ASURA
TALE OF THE VANQUISHED
The Story of Ravana and His People
ANAND NEELAKANTAN
ISBN 978-93-81576-05-2
© Story: Anand Neelakantan, 2012
© Illustrations: Leadstart Publishing, 2012
Illustrations Amplecreation Studio
Cover Design Mishta Roy Layouts
Layouts Ajay Shah
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First published in India 2012 by
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Disclaimer
This is a work of pure fiction. All the characters depicted are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author has used iconic names, dates, and events to aid story-telling. There is no intention to imply anything else. The content of this book is the sole expression and opinion of its author and a work of his imagination and does not claim scriptural authenticity. This work does not represent the views of the Publisher, nor endorses them in any way. The Publisher makes no representations or warranties as to the completeness or accuracy of the information used in this work. Readers are requested to bear in mind that this work is fiction and does not purport to any religious or spiritual instruction or advocacy.
TO MY PARENTS,
THE LATE SHRI nt>L. NEELAKANTAN AND
CHELLAMMAL NEELAKANTAN,
WHO OPENED THE MAGICAL WORLD
OF INDIAN MYTHOLOGY TO ME.
About The Author
I was born in a quaint little village called Thripoonithura, on the outskirts of Cochin, Kerala. Located east of mainland Ernakulam, across Vembanad Lake, this village had the distinction of being the seat of the Cochin royal family. However, it was more famous for its hundred-odd temples; the various classical artists it produced and its music school. I remember many evenings spent listening to the faint rhythm of Chendas from the temples and the notes of the flute escaping over the rugged walls of the school of music. Gulf money and the rapidly expanding city of Cochin have, however, wiped away all remaining vestiges of that old world charm. The village has evolved into the usual, unremarkable, suburban hell hole, clones of which dot India.
Growing up in a village with more temples than was necessary, it was no wonder that the Ramayana fascinated me. Ironically, I was drawn to the anti-hero of the epic – Ravana, and to his people, the Asuras. I wondered about their magical world. But my fascination remained dormant for many years, emerging only briefly to taunt and irritate my pious aunts during family gatherings. Life went on. . . I became an engineer; joined the Indian Oil Corporation; moved to Bangalore; married Aparna and welcomed my daughter Ananya, and my son, Abhinav.
But the Asura Emperor would not leave me alone. For six years he haunted my dreams, walked with me, and urged me to write his version of the story. He was not the only one who wanted his version of the story to be told. One by one, irrelevant and minor characters of the Ramayana kept coming up with their own versions. Bhadra, who was one of the many common Asuras who were inspired, led and betrayed by Ravana, also had a remarkable story to tell, different from that of his king. And both their stories are different from the Ramayana that has been told in a thousand different ways across Asia over the last three millennia. This is then Asurayana, the story of the Asuras, the story of the vanquished.
Anand Neelakantan can be reached at: [email protected]
Dasamukha
Why is Ravana portrayed as ten-faced?
While the ten-headed, twenty-armed figure of Ravana as the supreme anti-hero, is familiar to every Indian and scholars of Indian mythology, few really know why he is portrayed in this manner. Traditional Indian wisdom places importance on the control of one’s emotions and projects the intellect alone, as the being supreme. The great King Mahabali, advises Ravana to shun the other nine base emotions of anger; pride; olditalic0552">jealousy; happiness; sadness; fear; selfishness; passion and ambition. Intellect alone is to be revered. Indian spiritual gurus have always stressed the need to overcome the Self’ and have considered these emotions detrimental to the elevation of the soul.
But, in his response to Mahabali, Ravana justifies and exults in the possession of all these ten facets, as they make him a complete man. Mythology thus portrays Ravana as Dasamukha, or the ten-faced one, while his twenty hands denote prowess and power. Ravana sees himself as the epitome of a complete human being; without any pretense to holiness or restricted by social and religious norms. He is as good or as bad as any human being, and as nature intended man to be. Society is unable to curb his other nine faces, as it does in the figure of Rama. So Rama may be seen as God, but Ravana is the more complete man. Our epics have used the ten heads of Ravana to symbolize a man without control over his passions – eager to embrace and taste life – all of it.
Ancient India at the peak of
Ravana’s Asura Empire
Content
1 The end
2 The seed
3 Captives
4 Guru
5 Dasamukha, the ten-faced
6 Devil's raid
7 Lore of the losers
8 Maharaja
9 Maricha, the beloved
10 The pearl island beckons
11 Traitor
12 The wait
13 Lanka's welcome
14 Betrayed
15 Poisonous brews
16 The pirate's seige
17 The silver-tongued
18 Brother's brother
19 Pirate troubles
20 Wedding bells
21 Happy family
22 Revolutionaries
23 Revolution comes home
24 Death of a revolutionary
25 A little worm
26 The untouchable king
27 Love, at last!
28 An asura princess
29 Let her live
30 Lanka lost
31 Den of death
32 Patriot
33 Son of darkness
34 Riot
35 The duel
36 A country thanks its hero
37 A daughter's marriage
38 The time has come
39 Return of the Asura Princess
40 Adieu maricha
41 The police station
42 Messenger of death
43 Let my city burn
44 Messenger of peace
45 Looming war
46 For my people
47 War without ethics
48 Sons are sons
49 Death visits again
50 For whose sake?
51 A hero returns
52 A prime minister's mission
53 Violation
54 End of an idealist
55 Kumbhakarna's attack
56 While they pray
57 Funeral of martyrs
58 Did i fail as king?
59 I wish you death
60 End of a d
ream
61 Victors and their ways
62 Life sprouts again
63 Childish dreams
64 Sword of dharma
65 The beginning
Glossary
Acknowledgements
1 The end
Ravana
Tomorrow is my funeral. I do not know if they will bury me like a mangy dog or whether I will get a funeral fit for an Emperor – an erstwhile Emperor. But it does not really matter. I can hear the scuffing sounds made by the jackals. They are busy eating my friends and family. Something scurried over my feet. What was that? I
I am not afraid of death. I have been thinking of it for some time now. Thousands have been slain over the last few days. Somewhere in the depths of the sea, my brother Kumbha lies dead, half-eaten by sharks. I lit my son Meghanada’s funeral pyre yesterday. Or was it the day before? I’ve lost all sense of time. I have lost the sense of many things.
A lonely star is simmering in the depths of the universe. Like the eye of God. Very much like the third eye of Shiva, an all-consuming, all-destroying third eye. My beloved Lanka is being destroyed. I can still see the dying embers in what was once a fine city. My capital, Trikota, was the greatest city in the world. That was before the monkey-man came and set it on fire. Trikota burned for days. Shops, homes, palaces, men, women, and babies, everything burned. But we restored it. Almost every able man joined in rebuilding Trikota. Then the monkey-men came with their masters and destroyed everything. Hanuman did that to us. The monkey-man brought us death, destruction and defeat.
I don’t want to dwell on that. I should have killed him when my son captured him. Instead, I listened to my younger brother, who plotted against me. But treason and betrayal is nothing new to the Asuras. I was naïve. I foolishly believed that I would always be loved by my brothers and my people. I never imagined that I would be betrayed. I feel like laughing. But it’s not easy to laugh when one’s guts lie spread around like a wreath.
Sounds of joy float down to me from my city. The enemy is celebrating his victory. The monkey-men will be busy plundering Trikota. My temples will be looted; the granaries torched and schools and hospitals burnt. That’s how victory parties are. We have done that and worse to many Deva villages, when the Goddess of victory was my consort. Some ugly monkeys must have entered my harem. I hope my queen has the sense to jump from a cliff before anything happens. I can’t control anything now. I can feel the hot breath of death on my face. The jackals have come. Which part of my body will they eat first? Perhaps my guts, as they are still bleeding. What if a part of my breastplate chokes a jackal? I chuckle at the thought. A jackal sinks his teeth into my cheek and rips off a chunk of flesh. That’s it. I’ve lost this bet too. They have started from my face. Rats are nibbling my toes.
I, Ravana, have come a long way. Now I do not have anything left to fight for; except this battle with the jackals. Tomorrow, there will be a procession through the streets. They’ll raise my head on a pole and parade it through the same roads that saw me racing by in my royal chariot. My people will throng to watch this spectacle with horror and perverted pleasure. I know my people well. It will be a big show.
One thing I cannot understand is why Rama came and stood over me after I had fallen. He stood there as if he was bestowing his blessings on me. He said to his brother that I was the most learned man in the world and a great king and one could learn the art of governance from me. I almost laughed out loud. I had governed so well that t ao well my empire lay shattered all around me. I could smell the burning corpses of my soldiers. I could feel my Meghanada's cold and lifeless body in my arms even now. The acrid air of a smouldering Trikota smothered my senses. I could not save my people from these two warriors and their monkey-men. And he was saying I was a great ruler? I could appreciate the irony of it. I wanted to laugh at my enemy; laugh at the foolish men who trusted me and who were now lying all around, headless, limbless and lifeless. I wanted to laugh at the utopian dreams of equality for all men on which I had built an empire. It was laughable indeed. But that was no way for an Emperor to die. I have worked hard and fought with the gods and their chosen men. I doubt if heaven has a place for people who die of laughter.
Then just as suddenly as it had started, the rats and jackals scurried away. A shadow, darker than the dark night, fell upon me. A dark head with curly hair blocked the lonely star from my view. Is it Kala, the God of death, who has come to take me away? I struggled to open my eyes wider. But dried blood held my eyelids together. Is it one of Rama’s lowly servants who has come to severe my head and take it back as a trophy? I want to look him in the face. I want to look into his eyes, unwavering and unflinching in my last moments. Something about that head and curly hair reminds me of my past. Do I know him? He leans down and looks at my face. Ah! It is Bhadra. My friend, perhaps the only friend left, but I do not know if I can call him my friend. He was my servant, a foot soldier to start with. Then he got lost somewhere along the way. He strolled in and out of my life, was sometimes missing for years together. Bhadra had access to my private camp when I was the head of a troop that resembled a wayside gang of robbers rather than a revolutionary army. Then, he had had access to my private chambers when I was the king of a small island. Finally, he had access to my bedroom when I was ruling India. More than that, Bhadra had access to the dark corners of my mind, a part that I hid from my brothers, my wife, my lover, my people, and even from myself.
What is Bhadra doing here? But why am I surprised? This is just the place for people like him who move around in the shadow. I can hear him sobbing. Bhadra getting emotional? He was never angry, sad or happy. He acted as if he was very emotional now. But I knew he had no emotions. And Bhadra was aware that I knew.
“Bhadra, carry me away from here. Take me away to…” My strength failed me. Actually, I don’t know whether the words actually left me or died a silent death somewhere in my throat. Bhadra shook his head. I was cold, extremely cold. My life was ebbing out of me. Then Bhadra hugged my head to his bosom. I could smell his sweat. Pain shot through me from every angle and spread its poisonous tentacles into my veins. I moaned. Bhadra laid me back on the wet earth, wet from my blood, the blood of my people, the blood of my dreams, and the blood of my life. It was over. A sense of sadness and emptiness descended on me.
“I will complete your work, your Highness. Do not worry. Go in peace. I will do it for our race. My methods may be different, even ignoble, compared to yours. I too, was once a warrior, but I have grown old. Arms frighten me now. I’m terrified of war. I can’t even hurt a child. Nevertheless, my methods are deadly. I will get revenge for you, me and our blighted race. Rama wonife d, ama wont go free for what he has done to us. Believe me and go in peace.”
I did not hear most of the things Bhadra said. Strangely, however, I was soothed and slipped away from this foul-smelling Asura and drifted back to my childhood. A thousand images rushed to me. My early struggles, the pangs of love and abandonment, separation, battles and wars, music and art, they flashed through my mind in no particular order, making no sense. Meaningless, like life itself.
I sensed Bhadra bowing down to touch my feet, then walking away. “Bhadra. . .” I wanted him to come back and take me to some doctor who would put my intestines back, fit my dangling left eye back into its socket and somehow blow life into my body. I wanted to withdraw to the Sahyas forests in the mainland and start a guerilla war, as Mahabali had done years ago. I wanted to start again. I wanted to make the same mistakes, love the same people, fight the same enemies, befriend the same friends, marry the same wives and sire the same sons. I wanted to live the same life again. I didn’t want the seat Rama has reserved for me in his heaven. I only wanted my beautiful earth.
I knew such things were not going to happen. I was sixty, not sixteen. If I lived, I would be a one-eyed, dirty, old beggar in some wayside temple, with stinking, tattered clothes. A long way from what I once was. I wanted to die now. I wanted this to end. I wanted
to go away. Let the burning cities take care of themselves. Let the Asuras fight their own wars and be damned along with the Devas. I only wanted to return to my childhood and start over again, every single damn thing, again and again
, and again. . .
2 THE SEED
Ravana
The monsoon wind swirled around the small hut hanging precariously on a mountain cliff. Another push by the roaring wind and the hut would plunge into the black torrents waiting hungrily below. Then we would be just specks of death washed ashore. It would have been better had it ended like that. But this was just the beginning of the end. Could I be obliterated from the leaves of history – just like that? Hadn’t I a mission to fail? I didn’t know it then, but I had been born to fulfil someone else’s destiny. To allow someone else to become God.
Huddled together with three siblings and a morose mother, I looked down at the brightly lit palace of my half-brother. It was quite near, yet a world apart. I had been there once, hidden behind the shawl of my poor, black mother, my younger brothers tugging at my fingers. My sister was lying limp like a dirty old rag, tired and hungry, on my mother’s shoulder. We were poor, dirt poor. The only thing we had in abundance was poverty. And hunger. Also shame.
As a last desperate effort, mother dragged us to beg before her stepson, Kubera, the lord of all wealth, the richest man on earth. In the glitter of the palace and the sickening fragrance of abundance, we stood there with a begging bowl. We got our alms, a few pieces of gold and also many derisive glances from my stepbrother’s wives. Our needs were few and his time was too precious to waste on us. A flick of his hand, some small change, and he thought no more of us. Until the day I reminded him of our existence quite rudely and loudly. But that happened much later. By then we had ceased being beggars.
I gained my biggest asset from that arrogantly opulent palace of avarice and greed – my burning ambition. The fire of hunger would never quench the flames of ambition the palace ignited in me. I knew then that the world ttehe owned and much beyond, would be mine and mine alone. Today might very well be the last day I will be with my mother. Tomorrow, if our small hut survives this torrential rain, we will start our journey. I believe there is a world out there to conquer. A better world awaiting us.
Asura- Tale of the Vanquished Page 1
