Breaking the Bow: Speculative Fiction Inspired by the Ramayana

by Edited by Anil Menon

  Alarmed and elated, he hovers close. Within, trees! The delight of trees sway below, shaking emerald leaves, their aurous barks glowing like song. Hanuman plunges in; an invisible barrier blocks him. “Noble Barrier, whatever you are made of, grant me passage and extract your price, “he prays, focusing on re-entry. His mother’s voice sings to him, An-jani’s voice sings Hanuman lullabies, curling his consciousness into fetal comfort. “Mother, Mother!” he calls, “Mother!” Instantly he is reeling, sucked forward in Time, some ten million light years forward. “Demon Barrier you trick me not,’ he resolves. “I hear nothing.” Immediately he penetrates the Wall of Maya -Music.

  Fragrance of flowers, colours of fruit, scented pollen, the security of branches envelope Hanuman. He sighs with happiness. Amethyst rain runs through the grove like fleet-footed deer over grass, yet moonlight from five and a half moons set the scene ashimmer. Opalescent birds rise like drifting petals from foliage; water, the harmonious sound of meandering water… Hanuman peers. Streams, sunlit, pour into ponds that do not overflow but brim with lotuses blue, white, pink and zigalotrope whose petals unwrap tremulously. All times of day and night are simultaneously present at their most delightful, as are the season. Along with the flowering of spring, monsoon-washed wet vegetation display under clear star-studded skies of autumn.

  In rippling waves flowers reach their petals inwards brushing sparking stamens to pollinate themselves. Hanuman understands the vegetation is a distributed intelligence system that has dispensed with a central brain. Each leaf, water droplet and gemlike pebble constantly exchange messages, songs and weather reports.

  A creature who breaths out of a snout on her skull manifests from a patch of darkness; she tugs at her ear that elongates into a suspended sleeping cocoon into which she curls. A host of soundless banshees dash through the garden, their voices transmuted into phosphorescent wakes. A gracile giantess with smoking eyes sings to stones, caressing them. From a distant pond iridescent nymphs ascend the air, holding hands, laughing. A silent creature with pus-filled sores rolls by on multiple rotating suckers. Girls with glorious hair clustered with conches pearly and perfect, who are heavy breasted, small of waist and long of limb shred flowers as they skim through garden paths; they are followed by big bouncing bubbles of blood. A host of identical androids flap past, screeching, tearing at each others’ ziron breasts that shower sparkle and damask blood. More androids, beautiful in dress, demeanor and form, swing through trees like an evening breeze, scattering fragrances.

  Every creature is buoyant so this satellite has low-gravity, Hanuman understands. Out of his love for Sita Devi Ravana has created a world that will uplift her in every way. But where is she?

  A rush of unicorns forms a rearing ring around a crystal pavilion that hovers over its reflection. Perhaps Sita Devi is here! But the inhabitants are six identical bark-clad women, eyes ringed with sleeplessness, skin coloured with neglect, listless.

  Suddenly, in the distance, a golden glow appears, grows, and grows nearer. A waft of mango fragrance spiked with his mother’s monkey muskiness bemuses Hanuman; a shower of twinkling jasmines flutter towards the pavilion, in their wake scurrying radium spiders spin out a carpet of incandescent gossamer. Does Sita Devi approach?

  Resplendence, brilliant yet gentle, emanates from the advancing figure. Instinctively, Hanuman’s consciousness bows to her. In the next instance he agonizes about Sri Rama and his animal army journeying to these furthest reaches of Time to rescue her. Next, exulting he recalls Vayu embracing Anjani in his gusty arms and whispering, “Beloved, come, traverse my realms in a powered warp bubble. In this celestial craft time and space will meld around you but you shall be utterly un harmed.” Surely Sri Rama could pray for such vehicles!

  Hanuman notices his emotional consciousness swings; it swings from elation to anxiety without pause; its vacillations violent and unpredictable. This puzzles him; he knows himself to be steadfast.

  The pellucid lady languidly floats towards the crystal pavilion. She stands on its periphery in a pleated robe of ultraviolet light in which shoals of infrared fish dart without cease. Behind her a host of creatures follow, some onion-headed, others ghoulish who ride spectral tigers, and others of argent light, small flaming beings. The glorious figure smiles and gladness saturates Hanuman’s consciousness.

  Without moving her lips she speaks in nectarine tones to the six sad women moored in the pavilion.

  ““I am Mandodari, Queen of Lanka, Ravana’s Wife. Philosopher and Friend To Those Lost Without Cause. You should rise to greet me Sita, for you are my husband’s prisoner yet it is I who comes to you.

  Why do I do this? Think hard, Sita.

  I come out of love.

  I come too to assure you that no harm will befall you. Behold my retinue. Each one is a refugee who fled from planets strewn in velvet skies; each one of them my Lord of Lanka protects. The large headed creatures are evolved Jupiter Brains who sought shelter from persecution in barbaric starworlds. I leave them here so their meditative auras shed stability on you.

  The ghostly tiger-borne Pishachas are survivors of a nuclear winter they caused on their planet. They represent the future of your race for you humans love not your children. The Pishachas I bring as a warning of the grief of war your husband is bent on wrecking on our world. Already he prays to the Gods to help him retake you and our old enemies hear him.

  I ask: what is your chastity worth, Sita? Accept Ravana’s prayer and I shall send word to Rama that you have remarried. Heed my words, soft-skinned stranger, and you can avert our shared tragedy. Or are you beautiful without but a monster of vanity within, feasting on fallen blood?

  Regard reason, Sita. Need women be trophies of war, fought over for honour? Do you need to be rescued? Can’t you rescue yourself?

  The flaming figures that float around me are Zepetibs who decided for themselves who and what they should be despite all odds. Befriend these wise ones. Be inspired by their argentine compassion.

  Suddenly Mandodari mushrooms. Her head rakes treetops; her bejeweled hair snakes over branches. Her perfume turns acrid, her honeyed voice thunders. Should my arguments have moral import I demand Sita’s replicants disappear. Immediately a single sleep deprived figure stands before her. Now I see you for what you are, stubborn wife of Rama! Mandodari gazes long, her amber eyes like embers beneath black lashes.

  Gradually Mandodari shrinks to her former size. Do not be af Sita. In Lanka, Paradisiacal Abode in the Relic Field, emotions translate as space, substance. We enlarge with happiness, shrink with sorrow; we engorge with rage and dissolve in love. Compassion makes us transparent, a fate I have often experienced.

  Unlike your duplicitous species which shows no outward sign of cunning, we Rakshasas hide nothing. And we pay the price!

  Mandodari throws back her head, laughing terribly, her small fangs showing, her jeweled hair rising like a halo. Like my sister-in-law Soorpanaka The Brave. In our custom women approach men they desire like waves rush to the shore. Though they transgressed her territory Soorpanaka wished happiness with your husband and his brother. She offered them joy; your heroes mutilated her and mangled her future.

  Mandodari wafts closer to the pavilion, her perfume pungent, her golden body darkening like mounting dusk dense with bats. Ravana abducted you to punish them, but before the voyage was over he fell in love with you. But what does he see in you except unavailable docility?

  This is your lure. The hem of her lengthening robe combusts as it grazes the crystal base. She freezes. Gradually her sharp scent gives way to lotus fragrance. Gradually she shrinks to her previous form.

  Gradually her ultraviolet hem flows over crystal like a gentle wave, iridescent. Lucky mortal, you are protected by a Ravana Rekha, a spell he cast around this pavilion that no creature wishing you ill can cross.

  You see I bear none now against you.

  Mandodari glides into the hovering pavilion; transluce
nt. Sita, do not think you are alone. I am with you in your suffering, fellow lifeform!

  She pales further like dawn light, her hair sun-shot mist. Sister Mine, do not distrust me! Mandodari is shimmering transparency. Sita, I beseech you, hear me. I know your experience; know I was meditating when Ravana carried me here; I fought him but then fell in love with him. He is beguiling, tender, my life!

  Mandodari rapidly reduces in size. She flies outside, shrinking, growing turgid. My husband loves you, Sita. Imagine my plight. For centuries I was queen of his heart. Now you, you usurp my place! She spins and spins, growing smaller with each spiral until flowers tower above her.

  Wicked woman, I cause you no harm but you ruin me. Mandodari booms, expanding over the pavilion, hunching over it, her eyes like gigantic fighting carps peering between crystal pillars. Know this: we Rakshasas bar not those we love from experiencing ecstasy elsewhere.

  But we make a sacred bond with one, only one. You have broken this bond between my love and me. Give yourself to him, captive. Release him from desire. Thus return my love to me. In this lies your salvation.

  And his, mine and Lanka’s too!

  Gradually Mandodari returns to her previous proportions, her voice entrancing. Flowers of light blossom on her robe. Listen Sita, you cannot escape. Know my husband, Ravana whose Voice makes the Three Times Tremble never takes a woman against her will. Our palaces brims with female species from distant galaxies who recklessly risk sub space travel to be with him. Octopus women from far, giant Posidus whose hundred tentacles shudder with pleasure; single breasted Amazitz of the Xerksus Constellation whose legs are of titanium and sex of sponge, the frail, fainting Epilabies of course, and the newest generation of replicants from the Cervantius Quadrant who have heard from Pod Mothers of Ravana’s skill; even the gender-bending Yaawes of Rrepos slough off sleep to make the journey though only one in a ziket survive the trip. I could go on. Know too human, my pleasure quarters are full, yet a line of applicants spill into time.

  Yet I, Ravana’s confidant, his wife, his queen, his one time love know he was prepared to break his vow and ravish you except you are human and he Rakshasa. Pleasure engorges him; you would rip. The circulatory systems of those who come willingly adapt to Lanka’s emotional laws: like us, their bodies gain the ability to expand and shrink with pleasure and pain, lust and longing. You resist. You will die should he make love to you. So my husband desists. He suffers.

  Mandodari shrivels into a small squirming shape.

  She revives, more resplendent than when she arrived. Her aura suffuses the garden. On her robe of light firecrackers spew celebration; her voice is mesmerizing. Sita, listen, I will make a sacrifice, a sharing. I shall send my favourite handmaiden to painlessly suck your blood and replace it with ours. I shall add droplets of my own essence from the Labia-Nymphae so you know how to give and receive joy as never before. Now agree!

  Flowing water stops murmuring, trees silence their leaves, pilbi crickets and li-birds hush. The garden silent and waiting is Mandodari’s extension and stilled heartbeat.

  Speak Sita. Mandodari becomes shorter and shorter. Speak speak speak speak speak speak, I beg you speak!

  Mandodari caves in, contracting small as an insect’s cocoon. She writhes, worm like, on jewel emblazoned dust, her robe twitches like a butterfly’s tattered wing. Yet her whisper winds like perfume wafted by a zephyr, Heartless One, you will have me transport you to my bedchamber and the auricles of my eight valved heart. So be it.

  So despairing is my husband of attaining you that he shrank in sorrow.

  The Mighty Ravana shrank smaller and smaller than I have ever witnessed. He shrunk to pebble size, then even smaller. He was weeping for you, Sita. I feared heartbreak would reduce him to nothingness. I scooped him up in the palm of my hand, held him on my finger tip and fed him venomous words against my will. I stoked his anger, stoked his arrogance until enraged, he expanded bursting through the dome of our palace. I left him, large as a cloud, thundering for war, and sought you out.

  Mandodari’s tattered wing-dress convulses.

  I cannot see my love go through such torture. Nor can I go against my spirit which is to harmonize, to heal. Save us, Sita. Succumb!

  Again nothing moves, speaks or breaths. Duration pauses in the garden; a wrinkle in time that will not exist. Suddenly Mandodari swells into her habitual beauty and the garden begins to live again. Her billowing robe of ultraviolet darkens as clouds appear streaming infrared rain. So we shall have blood, we shall have war. As she laughs the jewels on her body dim, her hair singes to soot. Alas, Sita! My husband thought you had a woman’s heart, Ravana had his Psychic Emotechs calculate the maximum weight of grief the human heart can bear and loaded the other 999 decoy satellites with this burden to fool Rama’s spies should they dare venture here. But you know no sorrow, nor compassion. It was unnecessary. Mandodari turns, effulgence swarms around her, retreating. All of this is unnecessary.

  A bud of radiance opens, star-like, in the hovering crystal pavilion. “Compassionate Mandodari, Philosopher and Friend, Great Queen of Lanka, Wife of Ravana Most Mighty of Rakshasas, I, shy Sita, speak. I am unworthy of your wisdom and your confidence. So magnificent is your presence and so profound your revelations that I tremble at your words, tongue tied. Yet my heart brims with hope like a lotus drowning in dew. Noble Queen know just as you are wedded to your husband through bonds of love sacred, I am to mine.

  You have dominion over me through all time and space for your husband knows who he is: king, conqueror, lover -and you love him in every manifestation. My Rama knows not himself. Unaware is he of his own essence even as he lives. Though incomparably valorous, so fast is Rama bound to the path of righteousness, such a slave to it is he that he is blind.

  My Rama does not know when right becomes wrong.

  To you, Magnanimousness Incarnate, I confess lesser mortals than my husband risk their name in the gamble of life; they accept others’ ways as equally honorable. Not my husband. Rama is perpetually right, whether in domestic disagreement or matters of state.

  This is my misfortune, and his.

  But I speak too as Queen-in-Exile. One day my Rama will return to rule Ayodhya, of this I am certain. Though I am young, I think he, as virtuous ruler, must not merely impose his rules of uprightness on his subjects as he is bound to; rather he must seek in himself compassion. My husband must learn to trust himself above rules; and so yield to variance just as several flowers are fragrant and many birds sing sweetly. This, Elder Sister, is my endeavor, and I pray life will not disappoint me.

  I, Daughter of Earth, through my captivity am offering Rama just this chance to trust, to flourish. Will he accept me as his loving wife after I have been your husband’s prisoner? Or will Rama fail us both and love itself? Will it all go up in flames? I shudder.

  Yet I wish Rama to face my test of fire, my Agni Pariksha. For I know his manner of treating me will tell on his rule on Earth and echo for ages to come. I am trying to change the course of our world, no less. And I am filled with faith.

  Know too Earth my Mother suffers with every injustice done to those who dwell on her. I am an Earthling first.

  Benevolent Being, understand I cannot accede to your wishes for the sake of my husband, for the sake of my mother and for my own sake too. I must keep my faith!

  This is our story as is being written by Sage Valmiki.

  Mandodari’s effulgence continues to retreat. Her voice soughs through the trees. Tell then your friend Valmiki to be silent on the chapter of our meeting for he will write it wrong. He is bound by laws of men, not those of eternity.

  From this moment on my life will be one of sorrow. Know too Sita you will bring sorrow to yourself and all who follow your conduct. However, continue, Daughter of Earth, in your vain pursuit to improve your husband’s vision and forestall your mother’s suffering. I see you can do no better.

  Our species will die;
yours and mine as a consequence of your tender blindness. Mandodari flares into transparency and vanishes.

  Sita sinks on the sparkling pavilion’s floating floor, into the pool of her reflection. “Mother Earth, Last Solace, I am gambling all. But am I wrong in my belief? If so, release me from possible regret! Rise now and receive me in your womb! Take me back.

  Mother, hear me!

  But I am caught in a time before you are born. Is there no help for me?” Sita’s tears shatter, prismatic, against the crystal’s clarity.

  Hanuman’s consciousness that swathes the satellite like an unseen cloud stirs. Agitated he prays for grace funneling his thoughts on Sri Rama, his All. Hanuman’s concentration compresses his consciousness, contracts it; with supreme effort he compacts it unheeding of the pain caused by abandoning vastness. Smaller, smaller until his consciousness is contained in the tiny curl of his mother’s DNA. Hanuman gambles with the unknown laws of The Relic Field. Here perhaps mind may yield matter. Vowing his love for his master even should it mean death, Hanuman vouchsafes his mind: make Sri Rama’s sign appear!

  From coded information Rama’s signet ring materializes. It clatters on to crystal.

  Irrevocably the story continues as Valmiki wrote it.

  Kalyug Amended

  Molshree Ambastha

  After completing my lecture, I entered the staff room. A hot discussion on politics was going on between two teachers.

  “Jahanvi, do you have a free period now?” one teacher asked.

  “Yeah.” I took my seat and searched for the newspaper. I turned the page; it had Raam’s picture, our current Chief Minister, with the headline ‘Youth Chief Minister inaugurating…’

  Who cares? I stared at Raam’s snapshot.Fifteen years can change a person a lot.