Vengeance of Ravana: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#1

VENGEANCE OF RAVANA

Book 7 of The Ramayana Series

by Ashok K. Banker

//Raghupati Raghava raja Ram//
//pattita pavan Sita Ram//
//Sita Ram Sita Ram//
//bhaj pyare tu Sita Ram//

Traditional Folk Song (Favourite bhajan of Mahatma Gandhi)

SAMAPTAM

Raghupati.

Through the haze of smoke from the burning towers of Lanka, dimly glimpsed. Upon that battlefield, carelessly littered with the corpses of friends and foes alike, he stood, grieving. For even in victory had he lost so much; such were the bitter fruits of war. The shouts of his jubilant soldiers rang out all round him, yet to his ears they were overwhelmed by the remembered cries of anguish and torment of those that had fallen upon this field. Vanars, bears, rakshasas…it mattered not if they were his enemy or his ally. All who had died had died for him, one way or another. That was all that mattered. All this, this brutal hacking of limbs and sundering of bones, this mad dance of soldiers, this epic bloodshed, this immense decimation of life, was on his command, and therefore, on his conscience.

Raghava.

He walked the battlefield, taking stock of the fallen. All these lives cut short, some in their prime, all before their time. All these…so many, too many…brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, blood-kith and blood-kin. His siblings at arms. For no less were these fallen united to him than were his own brothers back home, Bharat and Shatrugan. No less were they related to him by blood than Lakshman himself, partner in all his travails and exile, shoulder that stood beside his shoulder through thick and thin. So what if these vanars and bears and rakshasas had not been born of the same mother as he, or of the same father, or even of the same species? Born apart, they had come together to die today for him, and in dying, bonded with him in the eternal brotherhood of blood. These mangled and broken bodies had been living, hoping, longing, loving creatures, with homes and families of their own, which they had left, to dedicate themselves to his cause, to travel long yojanas to this foreign land across a hostile sea, and now this alien soil was soaked through with their honest blood. And this blood was upon his conscience.

Raja.

Now, he would return to his homeland, proud and triumphant, lauded in victory, to be crowned king of Ayodhya. No more a prince in exile, or at war. A king in name and deed and title. His name added to the long list of Suryavansha Ikshwakus, his portrait hung beside those others in the hall of ancestors, his statue carved and polished and raised in the public avenues and places of honour, his name given to a thousand thousand newborn whose mothers would pray for them to be as Rama was, do as Rama did, to become…

Ram.

Yet, was he deserving of this victory, this pride, this praise? This kingship, even? The tales that would be woven around his exploits, the poems composed and sung of his adventures in exile, his feats as a warrior, his triumphs against the evil rakshasas, his incomparable accomplishments and wondrous feats of chivalry? Like so many other warriors before him, reluctant and unwilling to embrace celebrityhood, his story would grow larger than his life itself, in time would come to seem more real than the sordid gritty reality, and eventually, would march firmly into the annals of legend, then myth, and finally, into race-memory.

“Raghupati Raghava Raja Rama…pattita pavana Sita Ram!”

The sound rose to a roaring, counterpointing the numbing silence in his veins. He came out of his reverie like a traveller emerging from mist and saw the entire host of his army’s survivors assembled before him, before the walls of Lanka, still a formidable mass, their ragged voices joined in this new chant, something he had never heard before, yet seemed so oddly familiar. Vanars and bears, and rakshasas even…not all of the rakshasas, for he could see several kneeling sullenly or glumly by, driven to their knees by their vanar or bear captors, unrepentant and hostile in their failure…but those brothers of Vibhisena in spirit who were jubilant in their relief at being rid of Ravana’s yoke at long last. A great multitude of voices raised in ragged, heart-rendingly cheerful harmony, filling the smoky skies above Lanka with this hypnotic chant, this near fanatical hymn of praise…

“Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram, pattita pavana Sita Ram,
Sita Ram, Sita Ram, bhaj pyare tu Sitaram.”

The same two lines over and over again, as if the poet had been so overwhelmed by adoration that he had no motive left to seek lyrics to follow, or inclination to compose those lyrics.

Hail to thee, Rama, Lord of the House of Raghu, Savior of the fallen, Hail to the divine union of Sita and Rama, Beloved are you both, Sita and Rama.

The lilt of the lyrics and the monotony of the melody gave it the quality of a bhajan, a couplet chanted in praise to a god. Was that how they percieved him? As a god? He scanned the sea of upturned faces, bloody snouts and furry heads, and saw wet adoration in those animal eyes, mirrored and repeated in every single visage, vanar and bear alike. To the periphery of his host, huddled before the crumbled walls of Lanka, the survivors of Ravana’s army stood herded together. He saw even their bestial aspects raised towards him. The expression on most rakshasa snouts was a sullen, morose, even hostile aspect. Yet there was a certain grudging admiration visible even in that mottled and beaten crowd, an awe that went beyond any mere fear of captivity. And sweeping the vast assemblage again with battle-weary eyes, he saw that what he euphemistically referred to as adoration or admiration was no less than an acknowledgement of godliness. It was the same look one saw on the faces of devotees at a great teerth-sthan, one of the sacred pilgrimage spots. Yes, many of those assembled saw him as something akin to a god. It would be ingenuous of him not to see that; not to recognize the glistening admiration in those grape-dark eyes for what it truly was: the awe of a crowd of believers given sight of their deity. Even as this realization seeped into his tired senses, the vast host, their numbers so great as to make the vast field resemble nothing so much as a field of kusa lavya grass, swaying gently in an autumn breeze, reached a peak in their chanting.

He scanned the landscape from left to right, attempting to take in the sheer vastness of the multitudes assembled–a great host, despite their terrible losses in battle–carpetting the hills and valleys and fields of Lanka for miles in every direction, a veritable ocean of waves dipping their crests to show respect for the approaching shore, and as they sensed him responding at last, looking upon them, their haunting chant yielded to a moment of such utter silence that he thought his heart itself had ceased beating.

As one, in drill-perfect unison, they straightened their battered bodies to stand on their hind legs, a measure of supreme respect among both vanars and bears, and raised their snouted, furred and dusty faces to him, their dark wet eyes glistening in the slanting evening light. On straightened knees with lowered brows, hoarse voices stilled at last after days of yelling war cries and crying havoc, they observed him, and waited.

In the silence that fell, he heard a bird twittering somewhere, calling the end of day. He felt the benediction of a soft cool ocean breeze wafting in from the west, redolent of salt and the exotic odours of a thousand yojanas of open sea. He felt a strange absence of feeling spread through his being, like the sensation one experienced just before falling fast asleep, when the body and mind hovered momentarily between wakefulness and deep unconsciousness. He stood on that precipice, and teeming multitudes waited to hear his words.

A great hand fell upon his shoulder. Gently, despite its great strength. The voice that spoke in his ear was as quiet as that hand was gentle.

“Command them, they are your’s. As are the earth, sky and sea, and everything in it. You are the master of the world now. Rule it as you see fit.”

The voice of the bear king Jambavan was sonorous and gruff as ever. But the tone of sad wisdom was new. Perhaps, he thought, the war had taken its toll on the ancient one too, dimming his penchant for eccentric proclamations and whimsical asides. Or perhaps it was the gravity of the moment that the bear lord tempered his speech to suit.

He turned to look up into the eyes of the lord of rksaas. During the time of battle, he had seen those same eyes blazing like coals in obsidian, promising fire and delivering death. Earlier, in their numerous counsels, he had seen grace, wisdom, empathy and a sense of knowledge so deep and infinite, he had felt he could ask any question and the answer would be there, in those eyes. Now, he saw in them a mirror image of the same adoration he saw in all those lakhs of vanar and bear and rakshasa eyes staring up at him from the field of battle. A look of fierce admiration and pride, an almost deifying adoration. It was the look a soldier gave a king after a successful end to war, as well as the look that a worshipper gave to his deity after a lifetime’s wish was fulfilled.

He wondered if he deserved such a look, such adoration, such deification.
“Lord bear,” he said softly. “I barely know how to console myself. How do I console these who have sacrificed so much for my cause? What do I say to explain the terrible cost of this great conflict?”

Jambavan’s face fur rippled in a diagonal pattern that began somewhere east of his left ear and traversed across the top of his mountainous head ending somewhere in the vicinity of his nape. The effect resembled nothing so much as a strong wind ruffling thick elephant grass on plainsland. The berry dark eyes glistened with sympathy, but the parted jaws promised no mercy. “Heed well my words, youngun. I will say this only once, so treasure it and scroll it and do not make me repeat it. The price of war is the prize of war.”

And the bear stepped back, silent, turning his snout away to gaze at a flight of geese flying overhead as if they had suddenly grown more interesting than anything transpiring on earth. Rama blinked, taking in the words so eccentrically given, tersely spoken, yet so dense and rich with meaning.

The price of war is the prize of war.

He blinked again, this time to dispell the sudden wetness that plagued his vision. And suddenly found the courage to speak. He found a little strength to straighten his stiff back, to raise his head and put his chin forward, to return their show of respect with a gesture of his own, for among vanars and bears, actions counted more than words. Yet words he gave them as well. Words that carried to the furry ears of even the farthest vanar or bear, through the whispering relay system that they had perfected under Nala’s supervision. The only effect, to his ears, was a faint sussuration following on each of his words, like a wind blowing through a leafy grove.

“Comrades,” he said. “All we have accomplished, all we have achieved, all we have endeavoured towards, all we have struggled, and fought, and strategized, and maneuvered, and battled, and bled, and sacrificed for, is upon this field. It is our dignity, our honour, our pride, and our dharma. At this hour of battle, with the tide turned, with the enemy vanquished, the master of the land fallen, the siege broken, the fortress overrun, any army could be expected to wreak havoc, to ravage and forage, rape and pillage, partake of the spoils of war. But we did not fight this war for spoils. At this time, any army in history would be forgiven a few transgressions, a few excesses, a few just rewards for the bitter struggle we have all endured these past days and weeks. The rules of war condone such excesses, overlook such transgressions, forgiven such acts. Yet that is not why you fought this war. At this point in a war, any invading conqueror would be expected to slice up and divide the territories he has conquered, to parcel them out to his generals, his comrades, to any he pleases who may have pleased him before. Yet that is not why I fought this war. You and I, we made a pact. To come to these shores and plead for peace. To sue for a quick and bloodless resolution to this needless conflict. To beg for the safe return of my beloved Sita. It was Ravana’s choice to deny us that peace, to abjure a resolution, to mock our pleas. We could all be forgiven, you and I, if we razed his kingdom to the ground, if we put every last one of his citizens to the sword, if we ravaged his queens and his concubines, if we speared every rakshasa cub in Lanka, if we cleansed the world of the rakshasa race forever. We could do all these things, and indeed, I am sure that after the grevious losses we all suffered this day, there are many of you who desire this end, who crave it…I will not deny that a part of me craves it as well…The basest, most vengeful part of me…”

He paused, looking at the snouted faces of the Lankans by the broken walls.

Their faces were filled with dismay and terror now. Gone was all hostility, all sullenness, all reluctant admiration. In their place was naked terror, panic at the thought that what he had just said might actually come to pass. He sensed the vanar and bear armies swivel their heads and eyes, looking towards Lanka, towards those walls, those bestial warriors, those towers that had caused them so much pain and death and suffering these past days. And he knew from the very stench of their rage that he had spoken their heart’s deepest emotions aloud.

“Yet we shall do none of these things,” he said quietly. The relay took his words like the wind and passed them down the lines, rippling miles North to the far reaches of the vast assemblage.

“For these are not the reasons why we came here to fight this war.”

He paused again, straightened his head, and took a step forward. He raised his arms to either side, palms upwards. The interlacing of myriad cuts and nicks and wounds across his weary muscles screamed in response, for the blood had long since dried over them, and some of the caked wounds and hundreds of tiny scabs tore open as he flexed those overused muscles again. He ignored the pain, which was as much his brother too. And held the stance. The setting sun caught his body in its embrace, and its soft saffron warmth was like a careless blessing from a gruff god.

“We came here for a reason, and that reason is accomplished. Our work here is done. Now, it is time to show Lanka, the world, indeed, to show generations to come that while war itself is undesirable, warriors can still adhere to dharma. Let us pledge here and now, with our Lankan enemies present beside us, that we shall work together to rebuild every loosed brick, every shattered beam, every broken palace, hovel or hut, and to raise a new Lanka from the ashes of this tragedy, a Lanka that will put war behind it forever, and turn her face towards the new sun of peace. Let us pledge this now. Let our pledge and the execution of it be a testament to our pride and honour and dharma. And a monument to all those of our beloved ones who fell here on this soil. I do not command this of now, for with this war done, I have no authority to command you anymore. I merely ask this, request it, beg it if you will…Join me in showing Lanka, and all the ages to come, that yes, we came, we fought, we conquered…And then we rebuilt. We restored. We rehabilitated. We took nothing, but we gave everything. And by so doing, we gained the greatest riches possible, the most precious spoils of war, that which every soldier secretly craves but rarely hopes to ever acquire…the love and forgiveness and admiration of our enemies. I ask you this in honour of my fallen foe, Ravana. I ask you this in the memory of everyone fallen in this conflict. I ask you this in the name of dharma.

“What say you?”

The silence that followed after the last whispering passage of his last words had been transmitted through verbal relay through the seemingly endless ranks was deafening. He could heard his heart pounding steadily, like a drum beaten by a drummer tolling a dirge. He could hear the distant high-pitched lowing of greybacks far out at sea. He could hear birds in the skies wailing for the lost day. And the sun slipped one final time to touch the rim of the horizon, hanging there as if reluctant to take its sight off him, as if waiting to hear the response of his armies, as eager to know the effect of his words upon them as he himself was.

The answer came with a roar so resounding it shook his body and caused his very bones to tremble. It was accompanied by a stamping of their feet that made the earth beneath tremble as well, the grasy knoll reverberating as if stricken by a repitition of the earth-moving wrought by Ravana’s asura maya on the first night of their landing. The wind of their shouting made the hairs of his hands and his nape stand on end. It was greater than the war chants they had yelled in battle, greater than the screams of the dying, more determined than the shout of fealty they had pledged to him back at Mount Mahendra when the armies of Hanuman had first assembled before his sight. Hail Rama Husband of Sita.

“JAI SIYARAM.”

The sun slipped beneath the rim. He thought he felt it smile one final time before it passed from that part of the world. He smiled as well.

Click here to continue reading VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series
Click here to order VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series within India.
Click here to order VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series outside India.

Nov 04, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off