Rama …
Deep within a subterranean cavern, in the heart of a great mountain, beneath a vast and nameless forest, the vanar named Hanuman spoke the name clearly, pronouncing it with utmost perfection and reverence, cherishing the soft simplicity of its syllables.
Rama …
He spoke it with the dignity it deserved, as the name of a great yodha, warrior of warriors, a champion of humankind. Yet in its inherent softness, it conveyed also the sense of a gentle, affectionate man, a benevolent and just king-in-waiting, a loyal life-sacrificing friend, a selfless brother, a loving husband, and someday, a fine father. So gentle, so soft upon the tongue, so quiet the sound it made upon one’s palate. Hanuman repeated it over and over, his protruding vanar mouth nevertheless enunciating it with Sanskrit perfection, the two syllables reverberating down the depths of the mountain, filling every nook and cranny of the sun-deprived caverns with his devotion.
For it was devotion he felt, devotion to a man who had come to mean as much to him as a deity might mean to other beings. His tail curled behind him like an unfinished Om, the vanar warrior-messenger recited the name of the mortal he admired beyond words like a devotional litany.
Ramaramaramaramaramarama …
Repeating the two simple syllables over and over, he came to realise with a small shock of delight that when reversed, RAMA became AMAR. Literally meaning Eternal. Immortal. How appropriate, how befitting. How completely right. May Rama truly be Amar. He continued his litany, losing himself in the bliss of contemplative meditation, as he had learned from his mentors, Rama and Lakshman. This, he had come to discover, was his own private mantra, the two sacred syllables that opened the doors to his own inner vaults. The gates to his atman. He did not dwell on the how or why of it. Whatever the reason, the simple name Rama functioned as effectively as the infinite Om. He lost himself in his reverie, slipping deeper into a meditative trance. He lost all sense of time and place, aware only of the syllables reverberating in the cavern around him— or in the caverns of his immense heart, he could no longer tell which. His mind, heart and soul were occupied solely with the recitation and the utter absence of thought that was the doorway to true self-awareness.
***
‘Maruti.’
The voice was not his own.
The rhythm of the chant continued unbroken. Yet, he could not deny that voice, nor that word. Maruti. It was one of his given names, after Marut, the wind god, his father. Not many people knew that name, nor that he had been called by it once, as a child. Other than a few vanars, and there were no vanars here in these subterranean caverns. Only the ones he sought. And surely the ones he sought could not know his childhood name, could they?
‘Anjaneya.’
His recitation went on, the litany uninterrupted, for he had learned the art of being able to continue one task even while his mind roved across another problem, or another realm. But his meditation was halted: the whole point of meditation was to shut out all the physical world.
This second word was also a given name of his, culled from his mother’s appellation, Anjan. This one was more widely known, for it had been his mother who had raised him, almost entirely in the absence of his father.
‘Sun-stealer. Broken jaw. Whiteleaf.’
They were all his names, given at different times to commemorate his different antics, most of which he did not remember now. These things had been told to him when he came of age, mainly by his mother, one or two by the other tribe-mothers of his ilk after his mother’s passing. It was unthinkable that any one person could know all these names, let alone any person inhabiting these deep subterranean places. Yet he had not imagined the voice. It had spoken the names as clearly as his own recitation of his own favourite name.
‘Hanuman.’
He opened his eyes now. The cavern remained as dark, as inscrutable as before. But there were presences nearby, approaching him. That last word had been uttered from mere yards away. By a voice filled with great knowledge, ancient wisdom. It was a voice he thought he recognised, not by direct familiarity, for he had never met its owner in person, but by the distinct intonations of its race.
‘Beloved servant of Rama, we have waited aeons for you to come and call on us. My people are ready to serve your cause. You need but ask us, in Rama’s name, and we shall follow you to the ends of the earth.’
He saw now. The faint, fuzzy outlines of shapes in the darkness, shambling towards him, surrounding him on all sides. Their scent was powerful, overwhelming to a vanar accustomed to the open outdoors, not to these closed-in spaces where smell accumulated to potent levels. And before him towered the owner of the voice himself, a good head or two taller than himself, oak-like in width, implacably sturdy and strong. The name of the creature was a legend unto itself, its secret history known only to a few. Yet he had come here in search of it, for his king had willed it, and he in turn had willed it because of the signs, the ancient portents and omens that said it was time, time for the vanars to go call upon the ancient race that had sworn fealty to them for a great favour once granted. And so he had found his way here, to these underground caverns, and recited the name of Rama as he waited. And, as promised, they had come.
He ceased his chanting. The purpose was served. The hours— or was it days?—he could no longer tell for certain—had passed remarkably quickly owing to the deep meditative trance into which he had fallen, aided by the chanting.
He joined his palms in a namaskaram. ‘Greetings on behalf of King Sugreeva of Kiskindha. We call upon you in the name of our ancestors.’
The being before him stood silently, swaying ever so slightly from side to side—he realised finally that it was rocking upon its feet, keeping rhythm to some silent chant of its own, perhaps only the beating of its own heart.
‘We call upon you to honour the old bargain,’ Hanuman said.
‘There is no need,’ said the ancient one.
Hanuman blinked, nonplussed.
‘You have no need of old bargains or oaths to ask for our help this time,’ said the great one. ‘We volunteer. It is our dharma to follow you on this mission.’
Dharma. It was a word his new friend and master used rarely, but thought often. The word that summed up the code by which he lived. How could this ancient one know of dharma. He had assumed that it was only—
‘—a concept devised by mortals, yes, so it is often mistakenly assumed.’
The creature did not comment on the fact that it had somehow discerned the content of his thoughts. It simply went on in its gruff, relentless way. ‘But it is not Rama’s creation, nor his forebears. It is the way of the world. The law of nature itself. Mortals only chose to interpret it and apply it to their own world. And even that interpretation will change as the aeons go by. In another age, far distant, it will come to mean merely Duty, like a given task or chore. And still later, in a dark age filled with garish soul-blackening light, the age of Iron and Death, it will mean merely Religion. A series of rituals, the true origin or purpose of which will have been long forgotten, obscured, and worst of all, perverted. But today, here and now, in this last phase of the Age of Truth, it means what it means to us. A way of life. A way in the world and beyond. And it is the reason we await you and follow you.’
And then the being did something remarkable.
It bowed its mighty head, lowered itself to its knees, and showed respect to Hanuman. Him! A mere vanar, messenger of an adopted prince, not even a general or a commander. A mere angadia!
‘And yet…’ it said, its dark eyes gleaming now in the darkness, like rubies drawing the faintest light to themselves, selfish stones greedily drinking the atoms of illumination and returning them tenfold. ‘And yet, you shall discover your true worth now. For you are more than the sum of your parts and greater than the whole.’
And it raised its stocky, furred arms and uttered an invocation. The air crackled and sparked, the flashes of brief illumination dispelling the darkness to reveal an astonishing sight: the entire cavern
, a vast and endless catacombed chamber that he had thought deserted and desolate, was filled to capacity with the ancient ones, with more of them than he had ever known even existed.
‘Rise, Maruti Anjaneya Broken-Jawed Sun-stealer! Rise, and become all that you are destined to be. In the name of Rama, rise, Hanuman!’
And then the whiteness engulfed him, and every cell in his body exploded, giving up its energy. The entire cavern echoed, first with his shriek of alarm, then with his cry. A single word, called out, as exclamation, declaration, incantation …
‘Rama!’
And so it began.
KAAND 1
ONE
Sita.
The word caught at the edge of her consciousness. Out of her mangled thoughts came a single coherent image, or memory, or vision—she knew not which. She felt the rustle and crackle of dry leaves and gritty earth beneath her cold, damp skin; dampened by sweat or blood or both, she did not know. Her body felt battered and broken, abused and discarded. She dared not move. Someone she knew was speaking her name softly, anxiously, tenderly … someone she loved.
Sita, my sweet.
She opened her eyes slowly. The eyelashes stuck, as if she had been asleep or unconscious a long time.
A dark face loomed large in her field of vision. A man’s face. She knew him. His skin was so dark, it appeared almost blueish when caught by the light in a certain way, as it did now. He was leaning over her prone form. She could just make out the silhouettes of overhanging branches above, shirring softly in a slow breeze. Nearby, she heard the gentle lapping of water and wondered if it was the reason she had come to this place. But she could not recall what exactly she had come to do here—drink water, fetch it, bathe? Perhaps she had not come for the water at all? She was not sure. There was very little she was sure of.
It was night in a forest, that much was certain. Distant whippoorwills hooted, cicadas kept the rhythm of the night, crickets provided a backbeat. The mulchy odour of vegetation, the taste of sweet dew on her lips, the sound of his voice, the knowledge of her great love for him, and of his love for her, these things alone were certain to her disoriented mind.
Sita, my beautiful Sita, wake now.
She tried to focus on the man leaning over her, to see his face clearly. But a full moon backlit his head, casting an aura so fulminous, it threw his features into darkness. His hair, tied usually in a tight hermit’s bun atop his head, had come loose, and strands of it splayed out around his face, silver-dyed by the moonlight. She smelled his familiar odour: coppery, earthy, but with a pungent tinge of … blood? Yes, she sensed rather than saw that he was bleeding from some small, insignificant wound. The hilt of a sword gleamed at his waist. He had been fighting—but whom? And why? She felt a twinge of unease, a sense of impending danger, of being fenced in by assailants, a desperate struggle against daunting odds. A memory flashed in her mind’s eye, of a clearing atop a hill where bears and brigands were locked in a fight to the death, and she and a companion stood shoulder to shoulder, prepared to meet their makers rather than yield. Was he that companion?
She peered up at the achingly familiar blue-dark face and struggled to recall something more than just the fact of her love for him. What were these circumstances? Where was she? Had not she been through a great and arduous journey? Had she been in a battle? Why was her mind so addled, her memories fogged and inscrutable, her thoughts obscure?
‘Rama,’ she said slowly, her tongue a parched leaf on the forest floor of her mouth. She tasted mud, and had some faint recollection of falling face down in a sandy place. Why could she not remember?
‘Yes, my love,’ he said, as softly. Tenderly. His hand lay upon her shoulder, gentle and reassuring. So familiar, so comforting … yet something nagged her mind, gnawed at her ragged nerves. Something about his eyes? Were they too large, too luminous, almost … catlike? No. It must be a trick of the light, the dappling play of moonlight filtering through the leaves.
Frustrated, she scanned his face as intently as she could manage, given the dim light and her own disorientation. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Where am I?’
He smiled. She sensed the smile rather than saw it, his face obscured by the moon. Felt it in the closing of his grip upon her shoulder. ‘Time enough to speak of those things later, my love. For now, you must take some refreshment, regain your strength. You have not eaten or drunk anything for so long. Come, drink some of this.’
He held the back of her head, propping her up, and picked up a clay bowl lying beside him. She leaned forward automatically, so familiar was his manner and the circumstances, and allowed him to guide the bowl to her lips. Suddenly, she realised how thirsty she was, how unbearably neglected and deprived. She could not recall when she had last eaten, but the pounding in the back of her skull, near the base of the neck, when he had raised her up, suggested that it had been days. She felt a great outpouring of warmth and affection for him, gratitude out of all proportion to the simple gifts of water and kind words.
She was about to take a sip when a sound came from afar. He raised his head sharply. It was a peculiar, disturbing sound, definitely not human or animal. Over the thirteen-odd years of exile, on the run from rakshasas night and day, she had come to recognise that sound as well as any other forest denizen’s cry. It was a rakshasa calling out. Whether in pain, anger or some other emotion, she could not tell. But it was a rakshasa.
She gripped his arm tightly. ‘Rama.’
‘Quiet.’
She blinked. His response had been too curt. Even in the most pressing of emergencies, he had never spoken to her in that tone. They must be in great danger. Yet the glade in which she lay seemed so calm and peaceful. Even the sound of that rakshasa had come from far outside, from somewhere beyond a wall or several walls. As if they were in some walled palace courtyard garden and the cry had come from just outside the garden wall. Were they in a palace garden? Where? Not Mithila, surely. Nor Ayodhya. The flowers were different here. The air smelled different too. But they were in some city. Within the heart of some great city. There was no mistaking that now. Close on the heels of this realisation came the dawning awareness that her mind was clearing at last, she was beginning to think more clearly. Some momentous fact stared her full in the face, yet she could not recognise its blank, unformed features. It taunted her, mocked her. Why could she not remember? What had happened to her?
Rama was still listening intently, turning his head this way, then that, as if trying to track an approaching predator. A sound came on the still night air, a kind of choked grunt. Before she could comprehend what might have caused it, he bent and whispered gently, breath warm against her cheek. ‘I will return. Wait here.’
Before she could think of anything to say, or ask, he was gone, a shadow among shadows. The night was silent, too silent, she knew. Something was coming through the woods. Naturally, he must go to see. Yet she felt oddly chagrined, as if she expected him to take her along as well, to regard her as an equal, capable of her own defence, not a frail, fragile companion to be protected and sheltered. It was a minuscule thing, yet it nagged at her throbbing consciousness, troubling her. Had he always been so protective of her? Somehow, she did not feel it was so.
As she waited, she realised her head was clearing further. The fog that had enveloped her memory and thoughts when she had regained consciousness was dissipating fast. The dizziness that had churned in her belly when she had tried to raise her head to sip from the clay bowl was lessened. The pounding in the back of her skull had receded to a dull throbbing. She struggled to sit up and listened carefully, trying to read her environment the way she was used to.
She saw on the ground beside her the bowl that he had put aside when he left. She picked it up and raised it to her face, struck by a sudden suspicion that must be confirmed—or denied. A whiff of the bowl’s contents, and she knew at once.
A powerful sense of déjà vu overwhelmed her. An image rose in her mind, like the mottled surface of a pool
settling slowly to reveal a shadowy reflection: of herself lying like this, and of him bending over her, giving her something to sip from a clay bowl. Something sickly sweet and redolent of … poppy? Yes. It was poppy. That would explain why she was so confused, and unable to think clearly or remember anything. He had been drugging her with juice of the poppy! But why would Rama—
The sound came again, louder and closer than before. It reminded her of a sound she had heard all too often during the past several years, almost like the sound of a rakshasa beginning to grunt in shock, then breaking off abruptly, followed by a heavy thud. But it could not be. The rakshasas of Janasthana were all dead. Weren’t they?
The knowledge came to her, still and clear: I am not in Janasthana.
Her pulse began to grow steadily faster, rising from the near-comatose state in which the drug had suspended her for hours, days, weeks—she had no way of knowing—into a sharpened awareness that came from years of living under the constant shadow of mortal threat. She grew aware of a new level of sensations, scents, sounds, and suddenly she knew that she was in grave danger. Something came to her then, some vestige of memory. A golden air-chariot floating in the air overhead, menacing and cruel in its magnificence, alien, inhuman. And in that chariot …
She remembered then. Everything. In all its nightmarish detail. More than she wished to remember. A moan escaped her parted lips … the poppy juice was better than this remembering. It was more merciful. She cradled her face in her hands, fighting back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, the memories.
The same sound broke the silence again. Closer, this time. Unmistakably now, she knew it at once as the sound of a living being being deprived of life in a sudden, violent action. An abrupt groan of agony, then the shambling thud of a body falling to the ground. A vein began pounding in her head, hammering away at the pain of self-awareness. Where was Rama? Why had he not returned yet?
Her attention was drawn to a bank of trees into which the moonlight failed to penetrate. As she watched intently, mesmerised now, a shadow broke away from its dark siblings and stepped out into the clearing. She continued to lie still, rendered immobile by the shock of returned memories and the numbing dreamlike stasis of her condition. The dark shape stopped a yard away, looming over her, massive, overwhelming, blotting out the moon.
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 3
