Asura- Tale of the Vanquished

by Anand Neelakantan

  The procession passed. I raised my head when a shadow fell across my face and saw Maricha. There was pity and even some gratitude in his eyes. For the f

  irst time I sensed someone cared for me and tears welled inside. I tried to raise myself but collapsed. Maricha tried to get off his horse, then he froze. I followed his gaze. Prahastha, who was ahead, had stopped his horse and was staring back at the scene. Maricha got a firm grip firm on his reins and trotted towards the Prime Minister without looking back.

  A bitter laughed escaped me. I collapsed back into the ditch, laughing hysterically. As the sun rose and the day progressed, becoming increasingly more hot and humid, I found some strength to totter back to my hut. The sounds of celebration could be heard all around. Some people had thrown a few coins at me as I lay in the ditch and after a few minutes few minhesitation, I collected them. I was not sure I could work for the next few days as the pain had intensified. Every coin would count. Celebrations erupted everywhere. Emperor, princes and nobles, everyone was in a gay mood. They had achieved victory. But I had a hut to go to, a hole to crawl into and lick my wounds, and an unfaithful woman to deal with, and also a living to earn. As far as I was concerned, these things were more important than the coronation of Emperors. So I kept walking.

  33 Son of darkness

  Ravana

  She was hysterical. Soorpanakha flew at my face and tore my cheek with her bare hands. She tried to bite and maim anyone who dared to venture near her. With her hair disheveled, her face black with agony, she kept cursing me and all the ministers of Lanka, occasionally beating her breasts with clenched fists. She guarded the dead body of Vidyutjihva like a hound. She kept the priest at bay and anointed the dead body herself. She dressed it in new clothes, all the while cursing us, me in particular. I did not want to console her. True, I had wanted her husband dead and was responsible for the same. But he had had it coming to him. He had signed his death warrant when he usurped my throne. He had asked for trouble.

  Bhadra had done it for me. The thing I hated most about this nasty business was the fact that I owed that stupid man. ‘Or did I? He was a mere slave and had to do what I bid him. Period.’ I looked at the corpse of my brother-in-law. They had cleaned it, but still it looked grotesque. When I had seen the corpse for the first time, I had almost thrown up. One had to have a really perverted mind to do something like that. What sort of creature was Bhadra? Disgusting! A high-pitched wail shocked me from my reverie. Soorpanakha was banging her head on the floor. And behind her, wailing in a much shriller pitch, was my mother. I had not expected her to come so soon.

  ‘Satisfied, you blood-sucking Rakshasa?” I went pale at this unexpected attack. “You’ve made your own sister a widow. I am ashamed that you were even born in my womb.”

  I clenched my fists to keep myself from exploding. With her every remark, Soorpanakha’s wails reached new heights. “You tyrant. . .you dog. . .You’ve made my child weep like this and you’ll pay for it…you’ll pay for it dearly.” She kept on in this vein for the next half hour, praising the various aspects of her son-in-law. It would have been comical had she not dragged me into the farce. “You are drunk with power, intoxicated with ambition. Kill me! Kill me also, and use my old body as a stepping stone to your political success,” my mother said, hitting her forehead and breasts. Then she started pummelling my chest.

  My father had come too and was sitting in a corner, busily discussing something with the two Brahmins who always accompanied him. I felt like grabbing his hair and banging his head against the wall. He was planning a Deva funeral for his son-in-law, with some obscure rites and gifts to the Brahmins. I just wanted to get it over with.

  However difficult Soorpanakha acted, it was nothing compared to Kumbakarna. The imprisonment in Yama’s dungeon had changed him for the worse and he was stoned most of the time. He slept for most of the day and created a ruckus when he woke. I was worried about him. I was worried about myself. We were a close-knit family and I enjoyed my siblings’ company. ‘What had changed between us to destroy the bond? Why did Soorpanakha go and maPrry my bitterest enemy? And when I killed him for self-preservation, why did she hold it against me?’ Even as the thoughts went through me, I felt for her, it was after all her husband who was lying dead. She had the right to feel the way she did about me. ‘Poor girl. Perhaps I should not have been so harsh.’ I should have imprisoned her husband. I could have compromised.

  Vidyutjihva’s face had been gashed haphazardly. I felt a surge of deep and pure hatred towards Bhadra. ‘How could he do a thing like this? This was an Asura nobleman who has been butchered like a wild animal and that too, by the lowliest of low vermins.’ I felt ashamed that I had entrusted the task to him. There was no heroism in this victory. ‘I was scum, no better than Bhadra. Why did I listen to Prahastha. Self-righteous oaf. Oh Shiva, what have I done to my sister?’ Why did I take away even the small happiness she possessed? Was the empire worth it? Was Lanka or even India, enough to quench my ambition? And what was it that I was building on the corpses of my people? How many deaths would I feel responsible for? Were we not much happier in that precariously hanging hut over the cliff? The biggest tragedy of life was that we grow up and achieve our boyhood dreams.

  A hard slap on my face shook me from my immature philosophical ruminations. The entire room swam before my eyes and I staggered and fell. I was blinded for some moments and my head spun. I tried getting up, only to be kicked hard in my groin. “You bastard!” I could hear Kumbakarna’s shouts as though they came from a deep well. My head reeled as I tried to stand up, but was kicked back again. My eyes were swollen and my lips split. Somehow I stood up, holding onto a pillar in the centre of the room to prevent me from falling. Slowly, the scene cleared. Maricha and three soldiers were trying to reign in Kumbakarna. His eyes looked murderous and he was stoned. He tried to free himself and lunge towards me and kick me again but didn’t reach me.

  I turned and saw my father and the two fat Brahmins smirking and enjoying the show. My mother hit her head with her hands melodramatically and Soorpanakha stared straight ahead with a stony expression. A few guards were almost smiling but trying hard to keep straight faces. This kind of family drama was so exciting to the dregs of our society. By evening, the entire city would be abuzz with a much exaggerated version of what had happened. More than the pain of this unexpected attack, it was the shame that stung me more.

  Seeing the growing darkness on my face, Maricha dragged my brother from the room. I would have killed him right there but guilt weighed me down. I stood there with shame and guilt burning through every nerve, but did not move a finger. Kumbha shouted about my ambitions, my exaggerated sense of self-importance, my selfishness, my contempt for people, my undeserving pride, and my real and imagined vices. He cursed me and wished I would die.

  I could not stand it anymore and wanted to retire to my room and drink myself to unconsciousness. As I turned, I looked out at the garden. There, my pious brother, Vibhishana, sat cross-legged, his eyes closed, and a silly smile of contentment on his face. ‘What was there to be so smug and happy about when the entire household was in tremendous pain?’ I wanted to walk towards him and wipe that wooden smile from his face but he was perhaps the most harmless fellow in our whole clan. The guy was without ambition, self-satisfied with himself, and always detached from life and its trials. After passionate Kumbha, Soorpanakha, mother and even myself, he n myselfwas a welcome change. I had not been blessed with a simple mind and I envied my younger brother for his contentment and uncomplicated way of living. Perhaps, a life without ambition was a life worth living. I could never have become Vibhishana, even if I had wanted to, but I had never wanted to be anyone other than Ravana. I sighed and left my philosopher brother to his blissful stupidity and walked to my chamber. I wanted a drink. As I entered, I saw Mandodari sitting on the bed. She was dressed in glittering silk clothes and gold and diamond ornaments, and resembled a walking treasury. Her face lit up as soon as she saw me.<
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  I was hit by a sudden sense of guilt and shame. Vedavathi’s fair face was fresh in my mind and I could not help comparing her to my wife. Mandodari was beautiful in a stern sort of way, but she was not sexy at all. She was almost a saint and I was a rather nervous and afraid of her. It was like she was holding a mirror for my soul and it showed all my hidden, ugly scars and warts. I hid my nervousness behind a veneer of contempt and irritation. With surprise, I realized she had never been in my mind during my long campaign, not even when I was imprisoned in Karthiveerarjuna’s dark dungeon or fighting life or death battles. All I yearned for was Vedavathi. And I ached to see my first born.

  As I stood transfixed with awkwardness, she stood up with a sad smile. Her smile lit up her face and I could not face her. I looked out and my irritation increased when I saw my brother continuing his meditation. When I turned, she was so near that I could smell her. She smelt of fresh jasmine and camphor. Tears brimmed her eyes as she batted her eyelids. She looked almost coy and innocent. I felt like hugging her and wiping the tears from those lovely eyes but my limbs would not move. Something was holding me back.

  “Woman, where have you kept the wine?” I sounded coarse even to myself and looked away. I could feel her hurt and did not want to look at her. I walked towards the chair and sat there looking at the ceiling. ‘How was she feeling? How had Vidyutjihva treated her? Did she miss me?’ Hundreds of questions swirled within me, but I kept quiet. I wanted to boast about my campaigns, to tell her about the sights I had seen, the strange and exotic lands of the Devas, tales of the vanquished tribes, the pain of imprisonment, the rout at the hands of the monkey-King Bali, and even my tempestuous love affair with a Deva Brahmin girl – but I kept staring at the ceiling.

  Mandodari poured the wine and retreated towards the shadow of the big bed. Without a word, I gulped down the wine and impatiently tapped my fingers on the stool. She hurriedly came back and poured me another drink. I kept drinking. An eerie silence engulfed the palace. Occasionally it was punctuated by the distant wails of my mother or sister. When I heard those piteous cries, I felt guilty and tried to drown my feelings in more wine. Then the drone of Vedic mantras rose from the hall where the corpse lay. Those Brahmins were preparing the soul of my brother-in-law to cross various kind of rivers made of butter, honey, and the rest, on its way towards the Deva heaven. Some lowly guard came to announce that they were taking Vidyutjihva’s body to the cremation ground and were waiting for me to come and pay my last respects.

  I stood up in anger and the wine glasses tumbled from the stool, spreading stains on the plush carpet. I yelled at the poor guard and threw a glass at him with such force that had it hit him, he would have died on the spot. The wine splattered and the guard ran for his life. I shut the door after him with a bang and shut the window also, though my brother had uncoiled himself from his ridiculous, yogic posture and vanished, perhaps to assirhaps tost the fat Brahmins.

  Then I turned towards my wife. She trembled with fear. I grabbed her by her waist but she pushed me away with surprising force and drunk as I was, I staggered and fell. “Do not touch me.” she said in a low but firm voice. She almost hissed like a snake. Like a fool, I sat there on the floor blinking, taken aback and confused by the strength exhibited by such a meek woman. “Do not try to touch me in this drunken state.” She stood there, her head raised high, defying me, daring me to touch her.

  I stood up in great anger and tried to grab her again. She picked up the fruit knife from the bowl and pointed it at me. ‘Ah, I liked it. She had spirit. I was enjoying this.’ Then, to my utter dismay, she pointed the knife towards her belly and said, “You make one move to touch me. . .” She broke

  into sobs that shook her entire body and I felt disgusted with the whole thing. I could so easily have overpowered her but no longer wanted to. Instead, I threw a tantrum, tore the pillows, threw the silk sheet from the bed and stamped on it. After a while, I felt foolish and left the room cursing my wife and banging the door shut.

  I was in a murderous and helpless rage. It was unfortunate that a fair and lovely maid was sweeping the corridor at the time. When she saw me storming out of the royal chamber, her mouth opened in stupid awe and she dropped her broom and started to run. I had not even noticed her, but her nervousness caught my eye. I chased after her and almost dived to catch her by the waist. I muffled her screams with my palms and dragged her to a nearby room. Then I raped her. To start with, she was unwilling; perhaps she had thought I was going to murder her. But after a while, she became quite obliging. So while my sister cried over her murdered husband; my mother sat cursing me; my brothers lit my brother-in-law’s funeral pyre; and my wife was sobbing her heart out, I, the King, the Emperor of India was busy with a low caste maid. And from that sin and guilt, my dark, fat and ugly son, Athikaya, was born.

  34 Riot

  Bhadra

  It took almost a year for me to recover. My hut was gutted when the Asuras were busy looting and fighting each other. Not only my locality, but most houses and shops were burnt down during those turbulent days when Ravana and Vidyutjihva were performing their macabre dance for power. I was bitter for a few days. Mala had returned to the small shack I had put up under the huge Banyan tree on the side of the royal highway. Before that, I had made my own enquires about her and found that she was a minor maid at the palace. There were rumours that she was pregnant by the king and she had been made the second queen by Ravana. I was jealous and hurt. I wanted to murder her but she was far too high up in the pecking order now.

  Then, one day, she came. She did not look like a queen at all. She looked plain and dirty and carried a bundle of rags on her shoulders, the traces of vanishing beauty making her seem more ugly. For someone who was the King’s mistress, Mala’s situation was pathetic. The anger I had felt at her betrayal had numbed to a dull pain. She might have been selling herself for some food and small pleasures, or that was the only way a poor but beautiful woman could survive among kings like Vidyutjihva and Ravana. I burned with anger, self-pity and jealousy, for few months after I returned from my heroics. But, by the time she came, I had cooled off. I was running a high temperature on that particular day when she returned to my hut, and without saying a single word, she began to nurse me. Whether she had begged or stolen some rice, BI did not know but she made some gruel. She fed it to me that and inexplicably, I began to cry. She did not say anything but kept feeding me the gruel with a leaf spoon.

  By the time, I recovered, it was too late to ask. I needed her and I believe she needed me, at least until the next great man beckoned her to satisfy him. Slowly I fell into a routine. It was a time of relative calm and peace and most days we earned enough to eat at least once. The beggars and destitutes, the magicians and snake charmers, the acrobats and gypsies, who frequented the city markets, the streets and narrow winding lanes of the city, the palace, the temples, the countryside, usually came to rest under the Banyan tree. It was the travellers’ natural resting place. Out of sheer boredom, I began experimenting with various foods and shared it with the wayfarers. Mala helped me built our first thatched shop where we sold sweets and snacks. But occasionally, she did odd jobs in the palace and she also took her son, Athikaya, to the palace regularly. Though I hated her for it, it had been a long time since I had enjoyed the peace and pleasure of a full stomach and I did not want to rock the boat.

  Mala took over the responsibility of cooking and serving the snacks and other food. I found I had another talent – for a small sum, I would wash the travellers’ clothes. I knew which plant or seed cleaned the clothes well and I kept experimenting. A couple of times though, the clothes lost their colour, but I soon found the right mix and my reputation as a good washerman spread. The kind of patrons I had also changed and rich merchants started trusting me with their expensive, imported, silk clothes from China, or the rich calico or muslin from mainland India.

  The wayside shop soon became a centre of gossip and merrymaking. Even though I had felt
sad to be excluded from the great parties at the palace, I chided myself for reaching beyond my position. I had had enough of moving around with eccentric and egoistic kings and nobles, who were willing to sacrifice a person at the altar of their burning ambition. Here, life was simple and straight-forward and I was the master of the small thatched hut we had built with our own hands.

  I heard that Princess Soorpanakha had left Lanka with her father and mother, for the mainland. She had vowed that she would never look at her elder brother, Ravana, again. It might have been an exaggeration but it was said that she cursed her brother and Lanka and the Asuras, with colourful vocabulary, until she boarded Varuna’s ship. The ship had many coloured sails and swiftly took a smug Brahmin, an angry mother, and her widowed daughter, to the mainland. If the king was affected by any of this, he did not show it. She had called him Rakshasa, and curiously, the name struck, though no one dared call him that to his face.

  The next great event was the marriages of Prince Kumbakarna and Prince Vibhishana. It was a big jamboree and the entire city participated. I too wanted to go, but I was bitter that no special invitation had been sent to me. I was too proud to go as an ordinary Asura beggar. On the night of the marriage, the nobles got drunk on wine imported from the cold lands of the barbarians, far across the seas, while we humble folk got drunk on palm toddy, which we brewed. My neighbours, the snake charmers and the street magicians and acrobats, earned a fistful of money for their performances, which they promptly handed over to me for my specially made country liquour.