Asura- Tale of the Vanquished

by Anand Neelakantan

  I could see the wide-eyed surprise in Sita’s face when the first sight of Lanka caught her attention. For a moment she forgot her grief. My heart swelled with pride. I wanted to show her what glories I had in store for her. ‘Sita, my daughter, behold your Lanka!’ There was the golden palace where she would dwell. I wanted her to look at the gardens and smell the fresh sea; the glittering markets and green paddy fields; the swaying coconut palms and spice gardens; my wide royal boulevards and towering castles and palaces. Let her see it all and compare it with the measly home her husband called a palace. But I was silent. I just watched her eyes filled with wonder, as the setting sun reflected off the golden dome of my palace and I directed the iron bird into an uneventful landing. Before the fan could completely stop, I jumped out, forgetting all about Sita. Mandodari had come running, followed by Trijata and Meghanada. They were curious to see our guest.

  My aunt searched for her husband but I averted my eyes. The dreaded moment had come and I did not know what to say. I felt numb. Maricha was dead. That was the naked truth about my ill-fated adventure. Somewhere deep inside the forest, the old man lay dead. I had left him to the mercy of those two barbarians. At the time, I had not thought of him, or the selfless love and the sacrifices he had made to make me into what I had become. I had heard his cry and yet I did not move. I heard Rama’s arrow pierce the tired old skin and knew that even in the final moments of his life, he had been thinking of me. Yet I did not move. His cry for Lakshmana had been so like the voice of Rama, that Sita had forced him to go in search of his brother. And I had grabbed her and hurried back, without a thought for Maricha. The eventful journey back and my happiness in bringing home my daughter to Lanka, had kept the dark thoughts of Maricha’s death at bay. But as I watched my aunt’s face, the emotions of failure, guilt and my own worthlessness, overcame me. I hugged her and pressed my lips hard together to control my tears. She looked into my eyes, read what was plain to see, and collapsed in my arms.

  Sita refused to enter my palace. She made her home in a shady nook under the Ashoka tree where Meghanada used to play as a child. That was after I had failed in my persuasive attempts to get her to move into my palace and had wearily asked Trijata to keep a watch on her. That was after I had shut myself in my room and cried for the loss of my dearest

  friend and counsel, Maricha; after I had explained to his bereaved widow and my sceptical wife, why I had left Maricha to the mercy of barbarians; and after I left them, unable to suppress the guilt I myself felt for failing my uncle.

  The night wore on and I tossed on my bed. It was a moonless and sultry night and I could sense that Mandodari was not asleep either. I moved closer and touched her but she did not move. I waited for her response. I wanted her to hug me and say what I had done was the right thing to do. But she did not move. Slowly, I withdrew my hand and turned away from heraway fro.

  I woke with a start. I thought I had heard the sound of sobbing. It was not coming from Mandodari. ‘Had I imagine it?’ I moved to the window and peered out. It was pitch dark outside. A few dying torches in the garden accentuated the darkness of the night. Then, without any warning, it started to rain. The torches died with protesting hisses and somewhere, a window swung back and forth, creating dull and rhythmic thuds which echoed through the empty corridors.

  A deep fear grew within me. I imagined my daughter, all alone, drenched and miserable, out there in that darkness. But I did not move. I was afraid. I was afraid of myself. As the sky screamed and poured and the earth shivered in the drenching tears of heaven, I sat on my bed, alone, terrified of the prophecy and the curse of Vedavathi.

  41 The police station

  Bhadra

  Today I saw a strange sight and wondered whether I should report it to some bigwig in the government. It was getting late. I had loitered around the whole day and the few coins I had earned cleaning the fat merchant’s chariot, I had spent on toddy. I was hungry but knew there was nothing to eat at home. In fact, it had been almost six months since I had eaten good food.

  I remembered Maricha’s grand funeral. Initially, none of us knew how Prince Maricha had died. He had been old, but was not ailing, and the last time I had seen him riding his black horse, he seemed sprightly. His death was a shock to us. The official communication said that Maricha had died of old age, and that his demise had taken place near the northern borders of the Asura kingdom, on the mainland. It was said that Maricha had been cremated there. Why and how he had reached so far before his death, was another mystery. People had seen him just the previous day and it was impossible for any man to travel such a vast distance so quickly. Tongues wagged about the flight of Mayan’s magical bird. Some people claimed they had seen the Emperor fly north with Maricha in this iron bird. But it really did not matter. There had been no time to stand and gossip as my wife and I hurried towards the palace where we had heard that the poor would be fed well that day and new clothes would be supplied as well.

  All the streets leading to the palace were packed with people. As I neared the palace, I saw there was already a huge crowd. People jostled for space; there was a deafening din; and the choicest abuses were flying about fast and furious. The crowd shoved, pushed and stamped. With bodies slippery with sweat, feet caked in mud, lungs choked with dust, the crowd inched forward, only to be pushed from behind by more people arriving. The sun showed no mercy and the stench of sweat, urine and body odour of thousands of hungry people, was overwhelming. I had gripped my wife’s left wrist, but I could feel hands groping her. She wriggled and twisted, but like any other woman in that crowd, she did not have any choice but to bear it. There were freebies to be had, so the pushing and shoving, breast-grabbing and ass-pinching, didn’t matter too much. We pushed ahead.

  As we got closer, the pushing and shoving got even more intense. I too kicked and punched my way through and grabbed a packet, handed over the heads of other fighting men and woman. I passed it to my wife and then pushed back again to get my share. A soldier shoved me and I lost my balance and got trampled by the crowd. Cursing, I managed to wriggle out. I was disappointed that we had got only one packet between us. We moved against the tide of poor men and woman shoving to get hold of the King’s bounty, given in memory of his dead uncle. And I wished then that the King would lose an uncle every day.

  Then there was lunch. Holes were dug on either side of the royal highway and plantain leaves were placed inside these holes. Gruel was then poured into these temporary containers and thousands of people like me ate this treat with relish. As we ate, chariots carrying the nobles of Lanka, and a few from the mainland, rushed past us to the palace, throwing mud and dust into our bowls. Flies buzzed around and some stray dogs dared to snatch delicacies from the rows. In the evening, wooden barrels containing fresh palm toddy were rolled down by the palace servants. And another mad rush began. By midnight, all of us, irrespective of sex, were drunk. Four people were killed in brawls that erupted at various places, but we did not know about it till the next day. Not that I cared. My situation got worse by the day. The money I earned was gone in a week. Most of it went to the tavern, but Mala saved some without my knowledge. When I found out, she had hell to pay. I grabbed it from a kicking and screaming Mala and rushed back to the toddy shop. That was the last day I celebrated.

  From the next morning, hunger followed us like a determined shadow. Occasionally, I’d get a few odd jobs and we would eat. But, the recurring theme was hunger. We were destitute. The truth slowly sank in. Perhaps there was some truth also in what the Brahmins said about one’s previous life and karma. We must have been paying for the bad deeds of our previous lives. Most people were poor, so there must have been many sinners in previous lives. But not everyone. The merchant class, the bureaucrats and government servants, the actors and musicians, were all getting fatter by the day. We saw mansions spring up and shops selling glittering clothing and fashionable footwear were frequented by beautiful people in glistening chariots; their houses had real roofs an
d furniture to sit on; carpets from the distant lands to the west, the cost of one could have fed an entire village for years; smart children going to gurus who taught only the progeny of the rich and so on. There were theatres too but we were chased away by the police if we dared to go near them.

  I once knew how to read and write. I was even a trained warrior. Or were these the delusions of an old man vainly imagining past glories and brave deeds? I was not sure. The way I looked now, with my emaciated body and cracked skin, balding hair and sunken cheeks, nobody would have believed I had once been a warrior. I could barely read now. Not that it mattered anymore. I was over fifty years old and there was nothing much left to do. One day I too would be carried away by four people and burnt. Not that I awaited such a journey, though I expressed the wish often. I wanted my wife to comfort me by saying that I was too young to die. Recently though, I found that any comments about my mortality did not get a response from her. Perhaps she wanted me to die. It was not a bad idea. But I was afraid. I did not want to die. I wanted to live forever.

  As I walked back home, I gaped at the glittering lights that cast a myriad coloured shadows and reflections on the streets. I smelt the perfume when a beautiful woman passed by. Music softly floated around. A few families were making their beds on the pavement. Poor chaps! Perhaps they were from the countryside or mainland India. They would be chased away soon enough. The pavements were too lovely for such dirty fools to sleep on. I walked past the markets towards my home by the river. Acrid and pungent smells of a thousand spices assaulted my nostrils. Shopkeepers were closing up. Some fat ones sat counting their money. The thugs who were stationed outside such shops, glowered at me as I walked hurriedly past without making eye contact. I turned left at the end of the markets. Rotten vegetables and fetables ish gave the corner its characteristic smell. A few dogs were scavenging in the garbage. One barked hesitantly at me. I stooped to pick up a stone and the dog shot past me with its tail between its legs. It was the only creature afraid of me these days.

  In the distance, Ravana’s fort looked imposing and impregnable. My son Athikaya might have been with his master, prince Meghanada. Idiot! It had been almost six months since I had last seen him. It was painful to remember that he actually belonged to the palace and I was just his keeper. What if I had remained in my village on the Poorna river and my family, my wife and daughter had lived; what if those blasted Devas had not attacked our poor village? Surely my life would have been better and different. Instead, I had fought for a King’s dream, and given the better part of my life so that thugs like Ravana could wallow in riches, glory and power. Alas, I had many regrets in my life and my life seemed to have a mind of its own. At least my son ate well. He lived like a prince. But that thought was no consolation. ‘Why only him? Why not me?’ I felt bitter and once again looked at the glowing palace. It was then I saw the strange sight. I stopped and watched. Initially I could not tell what it was. Something was climbing up the citadel. A thief? Which foolish thief would dare break into the palace of the mighty Asura Emperor? He would be skinned alive if caught. I waited for few minutes to see if there were any further movements but all was silent. Perhaps the toddy had been stronger than I had thought. I was about to turn my eyes away and return to my useless life, when I saw him.

  He was just a silhouette against the backdrop of the glowing palace and I couldn’t see his face. But he was a well-built man and stood atop the fort and surveyed the palace, with a huge club on his shoulder. ‘Who was he?’ With a start, I remembered the great Vanara king, Bali. This man resembled him. But why should the Vanara king enter the Asura Emperor’s palace in stealth? I remembered the rumours that the great Vanara king was dead, killed by some Deva hunter who had hidden behind a tree and shot him on the sly. When this man turned his head, light reflected from the expensive ear stud he wore. ‘No, that is not Bali!’ Then, with an agility which only the Vanaras could aspire to, the man jumped down and I saw the canopy of the trees shake with the impact. Emptiness stared back at me as I stood frozen. Someone had just entered Ravana’s palace. I stood there confused. ‘Should I inform someone? Or should I just go home and sleep?’ If someone entered the King’s palace, it was the King’s problem. Why should it bother me? Then the images of just such an entry into my home by the Devas long ago, flashed into my mind and I ran back the way I had come. I had to find someone who could do something about it. Danger lurked around the corner.

  By the time I reached the police outpost on the royal avenue, I was panting like a dog. But I hesitated as I approached the station house. There was a torch burning brightly inside and four guards sat huddled together, engrossed in a game of dice. A fat police sergeant slept with both his feet perched on the table. Flies buzzed around the torch that burnt brightly in one corner.

  “Sir,” I called out. There was no response. “Sir,” I called again. One of the guards raised his head and his eyes grew big in surprise. I cowered as my legs trembled. ‘I’m not a criminal.’ But I was poor and that was a bigger crime.

  “What do you want?” the guard barked at rd barkeme. He was clearly irritated at my intrusion.

  “Sir, I saw a man. . .”

  “So have I,” and he laughed at his own pathetic sense of humour as the others joined in. The sergeant opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and then slipped back into slumber. I wanted to go back. Let the King save himself. So I began to walk out. “You there! How dare you come here with a stupid story and then walk away,” the guard screamed at me.

  “I did not abuse you, sir.” I tried to gather some dignity.

  “Are you talking back to me?” And what came next was quite unexpected.

  In a flash, he was upon me and had planted a kick between my legs. I collapsed, tears of anger, shame and pain blinding me.

  The other guards had left their game. They had found better entertainment – me. “You beggar, you scoundrel, what are you doing at this time on the royal avenue?”

  I tried to parry the next blow but I was too weak. “Sir, Sir, please listen to me. Someone has broken into the palace.” A hit across my face sent me sprawled onto the ground. The policemen kicked

  and punched as I clawed at the ground. Then suddenly it stopped. When I raised my head, the sergeant stood towering over me. He pulled me up by my sparse hair and I blanched. Then he pushed me towards his table and I collapsed on the floor. I looked up and saw his heavy body perched on the table. It creaked under his ample weight but I found the noise soothing. Perhaps the table would break.

  “Tell me.” He ordered. I remained silent so he kicked me. Then I sang. I told him what I had seen. A frown appeared on his face. He chewed something and kept thinking. Then he told the guard. “You go and tell the chief of palace guards.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Lock up this man. He’s pig drunk.”

  The other two guards dragged me towards the dingy cell in the corner and threw me into a corner. They did not bother to lock the cell and returned to their game. The other guard who had been forced to go on this errand, cursed me and walked out in search of the palace guards. I cursed myself for having been too conscientious. ‘What the King does with his palace is none of my business.’ I was such a fool. Some lowly crook was lying in the other corner of the cell. The fat sergeant had settled back in his chair and was snoring again. I hurt in places I did not know existed. More fool I! I sat there cursing my fate and my foolish, impulsive ways and slowly drifted off to sleep.

  When I awoke, Lanka was burning.

  42 Messenger of death

  Ravana

  I was woken by the screams and commotion in my garden. People were running about aimlessly. Guards were shouting and cursing each other. The palace was lit with hundreds of flaming torches. Mandodari was awake, looking puzzled. I opened the door and found the guards outside leaning over the verandah and shouting something. As I walked nearer to them, they sprang to attention.

  “What’s all this noise?”

  Gingerly a senior guard st
epped forward with a deep bow. “Your Highness, a monkey-man has sneaked into the royal gardens and was talking to that Deva lady. When some of the guards tried to capture him, he fought them and even killed or seriously injured two or three. Now he has vanished among the trees.”

  I was shocked. Monkey-men sneaking into my palace gardens was beyond my imagination. I worried about my daughter, Sita. She was vulnerable Yunder the Ashoka tree, though my guards kept a watch. Nevertheless, I felt uneasy. It had been barely four months since I had heard about Bali’s assassination. The King of the monkey-men had been killed slyly by that Deva prince, Rama. The Vanaras were now ruled by Bali’s corrupt and debauched brother, Sugreeva. It was disgusting the way my son-in-law had usurped Bali’s power. That coward had hidden behind a tree and shot Bali through the heart. The fact that Rama had done this while Sugreeva had been engaged in a hopeless and losing duel with his brother, enraged me further. ‘What sort of morality and ethics did my son-in-law follow?’ I had been tempted to overthrow the Vanara King and avenge my friend’s death. I had even ordered my army and navy to attack the Vanaras. But after my son’s victory over the entire Indian subcontinent, from the seas to the mighty Himalayas, my appetite for war dwindled. Besides, Sugreeva had agreed to pay tribute to Meghanada, and the monsoon had set in. We postponed the plan.

  But as the monsoon started, Sugreeva, the rascal that he was, reverted to his life of debauchery. I was sure that with an army of indisciplined monkey-men, Rama would not start any foolish adventure. Obviously I had been too complacent. The monkey-man inside my palace garden was proof enough and I cursed my own lack of foresight.

  This was an emergency. The Council was required to meet. I told my wife to shut the doors and windows. She seemed worried by my unusual caution, but I ignored her and went out, slamming the door shut with a bang. I walked towards Meghanada’s chamber, but found it open. The durbar was well lit and the guards were in their places, standing to attention. My ministers stood chatting excitedly to each other.