King of Lanka

by David Hair

  Vikram sat near the river, beside an old time-stained shrine hung with flowers and vanishing beneath a smog of taper-smoke. The incense rolled from it in clouds. His hair, long now, was tied back in a loose knot. He’d remembered to shave that morning, had been thinking he might move on, until he realized that it was Dusshera today, and that attempting to travel would be futile. Across the river, a massive paper-mache effigy of Ravana was being readied for burning. It was the age-old festival of the victory of good over evil. It had been commemorated since time immemorial.

  Except that I remember. And I know how close Evil came to being victorious.

  All day he just sat by the river, legs crossed, ignoring all that happened about him. Shutting out the noise and the music and the crowds. It didn’t make him feel better. He sent a text to Amanjit, wishing him well, then shut off his phone so he wouldn’t have to read the reply. Then closed his eyes, and let the hours float away.

  As darkness fell, and he began to feel hungry, he opened his eyes.

  There was a young woman sitting beside him, mirroring his posture, half turned towards him, waiting.

  ‘Hello, Vikram.’

  He swallowed a lump in his throat. ‘Ras,’ he whispered.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here.’ She looked out at the river. ‘I’ve read the Ramayana so often I can just about quote it line for line. So when it said that Rama came here for penance, well …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘I didn’t mean to. It just happened.’ He felt awkward as a child. ‘You know, I was thinking about something. When I was Dasraiyat, and I died, my son Ram called my spirit to him, to be his guide. When he killed Ravan Aeshwaran that first time, it was with my guidance. Except neither of us knew that we needed to use a Trimurti astra, so we failed. The storytellers added the detail of Rama using the Brahmastra later. I watched unseen, then left him. I had done my work. Aeshwaran had left Sita untouched. Because he had to for the ritual, I presume. But she was tarnished goods. Any other man would have put her aside.’ He looked at her. ‘He took her back.’ He bowed his head. ‘I was proud of him, for that act more than any other.’

  ‘Was he a god?’

  Vikram shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He was my son. That made him divine, to me.’

  Her face was expressionless, her eyes unreadable. When she finally spoke, it was to ask the obvious question. ‘They showed me photographs, of you and her. You and Sue.’ Her mouth twisted painfully as she said the American girl’s name.

  He nodded. Having thought about little else since Lanka didn’t make the words come any easier. ‘I was alone. We were both frightened. And she was my ex-wife. No, she wasn’t even that. She was the soul of my beloved wife of several lives. These are reasons, and they are also excuses. I am sorry. Everything I have done since this journey began has been for you. Except that. I was wrong.’

  Ras made no response, but two tears were rolling down her face, one from the corner of either eye. He suddenly ached to hold her, and wipe them away.

  He steeled himself and went on. ‘You were true to me in this life. I was not true to you. I do not deserve it, but I beg you: please forgive me. I will walk through fires for you, if that’s what you ask. Anything, for your forgiveness.’

  She was mute for so long he thought she would turn him away. Then she reached out slowly, and took his hands in hers. ‘I was about to marry him,’ she whispered. ‘I am not without shame.’

  ‘You were misled. I cannot blame you for what happened. There is nothing to forgive.’ She looked about to demur, but he raised a hand. ‘I was weak. The greater sin is mine.’

  She met his gaze. ‘I forgive it. Freely, totally and utterly.’

  ‘But I cannot forgive myself!’

  ‘Then you should, you fool.’ She leaned towards him, almost touching. ‘Forgive yourself! That’s the fire you must walk through.’

  He swallowed, stammered, and looked like a schoolboy caught writing love poetry. Then he collapsed into her arms, and sobbed on her shoulder. They both wept, but after the tears, she lifted his face and kissed her lips. They tasted of salty tears and warm spice. ‘If you forgive me, then I must do likewise.’

  ‘Do you forgive me also?’ she whispered.

  ‘I do.’ He drew her to him again, and they lay back and let the fireworks explode above them, and inside their hearts and minds.

  Afterward they walked away, hand in hand, into a night made safe, that belonged to them alone.

  Behind them and already forgotten, the burning effigy of Ravana crumbled into the bonfire.

  The next morning they walked hand in hand along the river.

  ‘What do we do now?’ he asked in a hollow voice. ‘The story is over.’

  She stared out over the Ganges, if there might be an answer there somewhere in the rippling water and dancing light. ‘I want to go home,’ she said softly. ‘I just don’t know where that is, any more.’

  ‘My home is where you are,’ he replied.

  Jodhpur, Rajasthan

  Diwali: 26 October 2011

  Amanjit and Deepika danced around the bonfire in the Clocktower Square, with what felt like the entire population of Jodhpur. Bishin was there, and even Kiran, laughing with a cluster of women, pointing out their children in the crowd, singing a dozen different songs at once. Monkeys chattered above, cows looked bewildered, and the young people were going crazy, high on music and drink and laughter. It was Diwali, the celebration of the return of Rama and Sita from Lanka. It had been a day of joy and sadness. There were so many joyous faces about them, so many loved family and friends, but two faces were missing, and their absence made it all seem hollow.

  Some local boys carried an effigy through the throng, of blue-skinned Rama and white-skinned Sita, hand in hand, benevolent smiles on their faces. Amanjit fought back a tear. Namaskar, Vikram, Ras. Wherever you are.

  A reply came instantly, spoken right into his skull: Namaskar yourself, bhai.

  The soundless greeting resonated in his mind, and brought him up short. He stared at Deepika, and then whirled, as a thin young man with long hair, clad in a hoodie and jeans, slipped through the crowd.

  ‘VIK!’ He leapt on Vikram, and bear hugged him, pounding him on the back. Then he saw Rasita hovering in Vikram’s wake, thrust Vikram at Deepika, and pulled his sister into his arms. Suddenly the world was perfect.

  Kiran stepped through the crowd on Bishin’s arm, her face wide and wet, and she shook as she held her lost daughter. Amanjit whooped and hugged Ras again. They saw Lalit shyly embrace Vikram, and Deepika throw herself at Ras. The crowd about them parted, as if sensing something profound. He heard the murmurs of recognition. Look, it’s Vikram and Rasita!

  Tomorrow, there would be media madness and India would have one last burst of Vikram-fever. One more orgy of Sunita Ashoka and her tragic death. Majid Khan would be vilified once more, and then someone else would come along to shock and stun the nation, and they could fade into the background forever.

  But that was for tomorrow.

  Tonight was for family and for love.

  Epilogue

  Lanka, December 2011

  Two young people, a man and a woman, walked out of the world on a cold December night. It was the hour before dusk and the sun that was a pink-orange disc in the sky. But when they crossed the threshold of the gate that they had cut in the air, the sun changed into something else: a chariot of gold drawn by glowing horses.

  They did not look back as the gate in the air closed behind them. Their farewells were done, and anyway, it would not be forever. These two worlds were not so far apart.

  Beyond the gate was a forest, and a small knoll where once invaders had stood. Beneath it a king had been welcomed home by his people, on the day before he died. Before them the bulk of a damaged walled city waited, hung with lights that shone like fallen stars.

  The gates of the Citadel were open, and five figures waited there, beneath the arched gate.

  A small man holding a monkey wav
ed his hand. The monkey mirrored the gesture, its eyes bright.

  Beside him, a hunched and robed figure, whose face was like a gecko, smiled, his strange eyes glittering. Light glimmered in his hands, dancing in solemn merriment.

  Between them, a young woman with goat legs and deer horns waved merrily. She held the hand of a Tamil doctor whose expression was somewhere between bliss and bewilderment.

  On the walls, trumpets blasted out a welcome. The king and queen had come, to rebuild and repair, and heal. Asura and human danced in the streets, waved banners and tapers, and thanked their gods.

  King Vikram and Queen Rasita had come home.

  To Lanka.

  Author’s Note

  The decision I have taken in this series to site ‘Lanka’ at Dholavira in the Rann of Kuchh rather than the conventional site of Sri Lanka was not taken lightly, and deserves some discussion.

  First and foremost, it was driven by storytelling needs—the nature of The Return of Ravana has been about fictional modern teenagers whose lives mirror the Ramayana. However, having your story mirror the plot of a well-known story can tend to make the story predictable, unless some surprises are thrown in. The location of Lanka is one of those surprises, designed to ambush the reader a little. Having said that, after reading around the subject fairly extensively, I don’t think the concept that Dholavira is the real Lanka, if such a place ever did exist, is without merit, for the reasons espoused by ‘Tim Southby’ in the story:

  Indus Valley culture is quite possibly the period the Ramayana looks back to, and it never extended far beyond the Indus Valley. Even if the Ramayana looks back to the Vedic period, the same argument holds true.

  Dholavira’s quasi-island location lends itself to the story.

  Of course I’m still flying in the face of tradition, and while I don’t exactly apologize for that, I do acknowledge that it is just a flight of fancy.

  I am a New Zealander, who has had the privilege to live in India from 2007 to 2010—I’m now back in colder South Sea climes, and missing Incredible India and the wonderful people we have met there. These books are a gift in return for the privilege of being able to live in India for a time. I hope you enjoy them for what they are—entertainment, and a little insight into the things that I found most striking about this rich and intoxicating country.

  I’d like to thank the good people at Penguin India once more for their faith and guidance. Big ups too for my rakhi-sister Tanuva who has been kind enough to give me the Indian perspective on these stories. Namaste, sis! And as always, a huge thank you to my arbiter on all matters of content and good taste, my wondrous wife Kerry. Love always.

  I’ve had a great time writing these stories, and I hope you have enjoyed them too. And if it has given you a little curiosity about the historical periods and the legendary events contained in these pages, that is good too.

  Thank you for your company these past four books!

  David Hair

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to: Mike for starting the ball rolling; Secret-Agent Heather for critique, encouragement and all-round wonderfulness; Sudeshna and everyone at Penguin India for all their efforts in polishing and promoting these books; Sister Tanuva for proofing the drafts and keeping them feeling real.

  And Kerry, the woman of my dreams, who is (un)lucky enough to get to proof my drafts over and again and never complains. Your efforts are very much appreciated.

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  First published by Penguin Books India 2012

  Copyright © David Hair 2012

  Cover illustration by Jupiter Thoidingjam

  Cover design by Kunal Kundu

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-01-4333-145-2

  This digital edition published in 2012.

  e-ISBN: 978-81-8475-620-3

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