PRINCE IN EXILE (20 page)
Dasaratha rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. ‘Trust you to bring everything crashing back down to Prithvilok again, Sumantra! Don’t you enjoy visiting Swargalok when you get the chance? These moments of reconciliation are rare enough as it is without cutting them even shorter!’ He glanced at Kausalya with the faintest trace of mischief in his eyes. ‘If you were not here in the room, perhaps I might even learn just how fully recovered I am!’
Kausalya slapped her husband’s arm lightly. ‘Dasa! If the royal vaids hear you, they’ll have you chained to your bed for the rest of your life!’
‘Just as long as they chain you with me,’ he said, half seriously. ‘Close to me.’
Sumantra emitted a disbelieving laugh that turned immediately into an embarrassed cough of apology.
Dasaratha looked into Kausalya’s eyes with that intense, searching look, part forgive-me and part love-me-for-ever, that she knew so well. She shook her head, wagging her finger in warning, and was about to make some throwaway comment about how invalid kings ought not to attempt amorous forays into hostile territory when she saw Sumantra react to something behind her. The prime minister’s expression changed suddenly as a strange twisted shadow fell upon the bed, backlit by the mashaals in the outer room.
Dasaratha looked up too, and Kausalya, who had her back to the doorway, saw his face lose its playful, smiling mischievousness at once, so abruptly that it seemed a mask had been pulled from his face. Or perhaps a mask had been put upon his face. The shadow of the person who had entered behind Kausalya fell partway across Dasaratha, dissecting him in half.
‘My lords, my lady, pardon my interrupting,’ said a voice that was oddly familiar yet not instantly recognisable. ‘But I must needs have a word with the maharaja at once.’
It was the way the intruder said the word ‘maharaja’ that made Kausalya identify her. Kausalya did not wish to turn around, did not want to confirm what her ears were telling her. It couldn’t possibly be who she thought it was. And yet, now that she had heard that peculiarity of speech, she could not doubt it. An instant later, Sumantra confirmed it when he rose to his feet and spoke stiffly, almost harshly, quite unlike his usual impeccably polite official manner.
‘What could be so urgent that you need disturb the king in his sickroom at this hour of night? You could have discussed it with the preceptor, or if Guru Vashishta were not available, then you could have asked for me, surely?’
Now Kausalya did turn her head, if only to see how the visitor reacted. She saw the haggard pale face of the hunchback Manthara curl in a sly smile that barely concealed her snide disagreement with the prime minister’s words.
‘That would be impossible, Pradhan-mantriji. For this matter concerns the maharaja alone. You see, my lord,’ she went on, addressing Dasaratha directly without further preamble, ‘my lady Kaikeyi wishes you to come see her at once.’
Kausalya noticed the darkness spread across Dasaratha’s face, creeping to cover both sides now, leaving only part of one eye and a bit of his forehead illuminated. Manthara had taken another step into the room as she spoke, elongating her shadow.
Dasaratha raised himself to his elbow with an effort. ‘As you can see, daiimaa,’ the maharaja replied harshly, ‘I am not at my best for paying late-night visits at present. If the matter is urgent, Rani Kaikeyi will have to take it up with the preceptor or prime minister.’ He added, after a pause, ‘Or, if it is of a personal nature, it might be best if she addresses herself to Rani Kausalya directly. The First Queen has charge of all palace affairs while I am indisposed.’
Kausalya saw the gleam in the old woman’s eyes. For a second she almost thought the daiimaa’s eyes were green. But that couldn’t be. Manthara had plain black eyes, didn’t she? She put it down to a trick of the light and the angle.
‘That would be quite impossible, my liege.’
‘I see,’ Dasaratha said with a weary but unmistakable trace of anger in his tone now. The maharaja had never brooked subordinates who spoke back after being told what to do. Kausalya prepared to place a hand on his arm to coax him to calm down. It would not do for him to lose his temper at some tottering old wet-nurse and worsen his already deteriorated condition. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because,’ Manthara said with a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sly chuckle, ‘my lady has taken the vrath vows and retired to the kosaghar. She intends to remain there until she is parted from her mortal form. In short, she will starve herself to death unless your majesty goes at once and stops her.’
FIFTEEN
The moment Vibhisena entered the Hall, all conversation ceased. Actually, you could hardly call it conversation; cacophony was a more apt term. When you had a hundred different asuras from a dozen different species gathered together in one place, talking nineteen to the dozen all at once, that was what it sounded like.
Vibhisena walked toward the dais at the far end, taking care to avoid stepping on the long central carpet that traversed the length of the Hall. It was difficult to tell from its present soiled and scuffed condition, but the carpet was made from human skin. It gave Vibhisena the willy-nillies to imagine how many unfortunate mortals had died to make the six-inch-thick hundred-yard-long carpet. He felt worse when he recalled that the skin used was all taken from human infants while still alive.
Vibhisena kept his eyes raised to avoid having to look at the carpet. The seats of the great Hall were filled, every chair occupied by an asura chief. Unlike previous sessions, he failed to recognise any of those gathered here today. That was probably because most of the asura lords he knew had perished in the battle of Mithila, as it was now being called. These asuras gathered here today were the lowest-rung specimens of their species, catapulted overnight to chieftain status because of the sudden void in their leadership. Even so, Vibhisena was surprised to see any asuras here at all. The massacre of Mithila - as he preferred to call it - had been brutally efficient in its decimation. He presumed that these survivors must be from the few groups that had been sent north-west to Kaikeya and Gandahar, or perhaps even part of the contingent that had remained to guard Lanka itself. If so, they should count themselves doubly lucky, once for having escaped the fate of their fellows at Mithila, and once more for being rewarded with these promotions.
They watched him with hostile curiosity as he passed by. Vibhisena was a curious object in Lanka even to those who knew him well, and to these asuras he must seem like a most exotic specimen. He was certainly not what any of them might have expected. This was not the image that came to mind when one said the words ‘Ravana’s brother’.
He could imagine what they saw with complete clarity. A stick-thin albino-skinned rakshasa clad in Brahmin-white dhoti and kurta and toe-grip wooden slippers, choosing to walk the length of the Hall rather than be borne aloft by the servants at his disposal. It was an image they would be having a hard time reconciling with their expectations.
But the physical imperfections apart, what would baffle most of them was his outward appearance. How could Ravana’s brother, a rakshasa, be dressed like a mortal, a Brahmin no less? Why, he even had the caste marks of a real Brahmin, and the rudraksh maala around his neck, and to those who were sharp-eyed enough to note, the janayu thread around his torso, wound diagonally over one shoulder and tied at the waist. From the clicking and hissing and gruff mumbles all around, he could tell what they must be speculating.
There must be some subterfuge here, they were thinking, a part of some devilish new ploy of the demonlord to trick the mortals of Prithvi-lok. This Brahmin bhes-bhav was no doubt intended to be a disguise that Vibhisena would use to infiltrate some mortal city, most likely Ayodhya, in order to eliminate some mortal enemy. They were even speculating as to the identity of the target: Rama Chandra was by far the favourite choice.
He felt the hooded beady eyes of the nagas and uragas watching him suspiciously, their forked tongues flickering in and out of their slitted maws, hissing sibilantly. The danvas, pisacas, ditis, daityas, vetaals and other related sub-human species all stared with glittering red-veined eyes as he passed them by. The yaksa chiefs were morphing through various forms as they pleased, depending on their moods, and whims, one in the process of turning from a tiger into a rhinocerous, another seemingly content to stay half gharial and half albatross, with the wings of a garuda. The rakshasa chieftains were as surly and bloodthirsty-looking as ever, licking their fangs and tusks in restless anticipation. A trio of them, two females and a male, were engaged in fervent copulation as he passed, or perhaps they were resolving some dispute the rakshasa way.
Vibhisena’s wooden slippers clattered on the stone floor as he approached the dais. The Black Throne of Lanka sat empty as it had these past three days. He climbed the stairs to the top of the dais slowly and cautiously. This entire area was always slippery with blood and various internal fluids from the unfortunate asura chiefs that Ravana routinely slaughtered for their various lapses and inefficiencies. The stench was incredible and the floor squirmed and writhed with a profusion of maggots, death beetles and other offal-feeders. Perhaps he ought to have the place washed down? He wondered how that would abide with the asura chiefs. It would be a stark contrast with Ravana’s methods.
He turned and faced the Hall, which had suddenly fallen still and silent once more. Every pair of eyes - and various other kinds of vision organs - was focused on him. He raised his voice to be heard, grateful for the sorcerous spell that made the speaker’s voice audible to everyone across the large Hall.
‘Friends,’ he said, ‘I am Vibhisena, brother to Ravana, Lord of Lanka. It was I who brought back my brother’s body from the place at Mithila where he fell.’
He paused to let them react. Not a single one gave him the satisfaction. He mused that they must already be aware of these basic facts at least. They would be wanting to know something more, something they did not already know. He obliged them.
‘My brother is not dead. Whatever you may have heard and believed, hear this first: Ravana is alive and well.’
That got a reaction. A burst of exclamatory sounds and noises erupted around the Hall. The trio of copulating rakshasas ceased their sexual activity. At least, two of them did; when the third, a female who didn’t want the male to stop his action, growled and bit him impatiently, the male rakshasa used his talons to slash her throat and let her body roll down the steps from his seat to the floor below; it writhed and shook in its death spasms, shaking exactly as if it was experiencing some macabre orgasm. Perhaps it was; with rakshasas, eroto-necrophilia was a finely developed art. Some orgasms were considered worth dying for.
Vibhisena averted his eyes from the thrashing naked female form before the dais and continued his speech. ‘He has asked me to speak to you on his behalf and let you know that Lanka remains in his command. Let none of you think otherwise. He retains his position as lord of the asura races and master of the island-kingdom.’
A pisaca chieftain, its ghostly white eyes glowing in a rotting face, called out seductively, ‘If this is true, why does not the demonlord appear to us in person? Why does he send you poor fool to speak on his behalf?’
A danav further down the line made a tearing, ripping sound with its tooth-rimmed maw. ‘Perhaps Ravana has lost his voice!’
That drew honks and roars of laughter all around. An uraga turned abruptly and lunged at its companion, a diti, swallowing the angelic horse-asura up in two quick gobbles. Vibhisena didn’t dare ask what the diti had done to aggravate the uraga. The giant serpent uncoiled to allow for the animal it had just ingested, which slid down the python-like body with lurching progress as the diti suffocated to death within the uraga’s gullet. The uraga’s little-girl face beamed beatifically, in start contrast to its horrific body.
Vibhisena raised his hand, asking for silence. It was slow in coming. He could see that the chiefs were not impressed or intimidated by his appearance or manner. That was to be expected: they had been accustomed to millennia under the yoke of the cruellest asura ruler that had ever existed. A rake-thin albino rakshasa dressed and marked like a mortal Brahmin would hardly cause them any consternation. For all his religious piety, Vibhisena was still a rakshasa. He could smell from the mélange of odours in the Hall that the chiefs were bordering on open mutiny. He must bring the sabha under control and quickly, or his very life would be forfeit.
He went on, trying for a sterner, more commanding tone this time. ‘My brother is still indisposed, that is why I speak for him. But none of his power is diminished in the slightest, so, friends, let me warn you—’
‘What do you mean, indisposed? Does he just have a cold and a fever, or did he grow wings and fly away?’
Vibhisena wasn’t sure where that question came from, but it seemed to have originated from the rakshasa section. That was a very bad sign. If the rakshasa chiefs were losing respect for Ravana, then the other asuras would pounce on the lohit-stone throne in a trice. The fact that the rakshasas had outnumbered the other asura species by a factor of ten was one of the things that had kept the rest of them in check; after the massacre at Mithila, that safeguard had been lost. As the vanguard of the attack, the rakshasa clans had been the most badly hit. The rakshasa races, so long the masters of their asura associates, were no more superior in numbers. And with Ravana’s powerful sorcery and brutal leadership absent, it left no check on any kingly ambitions the other chiefs might have.