PRINCE IN EXILE (5 page)

Even sacred ganga-jal and Brahman power could not cleanse this patch. Such is the power of Ravana, even in death. Deva save us all from his tyranny. 

Vibhisena felt his voice tremble as he issued a command to the flying chariot in the secret code-tongue that Ravana had taught him. At once, the underside of the Pushpak began to glow with a fierce white light, the beam directed downwards at the patch of blighted earth. The beam shone as thickly as a shaft of solid whiteness, a perfect marblesque pillar with only a shimmering at its periphery to indicate its lack of substance. 

The pillar of white light descended solidly to the ground, then made contact with the surface. 

A deafening impact exploded into the morning sky. Suddenly, the world turned dark as twilight, the sun blotted out by a force as powerful as the Brahman mantra that had brought the gangajal rain only hours earlier. The sky rolled and seethed with ominous colours like a vast backlit cyclorama in a Sanskrit drama: some tragic epic of warring devas and asuras. Colours at the lower end of the spectrum–garish crimsons, purples, cerulean blues–flashed and rolled across the horizon. Explosions of blinding white light burst from the pores of the patch of blighted earth as the pillar of light bored its way relentlessly into the ground. As the pillar went down, penetrating the protesting earth, ash-grey dust billowed up, spattering Vibhisena and Jatayu, blinding their vision. The giant bird-beast screeled in terror and panic and flapped its mighty wings again, churning up even more dust and ash and earth. Still the pillar of light went down, down. Sods of blighted earth began to fly up, as if churned by an invisible plough, coating the burnished gold of the celestial chariot, besmirching Vibhisena’s face and person, drawing enraged cries from the bird-lord perched above. 

With a final burst of effulgence, the drama of light and noise reached a climax, and as suddenly as it had begun, the spectacle ended. The world was abruptly still. Like the stillness after the first blow of a hurricane and before the arrival of the true storm. The calm at the centre of the eye of chaos. 

Vibhisena forced himself to look down again, struggling to see through the suddenly dense and polluted air. He was about to call to the Pushpak to cease drilling when the chaos below resolved into a clearer insight. What he saw stilled his speech and froze his heart. 

At the bottom of a deep pit scored by the pillar of white light there lay a block of what appeared to be solid red marble. Its surface was criss-crossed by a fine tracery of pink veins that glowed from within. Inside this illuminated slab lay an object, trapped like a primordial insect in crimson amber. As Vibhisena watched wordlessly, he heard a choked cry from Jatayu above him. The bird-beast had seen it too. 

The beam from the Pushpak grew unbearably strong, too bright to look into directly, and Vibhisena had to shield his vision and squint until his eyes were thin slits. A grinding sound rose from the pit, as if the pillar of light were grinding away the sides of the ditch, widening them to allow room for the stone block to be raised. And the earth itself seemed to resist. As Vibhisena strained to see through the flying mud and dust and searing light, he saw the earth on all four sides of the stone block falling
into
the ditch now, filling it as fast as the light pillar could excavate it. Yet the pillar continued its work relentlessly. Mud and sods flew out of the ditch in an endless upward rain as the celestial vehicle and the very earth battled. But why would the earth resist? Why would it want to keep that object within its belly? 

The answer came to Vibhisena as another flash of searing light exploded from the ground below. 

It’s Prithvi-maa herself, the spirit of the earth. She seeks to swallow up the remains of Ravana whole, to digest them and send them deep down into the bowels of her planetary body. To bury them for ever. 

And yet, even as the realisation came to him, the earth shuddered one last time with a moan of protest that was shockingly human, and the stone block came free of the soil in which it was imbedded with a sudden jerk. It rose slowly on the shaft of white light, that now acted as a passageway. As the stone slab moved steadily upward, Vibhisena saw that even now the earth still fought to retain hold of it, to bury it again. Soil rained down on it from every side with the ferocity of waterfalls tumbling from a Himalayan glacier. But the shakti of the celestial chariot was beyond resisting now, and the stone block rose inexorably. 

Finally, the block emerged out of the ditch. The instant it rose above the surface, the hole it had left behind filled rapidly, growing brimful with earth. The surrounding earth seeped across the blighted patch like water spilled across a spot of wine, diluting and cleansing the darker soil. The purified earth overwhelmed the ruined soil, scouring it clean as effectively as the rain of ganga-jal had scoured the entire country earlier. With it, the very last traces of the asura invasion passed for ever into oblivion. The earth replenished itself. 

Only then did Vibhisena have a chance to look closely at the stone block. It was rising higher, even as the Pushpak itself rose higher. The chariot shot upward into the sky a hundred yards, then a thousand, then two thousand, pulling the stone slab beneath it. Then the world became a blur and Vibhisena was forced to close his eyes to keep from fainting dead away. Above him, Jatayu’s head was forced down over the side of the sky chariot, compelled by the pressure of their rapid ascent. For once, no sound escaped the bird-beast’s beak, but its eyes met Vibhisena’s and the rakshasa saw that the bird-lord was terrified witless. 

He dreads what lies in that stone block more than he feared being destroyed by the Brahm-astra. 

After what seemed like an interminable time, Vibhisena dared to open his eyes once more. 

The Pushpak had risen to a great height, far above the clouds. And now it was travelling southwards, acting of its own volition as it sometimes did. Even as he looked down in amazement, the celestial vehicle gained speed until it was shooting along with a velocity even an arrow would have been hard pressed to match. The earth blurred beneath its passing. Glancing back over his shoulder, Vibhisena saw that the gangetic plain had once more returned to its normal state, green and replete with new growth everywhere, the sky brilliantly sunlit and cloudless for as far as he could see. It fell behind with dizzying speed, and he turned to look ahead. A pale blue line blurred past below, and he knew that they had passed the Ganga and crossed over into the wild lands south of the Arya nations. A faint sensation of regret plucked at his heart. He had come so close to finding salvation … Now, the humps of hill ranges, the green carpet of forests, the steely-blue of lakes all shot past below at a blinding pace. Had the Pushpak not been capable of protecting its passengers from the force of its passage, he would been blown off the helm of the vehicle. 

He glanced up at Jatayu and saw that the bird-beast too was secure in the protective shield of the chariot, its large scarletand-black claws clinging fiercely to the top railings. 

At this rate, Vibhisena knew, they would be in Lanka before noon, perhaps even earlier if the chariot increased its speed. It did not surprise him; the vehicle had brought him north just as rapidly earlier this morning. 

At last he was able to spare a moment to look down at the burden they carried. Still fixed to its underside by the supernatural pillar of white light, the stone block rode beneath the chariot as if fixed with invisible ropes. Vibhisena leaned over the edge, unafraid of falling, knowing that the Pushpak would protect him, and examined the stone block closely. 

It was the size that the patch of land had been, about six yards by three. But the being trapped within it like an insect in amber was relatively smaller, perhaps three yards in length, and a yard wide. At one end, though, the creature was much wider, almost twice the width of its body. This was its head; or rather, as Vibhisena corrected himself, its heads. 

The still form of Ravana, Lord of Lanka, master of the asura races, bane of all existence, lay trapped within the block of stone. As best as Vibhisena could tell, his demon-lord brother was still and unbreathing, all his ten pairs of eyes closed in peaceful repose. 

FOUR
 

Rama Chandra, rajkumar of Ayodhya, prince-heir of the Kosala kingdom, and Rajkumari Sita Janaki of Mithila, princess-heir of the Videha nation, were married with great pomp and ceremony. The marriage was held on the day after what came to be known as Siege Day. Even though the princess had chosen Rama at the Swayamvara, garlanding him as her chosen betrothed, it was still customary to formally ask for the groom’s hand. This request, as tradition demanded, was forwarded by Maharishi Satyananda, spiritual adviser of Maharaja Janak, to Guru Vashishta at Ayodhya. Guru Vashishta accepted the request and dispatched the messenger back to Mithila before informing Maharaja Dasaratha, still recovering from his series of calamities, and the titled queens, Rani Kausalya, Rani Kaikeyi and Rani Sumitra. Arrangements were made to take a splendid groom’s procession, the traditional groom’s procession, from Ayodhya to Mithila. 

The baaraat that arrived at Mithila had spectators gaping mutely. Never before had such a lavish procession of luxury and wealth been seen in the liberated city. If the Vaidehans were ahead in their accretion of spiritual and moral enrichment, then the Kosalans had the upper hand in material and aesthetic prowess. The five-mile-long procession took several hours to pass through the city gates. One bemused portly Brahmin who watched in envious delight estimated that over fifty thousand Ayodhyan bellies would have to be fed by their Mithilan hosts that night. He promptly turned the head of his ass and joined the rear of the procession, chuckling and rubbing his enormous paunch as he contemplated the joys of feasting on the special savouries that the groom’s baaraat alone was privileged to be served. He got his wish and was unable to walk for days afterward; every time he belched, he tasted the wedding feast again and blessed both groom and bride fervently. It was the best and biggest feast he had partaken of in his avaricious life. 

All of Mithila feasted that night. Rivers of wine and soma flowed, thousands of heads of cattle, sheep and fowl were slaughtered and roasted, entire groves of fruit and vegetables were consumed. The milky, ghee-rich odour of mithai being prepared filled the entire district around the royal kitchens. 

In the central hall of the palace, on a pandal–a platform specially erected for the occasion–Guru Vashishta, Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, Maharishi Satyananda, and a small army of purohits, pundits and other venerated Brahmins conducted the elaborate rituals to propitiate the devas for the fruitful union of the princely pair. It had been decided by both families that the three brothers of Rama and Sita’s sister and two cousins were to be wed as well. But it was Rama and Sita who first took the seven pheras around the sacred yagna fire, as the priests chanted the appropriate hymns. 

//Iyam Sita mama suta sahadharmachari thava// //Pratichha chainam bhadram te panim grihnishwa panina// //Pativrata mahabhaga chayevanugata sada// //Ithyuktwa prakshipadraja mantraputam jalam tada.// 

On completion of the ritual, Maharaja Janak, tears welling in his eyes, embraced the pink-saffa-turbaned, flower-veiled Rama and said to him, ‘Ramabhadra, pray accept my daughter Sita Janaki as your saha-dharmini, your partner in dharma. May you both dwell in the shadow of the grace of the devas for ever, as closely bonded as a mortal being to its own shadow.’ 

With these words, Janak placed Sita’s hands over Rama’s and chanted suitable mantras while pouring ganga-jal over his daughter’s hands. The holy water dripped through the clasped hands and into a golden bowl, formally solemnising the union. Upon this, the entire congregation chanted aloud in one enormous harmony: ‘Sadhu! Sadhu!’ The sound carried across the city, turning the anxiously expectant faces of the waiting Mithilans into masks of pleasure. With a sounding of conch trumpets, the celebrations began, notwithstanding the fact that only one of the four marriages was formally over. Mithilans were known for starting early and finishing late. 

After the marriage of Rama and Sita was solemnised, Janak gave his daughter Urmila in marriage to Lakshman. Then, on behalf of his late brother Kushadhwaja, he gave his nieces Mandavi and Shrutakirti to Bharat and Shatrugan respectively. 

The two maharajas embraced to show their joy at this joining of their dynasties; Janak expressed his pleasure at seeing Dasaratha after such a long time, and wondered if he would have to father more daughters to entice his old friend into visiting again. Dasaratha pleaded his ill health and the recent asura threat as excuses for his not staying the customary seven days. 

Maharaja Janak had much to think about in the wake of the recent crisis, so narrowly averted by the timely arrival of Rajkumar Rama and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. It sobered him to think that had they not arrived when they had, all that he now beheld from the height of the Sage’s Brow would lie in blood-spattered ruins. Still, he resisted the urging of his council of ministers and senapatis to reform the Videhan army and build up defences. In the end, he reasoned with unshakeable logic, the city had been saved not by military might, but by spiritual shakti. That was the most powerful vindication of peace he could ask for, and so Mithila resisted all attempts to militarise and remained as spiritually pious and morally liberated as ever. 

FIVE