. Not until I give you leave. Do you understand? That is a strict condition. Follow, observe, but no direct contact. And this time, I will brook no dereliction. Are we clear on this?

  —Yes, my lord. Her posture had changed to that of a doe in the throes of excitement, leaping in place, thrilling with shudders of delight. —You have my word. I shall not fail you again. I am to follow discreetly, observe, and report back to you.

  And when I order you to step in, you will do exactly as I command, no questions asked. No matter how much you dislike the command I issue. I have no time to waste. Even now, another pressing matter calls me. You understand? I can say this only one last time. When I command, you must obey!

  —I understand perfectly. Cousin, thank you. Thank you so much! I promise you, this time—

  But he was already turning away, finished. The ten heads were muttering agitatedly to one another again, speaking of other things, other matters. He stepped towards the spot where the trunk had risen, the exposed undersoil still gaping copper-red. The storm began again, the dervishes and cloud and lightning, and in moments he had morphed back into the tree-trunk and it in turn had settled back in its original location, the roots groaning as they found their places in the subterranean soil.

  Then the night was dark and silent again, and Supanakha was alone in the grove once more.

  ***

  ‘Ravana. Show yourself.’

  The guru’s voice was quiet, but in the deep silence of the lowermost dungeon, it reverberated like a temple bell in a stone tower.

  You wish to gaze upon me. Very well. Here I am.

  A red flame grew in the depths of the pit. Within the black water. It grew more intense until the water itself seemed to have turned the colour of the flame. Then it rose from the water and hung suspended in mid-air, several yards above the pit. The ceiling of the dungeon was high at this point, perhaps twenty yards above. The red flame hung halfway to the ceiling, illuminating not just the pit but the entire dungeon.

  Within the pit, the water began to churn. It boiled and seethed, roiling and circling faster and faster. Like a dervish, the water rose up into the air, still spinning madly. In the garish crimson glow, the dark water glowed like a spout of blood. Suddenly, the spout rose to the ceiling, then exploded into a million fragments, splattering across the dungeon. It cascaded across Sumantra and the guru, the liquid rubies shattering like manic raindrops against their faces, their limbs, their bodies. Sumantra cried out in horror and disgust as the foul stench of the pit-water coated him, clung to him, cloying, nauseating. This was how Jabali’s clothes were stained.

  In the pit, a figure had risen out of the water, raised by the dervish.

  Sumantra stared at it goggle-eyed and bit down on his fist to keep himself from screaming. His mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. It defied human logic, the logic of anatomy and wholeness. Once he had been unfortunate enough to see the offspring of a woman raped by a rakshas. The snarling, clawing infant that had lain in that crib, grinning through a mouthful of its dying mother’s life-blood, had not been half as monstrous as the creature he now faced.

  The beast before him was made up of the eleven spies who had been consigned to the dungeon. Somehow, through what dark sorcery he knew not, the wretches had been torn apart, limb from limb. And their separate parts had been reassembled to form this … this … abomination!

  The body was that of a single man, with an extra pair of arms grafted on below the wretch’s natural pair. The rest of the body was more or less normal, if you could overlook the horrible gashes and wounds inflicted on its barely clothed flesh.

  The truly horrible part was the heads. All eleven of them. Somehow the obscene sorcerous power of the Dark Lord of Lanka had welded the flesh of the ears together, fusing the eleven heads of the doomed spies into one long line, arranged side to side atop the neck of the dead man. It was an impossible sight to behold, and one that made Sumantra’s mind reel in shock and disbelief. He understood now why Jabali and the warden had been so shaken. They must have seen this … thing being shaped before their very eyes. The spies being torn apart, then re-made in the unspeakable image of their master.

  The eleven heads opened their eyes, leering up at the guru and Sumantra.

  Does my flesh sculpture please you?

  ‘Obscenity.’ The guru’s voice was calm but hard. ‘You murder your own followers and defile their bodies.�
��

  Murder? Defilement? These are mortal concepts, Brahmin. They have no meaning in the world of asuras.

  ‘Even asuras must obey the laws of nature. Such misuse of the power of Brahman will not go unchecked by the devas, Ravana. Your excesses go beyond endurance.’

  The devas! I met their host on the battlefield and my colours ruled the day. Now they hide their heads in shame from me. No, Brahmin. This war is between me and these feeble mortals you seek to protect. And as you can see, mortal flesh is so easy to destroy. Or to corrupt.

  ‘Do your worst, rakshas. You will not triumph. This transgression marks the beginning of your end. You hasten your own downfall with every evil act you perpetrate.’

  You speak boldly now, old one. But you will not speak so when I ravage your mortal cities and lay waste to the civilisation of which you puny two-legged insects are so proud. I will triumph this time, and you will be the one to fall. I will crush you so low you will never rise again. The days of the Seers are past. The days of mortals are coming to an end. My time is just beginning.