Vengeance of Ravana: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series – on the path to publication
This is the almost final cover design for the Penguin India edition of VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana. I’m posting it here along with some good news. The first is that I have finally resolved the textual issues I had with the manuscripts of VoR and SoS and as a result I’ve finally (finally-finally-finally!) decided that both books ought to be published. This means that the series will end at eight books, not six or seven, and that I have finally been able to deal with the Sita banishment issue in a manner with which I feel satisfied. It’s only taken me six years – which is longer than it took me to write the first six books in the series! But it’s done. VoR will be released in a mass market edition by Penguin in a few months, followed within three months by the mass market edition of SoS. I’ll confirm publication dates once Penguin informs me of the same.
For those of you – “you few, you happy few!” – who’ve bought and read the exclusive limited signed AKB BOOKS edition of VoR and have ordered the exclusive limited signed AKB BOOKS edition of SoS, this may not be reason to jump up and down, which is bad for your joints anyway. But for the vast majority of Ramayana Series readers out there, I’m sure you will be happy to see why I chose to rescind my own earlier decision to end the series at six books and chose to continue it in these two additional volumes. I can’t promise that the answers I provide in these two books will please everyone. Indeed, they may please no one. Because the point of writing these books is not to please or displease, it’s simply to complete the mental journey I embarked upon when I began writing Prince of Ayodhya and finished that first book way back in the year 2000, long before any publisher was willing to even look at such a manuscript, let alone publish it. Today, I have journalists, readers, editors, booksellers, publishers and others who keep writing to me and telling me that I’m responsible for a wave of resurgence in Indian mythology. I really don’t give a damn about any resurgence or the commercial ramifications of making mythology “cool” as one editor put it. What I do care about is the wealth of great Indian literature that has been ignored by the world for so long in favour of other mythologies and legends of the western hemisphere and that deserves a wider readership and exposure.
As I’ve always said to anyone who praised me for the series: This is not about me. It’s not my story alone. It’s our story. Our history in fact. I’m proud and happy to have been the one to retell it in my humble and flawed attempt. But I’m not anyone special or talented for having done it, just a product of a great culture and people that share one of the world’s finest storytelling traditions. In my opinion, the finest.
Sons of Sita, Slayer of Kamsa, Dance of Govinda…and Mba: Book 1
Update: Corrected from 5 to 4 titles based on availability.
Just a reminder to use the AKB Books Request Form to book your limited signed copies of the above titles. This particular list of my next 4 titles will stay online until 31st August 2010. After that, a new list will be put up which will be valid for the next three or four months. And so on. Due to the number of my published titles and the high demand, I am not able to offer signed copies of previous books at present, just the titles listed above. Each of these will be limited signed (but not personalized) editions and once this limited stock is over, these titles will not be available again! So book your signed copy now and don’t miss your chance to be one of very few readers worldwide to own one!
And in case you were wondering, it doesn’t cost you a rupee (or even a paisa) to book these copies! 
News and Updates: The latest from the Bankerverse (again)
As with the last update on 11th June, those of you who’ve been keeping tabs on the right-hand News & Updates column may not find many surprises here. But there was one important announcement that wasn’t in that last update and a couple of minor ones, so here goes…
Waiting eagerly for my next books? Book your copies now!
AKB Books, the limited signed editions of a few select titles of my work, available exclusively via this website, are all currently sold out. However, if you wish to ensure your copy of any forthcoming AKB Books title, all you have to do is fill in the Request Form to book your copies! Don’t worry about payment – you will be contacted once the book is available and informed of the necessary details.
AKB MBA is on its way at last!
After all the ups and downs of the past several months (and years), I have finally found a way to share my Mahabharata retelling with all those of you interested in reading it. No, it still won’t be mass published and distributed in bookstores worldwide – I’ve already explained earlier why that isn’t likely to happen anytime soon – but it will be available from this website in a few months, before the end of this year. If you wish to ensure your copy, please fill in the Request Form now, and keep in touch with this website from time to time.
THE VALMIKI SYNDROME
Next in line for publication is THE VALMIKI SYNDROME, my first major non-fiction book being published by Random House India in a few months. As mentioned earlier, I have chosen not to offer any sneak peeks, previews or sample chapters from this book, unlike all my earlier titles. In fact, I’m not saying a word about this book until it’s released! You’ll just have to wait and see what it’s about.
SLAYER OF KAMSA
As outlined in my Epic India Library plan, my Mba Series will run in parallel with the Krishna Coriolis. While my Mba will be available exclusively via this website, the Krishna Coriolis series will be on bookshelves across India, thanks to HarperCollins India, the publishers! The first book, SLAYER OF KAMSA, will be out in stores before the end of 2010. The series is an action-packed retelling of the life and adventures of Lord Krishna from before his birth until after his death on the mortal plane, written in a narrative style suitable for Young Adult readers. The Krishna books will be much shorter than the Ramayana Series books and written in a far more compact and thrilling narrative style. SLAYER OF KAMSA will be followed soon after by DANCE OF GOVINDA. These first two books in the series will follow Krishna’s story from before his birth until the day he confronts and kills Kamsa. I’ll post excerpts as well as the cover design here sometime in August. So don’t forget to check back!
SONS OF SITA
Delayed but not forgotten! My seemingly interminable revisions are finally approaching an end. As I’ve mentioned earlier, after considerable thought, I decided to cancel mass market publication of Vengeance of Ravana, extract a substantial portion of that book (VoR) and add it to the manuscript of SoS. That required a fair amount of revision and rewriting, hence the delay. Many of you have pre-ordered copies of SoS and have been waiting eagerly for them. Once again, apologies for the delay and thanks for your patience. SONS OF SITA will be available in its signed limited AKB Books Edition in August. For those of you who have been asking, there will be a few copies of VENGEANCE OF RAVANA also available. Please note that I’m unable to inform each person individually by email, so you will have to keep in touch with this website for further updates.
PRINCE OF AYODHYA, the Graphic Novel
The first volume of my long-awaited graphic novel adaptation of my Ramayana Series, written by me and illustrated by Argentinian artist Enrique (Quique) Alcatena is ready to enter the publication pipeline. Those of you who have seen sample artwork from this comic or have been following its development for the past several years will be aware how much work and patience has gone into its creation. I will confirm publication dates in a month or two, once I know for sure.
TEN KINGS
My first historical battle epic, TEN KINGS based on the Dasarajna incident in the Rig Veda, has been bought by new imprint Amaryllis Books in a very good deal. Thanks to Jay and Priya of Jacaranda, and Sanjana Roy Choudhury, Chief Editor of Amaryllis! TEN KINGS will also be my first book published in Hindi and other Indian languages. The book is currently scheduled for mass market publication in January 2011. If you thought my Ramayana Series was good, and if you think my Krishna books are action-packed and fast-paced, then just wait until you read TEN KINGS. It’s by far my best book ever. A great story, a magnificent battle epic, and a historic saga of the founding of the Bharata nation.
THE KALI QUARTET
A BLOOD RED SAREE opens my first contemporary fiction series, The Kali Quartet. This is a global thriller featuring three strong women protagonists who are caught up in a major financial conspiracy involving financial institutions secretly profiting from human trafficking. This is likely to be my next internationally published series as well and currently, my agents are fielding offers from Indian publishers for subcontinental rights. I’ll update when I know more, but look at this as my next major work for the next few years, now that my Ramayana Series, Mba, Krishna Series are all complete and in the publication pipeline. It’s also, in my humble opinion, my best work ever!
More news and updates every month from now on…
Request A Book
Hi. As requested by several of you, I’ve created a Request A Book page where you can fill in your details and book a copy of any of the forthcoming AKB BOOKS Limited Editions.
The best thing about it is that you don’t need to pay in advance to place a request. That’s why it’s called a Request and not an Order. Even if you already have my bank details, please DO NOT pay or transfer money for any book. That’s why I haven’t mentioned any prices either.
Once each book is printed and copies are ready to despatch, you will be contacted and informed of all necessary details such as price, etc. At that point, you can choose whether to buy it or not, change your delivery details, ask for more than one copy, etc.
Unlike previous AKB BOOKS, these titles will NOT be personalized. That means that when I sign each copy, I will not be able to address it to you or anyone else by name. It will only be signed by me.
Right now, all you need to do is fill up the Request Form, providing all the details correctly as of this point in time, and selecting the titles you are interested in getting – you can always change your mind and details later. This form is just a way to Book your copy of each of these AKB BOOKS Limited Editions so I know roughly how many copies of each one to order from the printer.
And you don’t actually have to pay even a rupee in advance!
Isn’t that cool? Well, what are you waiting for then? Go for it!
Ramayana Rediscovered – book review
This is an old book review by me. I don’t recall where it was published and don’t have an online link, although it was fairly recent – so it was probably one of a couple of book reviews I agreed to do for Times of India. The reason was obvious: the subject was one of interest to me!
THE PENGUIN COMPANION TO THE RAMAYANA
By Bishnupada Chakravarty, Translated from Bengali by Debjani Banerjee
Did you know that the Valmiki Ramayana tells us that Dasaratha permitted Sita the use of clothes during the 14-year exile–and that Lakshman carried them around in a leather case? Or that when they were married, Sita was only 6 years old and Rama 13? Or that after he became king, Rama made Sita sit on his lap and drink with him? Or that kshatriyas were freely permitted to drink and eat meat, and to indulge their sensual needs—Dasaratha had 350 wives? Or that the Pushpak was designed very similarly to modern aircraft, with seats by the windows, and was fuelled by a mixture of honey, vegetable oil, mercury, and alcohol? Or that Rama was known as Kakpakshadhar because of his long sideburns (Kakpaksha means sideburns)? Or that even if Kaikeyi had not pressed her boons upon Dasaratha, he would still have had to make Bharata king because he had vowed to Kaikeyi’s father Ashwapathi that his grandson would be crowned king?
No, I haven’t made those factoids up. You’ll find them all, and several dozen more, listed in the section titled ‘Known and Little-known Facts of The Ramayana’, in The Penguin Companion To The Ramayana. If, like me, you’ve spent several years reading and rereading every possible edition of the adi-kavya, you may not find such revelations surprising but if you’ve always wanted to actually sit down and read the Valmiki Ramayana but never had the time, then this handy little guide is perfect for you. It has a short synopsis of the epic, followed by a more detailed narration–but which also eliminates several key details for want of space–and sections like the one mentioned above, which goes beyond such little factoids to provide short essays on the working of the Pushpak, the route that Rama and his companions flew on the way back from Lanka to Ayodhya, a Reader’s Ready Reference which lists all the major personalities and places in alphabetical order, and even a map depicting Rama’s route during the exile, and Pushpak’s flight afterwards.
Everything is based on the Valmiki Ramayana. As you’re probably aware already, the Kamban Ramayana differs in a plethora of details, including geography, names, flora, fauna, dress, language, customs, and even the events of the story itself. As for Tulidasa’s Ramcharitramanas, which is often mistaken for a retelling of the Ramayana itself (it’s actually a commentary on the epic), the differences are not only of detail but of spirit as well. For that matter, even Valmiki, a reformed dacoit formerly named Ratnakar, never claimed to have created the story of the Ramayana; he sincerely believed it to be a true history and simply wrote it down in his legendary kraunchya metered verse, thereby marking the beginning of all literature. If you’d like to know more about this seminal epic of our culture, this little companion is a great way to do it quickly and entertainingly. It also makes a great guide to have by your side when reading other, much longer retellings by certain modern authors, whom we shall not name!
News & Updates: The Latest from the Bankerverse
Those of you who’ve been keeping tabs on the right-hand News & Updates column may not find many surprises here. But I thought it was time to round up the most recent happenings and developments in the Bankerverse for those who haven’t.
THE VALMIKI SYNDROME
Next in line for publication is THE VALMIKI SYNDROME, my first major non-fiction book being published by Random House India in a few months. As mentioned earlier, I have chosen not to offer any sneak peeks, previews or sample chapters from this book, unlike all my earlier titles. In fact, I’m not saying a word about this book until it’s released! You’ll just have to wait and see what it’s about.
SLAYER OF KAMSA
Close on its heels comes Book 1 of The Krishna Coriolis, SLAYER OF KAMSA, published by HarperCollins India. The series is an action-packed retelling of the life and adventures of Lord Krishna from before his birth until after his death on the mortal plane, written in a narrative style suitable for Young Adult readers. The Krishna books will be much shorter than the Ramayana Series books and written in a far more compact and thrilling narrative style. SLAYER OF KAMSA will be followed soon after by DANCE OF GOVINDA. These first two books in the series will follow Krishna’s story from before his birth until the day he confronts and kills Kamsa. I’ll post excerpts as well as the cover design here sometime in August. So don’t forget to check back!
SONS OF SITA
Delayed but not forgotten! My seemingly interminable revisions are finally approaching an end. As I’ve mentioned earlier, after considerable thought, I decided to cancel mass market publication of Vengeance of Ravana, extract a substantial portion of that book (VoR) and add it to the manuscript of SoS. That required a fair amount of revision and rewriting, hence the delay. Many of you have pre-ordered copies of SoS and have been waiting eagerly for them. Once again, apologies for the delay and thanks for your patience. I can now confirm that SONS OF SITA, the 7th (not 8th, since VoR now stands cancelled) and final Book in the Ramayana Series, will be available in its signed limited AKB Books Edition in August.
PRINCE OF AYODHYA, the Graphic Novel
The first volume of my long-awaited graphic novel adaptation of my Ramayana Series, written by me and illustrated by Argentinian artist Enrique (Quique) Alcatena is ready to enter the publication pipeline. Those of you who have seen sample artwork from this comic or have been following its development for the past several years will be aware how much work and patience has gone into its creation. I will confirm publication dates in a month or two, once I know for sure.
TEN KINGS
My first historical battle epic, TEN KINGS based on the Dasarajna incident in the Rig Veda, has been bought by new imprint Amaryllis Books in a very good deal. Thanks to Jay and Priya of Jacaranda, and Sanjana Roy Choudhury, Chief Editor of Amaryllis! TEN KINGS will also be my first book published in Hindi and other Indian languages. The book is currently scheduled for mass market publication in January 2011. If you thought my Ramayana Series was good, and if you think my Krishna books are action-packed and fast-paced, then just wait until you read TEN KINGS. It’s by far my best book ever. A great story, a magnificent battle epic, and a historic saga of the founding of the Bharata nation.
More news and updates every month from now on…
7 not 8: Vor+SoS = Sons of Sita: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series
As those of you who have been in touch with me over the years know, I always share my works in progress online with readers and take into account their views and suggestions.
After considering reader feedback to the limited signed AKB BOOKS edition of Vengeance of Ravana I felt it was best to cancel mass market publication of the book and have requested my editors at Penguin accordingly. They have been supportive as always, and I’m very grateful for that.
I’ve taken a part of the text of Vengeance of Ravana and added it to the text of Sons of Sita, merging them into one final book, which I plan to submit to Penguin for publication.
This will be the 7th and final book of the Ramayana Series (R), and will most likely be called Sons of Sita: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series.
PS: Those of you who have ordered the AKB Books Limited Signed edition of Sons of Sita will receive this version, and this is the reason for its long delay. In my opinion, the book now rocks big-time and is a truly fitting end to the series…thanks to your input!
This is just to let you know what’s happening. I’ll post a longer explanation here once I’m done with the revisions, which, let me add, will not be for another month.
This also means that those of you who bought the AKB BOOKS limited signed editions, hardcover as well as paperback, of Vengeance of Ravana, now have the only copies of that version of the text in existence. That version will never be published and distributed in stores now, so hold on to your copies and who knows, they might actually be worth something someday!
‘I did some bad stuff. Rama did what he did’: Interview with Ravana
For those of you who missed it, this is a piece I wrote for the Random House India blog last Dassera (Sept 2009). It’s an interview with none other than the Lord of Lanka. A shortened version of the same interview also appeared in Deccan Herald the same week.
It has been at least three millennia since Valmiki composed his seminal Sanskrit epic Ramayana, yet the thief-turned-sage’s one-sided portrayal of Ravana in his adi-kavya continues to cast a long shadow over the lord of Lanka. Ashok Banker, the author of the bestselling Ramayana series, managed to track down the now-aging yet still fiery asura at an undisclosed location and get up close and personal with him.
AKB: It was really hard tracking you down. Once upon a time you were the most high-profile personality in Indian mythology. Why so media shy now?
RAVAN: Every god has his day. I’ve done my time, paid for my crimes. I’m retired now. Let me chill. What do you expect me to do? Go on We the People and bicker? Try to out-shout Rajdeep Sardesai on CNN-IBN? Take primetime abuse from Prabhu Chawla or Arnab Goswami? Besides, last time I agreed to a photo-shoot it took three days for the idiot from Getty Images just to get all ten head-shots of me! I was so fed up at the end, I fed him to my pet pisacas. On a tv shoot for a news channel in Delhi, the cameraman had to move back so far to get me in the frame, that he ended up in Noida. And then there was this pinko Malayali reporter who tried to blame the whole Hindutva right-wing fundamentalist problem on me. I told him to go find a Ram Mandir to hide in…fast!
AKB: Nevertheless, your effigy is burned every Dusshera across India. You’re demonized in countless TV shows, movies, books, comics, and there are pop culture references about you from Buffy to sitcoms to Bollywood films. Your name stands for pure evil. How does it feel to be the most notorious Indian villain of all time?
RAVAN: Thank you, thank you. It’s always good to be appreciated. It feels great of course. I’m finally getting my due. Wish the dharmanator were here to see it though… that would be the icing on the cake.
AKB: Did you say dharmanator? As in…?
RAVAN: The terminator who slaughtered and committed atrocities in the name of dharma! Massacred rakshasas left, right, and center. Basically committed a Rwanda-style genocide on our asses. And yet Rama is a god while I’m a villain. I ask you, is that fair?
AKB: So you do feel you were unfairly represented in literature and popular culture?
RAVAN: I’m proud of being a villain. But why does Rama get to be worshipped as a hero after all the lives he took, the asuras he slaughtered by the millions, the invasion of my country, the murder of Vali? And let’s not forget how he treated his own wife in the end, the woman he did all those things for allegedly!
AKB: Well, as you yourself put it, he was a dharmanator in a sense. All that he did, he did because his dharma required it of him. It was justified.
RAVAN: Yeah? Well, that’s BS. And you can quote me on that. Did you know that for almost two and a half millennia Rama and his great exploits were virtually unknown in our itihasa? It was only after the Europeans began invading the subcontinent and trying to convert the natives to Christianity that a brahmin revivalist movement rose up – that was the start of modern Hindutva, by the way – and Valmiki’s poem was dusted off and rescued from obscurity? And who do you think was responsible for that?
AKB: Sant Tulsidas, of course. His commentary on the original Valmiki poem in the popular North Indian idiom of the 16th century was the reason for the mass popularization of the epic – in fact, most people even today regard Tulsidas’ commentary as the real Ramayana, rather than the revisionist commentary which it actually is. But what does that have to do with…
RAVAN: Tulsidas? Like hell! It was me, you fool! Damn idiot novelist! So you have only one brain – you can’t help that, I know – but at least you can use the one brain you have! I was the one responsible for the popularization of the Ramayana, I!
AKB: What you just said about me, was offensive by the way. But I’m going to ignore it in the larger interests of journalism. Besides, you’re the one who’s physically challenged, not me.
RAVAN: You want to get it on? Come on outside then. Face me, man to rakshasa!
AKB: I’m a writer, not a fighter. Besides, if I wanted to get back at you, I’d just portray you as the dick-turd you really are, instead of giving you a fleshed-out, well-rounded portrayal as I did in my Ramayana Series. I doubt you have ever been portrayed as fairly and completely as in my retelling…
RAVAN: Okay, okay. It’s true. My right head (R8) apologizes for what my left head (R4) said about you. But I meant what I said. I was the reason for the revival of interest in the Ramayana, for Tulsidas writing his religious commentary on the original adi-kavya. And for the entire Hindutva revival going on right now. Why, if you look at the pictures of the Babri Masjid demolition, you can see me right there, standing on the top of the dome before it comes down, hammering it with my bare fists.
AKB: I don’t recall seeing that. Or seeing you in any of those pictures
RAVAN: Obviously. They airbrushed me out. Damn politicians. If they threw out Jaswant Singh just for writing a book and making a couple of comments, obviously they wouldn’t acknowledge the main force behind their popularity today. It’s always the same, middle ages or modern ages!
AKB: You do realize how contentious this is. What’s your proof?
RAVAN: Proof? (Makes obscene gesture using all twenty hands.) All right, how about this? Look at me. What colour is my skin?
AKB: Well. You’re extremely fair-skinned, as Valmiki described you in the Ramayana.
RAVAN: Exactly. I’m fair-skinned. A foreigner – at least to the Hindu majority population of the Indian subcontinent. I’m aggressive in my approach, I’ve done my share of invade-and-conquer in my time. So if you were around the late 16th century, who would I remind you of?
AKB: Well, I suppose there would be some superficial resemblance to the European traders who were seeking a foothold here at the time…
RAVAN: Exactly. The white foreigner. The rakshasa who takes entire nations and continents by force. Raping. Pillaging. Conquering. Subjugating. In short, I’m the living embodiment of the British Empire around that time! So obviously it was just a step away logically for the brahmins of the time to rouse up the rabble by telling them that the rakshasas had returned to India, and it was time to turn to dharma once more.
AKB: A fascinating theory. Yet modern critics claim the opposite. They say that the entire Ramayana story was a form of racism, with the ‘Aryan’ north Indians attacking the darker south Indians and calling them rakshasas.
RAVAN: Next you’ll be telling me that it was superior castes versus tribals and lower castes?
AKB: Well yes, that is one theory too…
RAVAN: When you say the word ‘Aryan’ which by the way is a Western mispronunciation – the correct word is ‘Arya’ without an ‘n’ at the end – who would you say were the most famous Aryas in ancient Indian itihasa or mythology?
AKB: I suppose…Rama Chandra, Krishna…
RAVAN: Stop right there. What do you think the name Rama means. And Krishna too?
AKB: Err…
RAVAN: I’ll tell you, since your one brain is obviously on a permanent coffee break. They both mean the same thing, black!
AKB: That’s true. The Puranas clearly describe both Rama and Krishna as dark-skinned. The colour of a crow’s feather in fact, is the exact phrase used by Valmiki, and Vyasa too.
RAVAN: There you go. The term Arya is never used with reference to race in a single Purana – and in fact the whole race argument is negated with regard to the people of the Indian sub-continent because despite our darker skins, we are Caucasian too, just like Europeans and Americans! Do your research, you cut-rate Valmiki!
AKB: So you’re saying that there’s no merit in the racism or Aryans, sorry Aryas, versus South Indians or tribals theory?
RAVAN: That theory is as stupid as the German people who now claim that the Holocaust never occurred at all! It’s revisionism of the worst sort. I repeat: Arya is not a racial description. It is an adjective meaning noble or pure! All this hindsight, it’s all political. Kamban’s translation placed Ayodhya in south India, and all the tribes and castes mentioned were entirely south Indian, as were the food items, clothes, customs, jewellery, etc. What happened to this north-south argument then? Some legitimate historians in Europe now insist that Ayodhya was in Kazakhstan or some nearby place! I am as Arya as Rama or Krishna or any other person of noble spirit and character. You don’t qualify because you’re just a turd in the shape of a human being…
AKB: Hey I am on your side here, you don’t need to get all aggressive. Now, let’s move to something else. Some scholars believe that your name actually refers to your knowledge of ten scriptures – the four Vedas and six Upanishads – rather than meaning that you physically possessed ten heads. There is literary precedence in Atharva Veda where the terms dasagva (ten-headed) and navagva (nine-headed) have been used before Ramayana too, all presumed to be symbolic terms referring to heads as in areas of knowledge possessed by the persons rather than literal physical descriptions.
RAVANA: Look at these ten noggins waving like balloons on my neck. Do they look like literary references? They’re very real, you bankrupt Banker! Besides, all those references in Atharva Veda, what kind of people were they referring to? Scholars? Pole dancers? Montessori schoolteachers?
AKB: No. They were actually referring to rakshasas and asuras, like yourself.
RAVAN: Case rests.
AKB:I want to return to the idea that I began with, that you’ve been treated unfairly by history – in particular in north India – as a demonic villain. Yet you were the wronged one – the great scholar and brahmin, worshipper of Shiva, grandson of the great sage Pulastya, great-grandson of Brahma himself, son of Kaikesi, princess of the Daityas, and the great Vishrava himself. You’re an accomplished veena player, in fact your sigil flag bore the veena icon. And your maternal grandfather Sumali ensured that you upheld the Daitya reputation for ethical kingship and governance. Your long penance to Brahma, your devotion to Shiva for whom you composed the Shiva Tandava Stotra, your benevolent rule of Lanka…there is overwhelming evidence of your good qualities.
RAVAN: Things aren’t always black and white. That’s what I liked about Valmiki’s original poem – he told it like it was. I did some bad stuff. Rama did what he did. I didn’t claim dharma as justification, he did. But we each did our thing, and to hell with the consequences. It’s only when you start taking sides – north versus south India (what does that even mean, next we’ll be having left-handed people versus right-handed people), or Aryas versus tribals, and so on, that you start looking at everything upside down. Stop putting a spin on the facts. Yes, I was all those great things, but I did a lot of bad things too. Deal with it. Now, can I enjoy my retirement in peace?
AKB: Actually, I was hoping to delve a bit more into your family history and the positive side of your character, to try and set the record straight once and for all.
RAVAN: My dear fool, I appreciate your gesture but you don’t need to rescue me. The record is round. And it’ll keep going round. Trying to straighten it is like trying to teach a vanar to wear a suit of armour. S***w the record. I’m pretty frakking okay with it, you should be too.
AKB: So you aren’t upset with people burning your effigy around this time of year, using your name to frighten little kids into sleeping at bedtime, that kind of thing?
RAVAN: Banker, Banker, it really upsets you doesn’t it, to see me as a villain? ( For the first time, Ravan’s face softens, almost as if in pity). But don’t you see I don’t really care? Rama is not the only one with his dharma you know. You’ve spent all this time obsessing about me, don’t you see that? I am who I am, I did what I did. Now get out of here and let an old rakshasha retire in peace.
The best book in Ashok K. Banker’s Ramayana Series?
The results pretty much speak for themselves. People’s enjoyment of the series seems to increase as they keep reading, rising steadily until, after the mid-point, it spirals upwards. What’s interesting is that not only did the 7th book, Vengeance of Ravana, virtually tie with the 8th book, Sons of Sita for the highest number of votes, even though only the limited edition of VoR has been released so far and SoS hasn’t even been published! I guess that means expectations are sky-high, and I finish better than I start.
Personally, I think that my approach to the retelling was so densely detailed, unexpected (“The Ramayana? Retold? WTF!”) at the time, and with so many quirky personal choices (the use of mixed-idiom, Urdu, Gujarati, slang, etc) that it was hard to take for most readers – almost a culture shock of sorts. Once the initial shock wore off and readers began to ‘get’ what I was reaching for, they could sit back and start to enjoy the story. And by the time they passed the third book and still went zipping along, they began to realize that the real fun was only just starting. I also know for a fact that as a writer, it was only by the third book that I really began proficient at my own chosen style and approach and really got going. That’s why the later books in the series are my own personal faves too.
What do you think?
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Sons of Sita will be out in June
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series, the long-awaited final volume, has been postponed again. The AKB Books edition will now be available in mid-June. If you’re one of those who were able to book a copy and have paid for it as well, thank you for your support and I hope you’ll be patient another two months. Because this is the phinal-phinal book in this long series, I really want it to be as perfect as I can make it, and perfection takes a little longer.
VoR Hardcovers (finally) despatched – did you get your’s? (SoS delayed, sigh.)
VoR (Vengeance of Ravana) Hardcovers have finally been despatched this past week. If you had ordered a hardcover limited edition or won the auction for the #1 Collector’s Hardcover Edition, you should have received it by now. If you have not received it, please visit the How To Pay Page and post a message there alongwith your full postal address with pincode+tel.no. (the address will be edited out before approving the comment) to save time.
Thanks for your patience waiting for these hardcovers – it’s been a very long wait for me as well, with the printer repeatedly messing up the printing, binding, etc, and endless delays. Thankfully, the wait is over now…
…and another wait begins, for SoS (Sons of Sita)! But don’t worry, it won’t be as long as the VoR Hardcover delay. The AKB Books Signed Limited Edition of SoS (hardcover as well as paperback) is now scheduled to be released by end-April. Updates will be sent to you closer to the date.
As always, I welcome reader correspondence and always replies to every message. You are most welcome to post a message to me at the Readerswrite Page
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IMPORTANT: AKB BOOKS are currently sold out. If you have Ashok’s bank account details, please DO NOT deposit any payment towards future orders. The payment system is being revised and new details on How to Pay will be posted here on this page by mid-August, when the new AKB Books are ready for order.
IMPORTANT: Those who pre-ordered Sons of Sita in January-February 2010, please note that due to continued delays, your copies are now scheduled for delivery in the first week of September. If you do not wish to wait and desire a refund, please leave a comment below asking for the refund and it shall be sent to you within a week. Those who have ordered and received AKB Books without paying for them, please don’t worry: once the new payment system is in place, you can make the payment at your leisure. As always, this service is to offer you, my most loyal and supportive readers, a chance to get exclusive limited signed editions – it’s not about me making money!
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#5
FOUR
When Luv came sprinting around the outcrop, two pairs of eyes instantly snapped around to stare at him. The two men on the second wagon looked startled to see him. I know that look. They think I’m Kush and can’t figure out how he could have run off in that direction and then appeared again from this direction. He was used to that response. He yelled at them as he sprinted past: “Stay where you are!” They looked too startled to try anything anyway.
Barely had he run past the wagon when he heard the sound of pounding hooves from ahead, around the next spur of rock. A few broken boulders lay on the path, their insides gleaming rusty red where they had broken open after falling in a minor landslide during the last monsoon. Others had been pushed over deliberately to block the path, for this was a popular ambush point on the raj-marg. The sound of hooves and rattling of wagon wheels was very loud by then and he knew better than to run around a blind turn. Instead he swerved and leaped up onto the largest broken boulder. He could smell the iron in the air here, so rich was the vein in the lohit stone. These hills were rife with minerals, good pure ore for making steel.
He stood in the relaxed archer position that Bearface had taught them, waiting.
Don’t call your guru that name, Maatr’s voice said in his mind’s ear, He is Gurudev to you, remember!
Yes, Maa.
The position that Bearface had taught them, the lazy cobra, their guru had called it, was now second nature. He waits, seemingly indolent, swaying lazily, but the instant threat appears, he strikes with lightning-speed.
Luv didn’t know if he moved at lightning-speed, but the instant the wagon came into sight, he let fly. The first arrow hit its mark and the second was flying even before the wagon had rolled fully into view. A man shouted out with pain and tumbled off the wagon, with two arrows sprouting, one from each shoulder – the first had clearly been Kush’s work. The driver screamed like a wounded horse and clutched at the arrow quivering in the meat of his thigh – the head must have struck the thighbone, hence the vibration and the extreme pain. Then the wagon rolled past and the next came into view, and still no sight of Kush.
Damnit, Luv thought, feeling the heat rise in his face, cheeks burning. Where are you?
The men on this wagon were better prepared and better shots. Three well aimed arrows came blurring at Luv and he had to somersault sideways to dodge both. Landing on his bare feet on the rubble of the lohitstone, he felt warmth on his waist where one had nicked the skin just enough to draw a bead or two. He loosed off two quick ones before the men could shoot the second volley, and both hit their marks. Both men dropped their own bows, one grunting, the other choosing the strong silent response.
Then the rest of the grama came into view, riding fast, faster than any grama ought to have been especially on this twisting treacherous neck of the raj-marg, and everything began to move very quickly, so quickly that Luv felt his senses slowing to a crawl as they always did in a fight, the world popping into brilliant crystalline clarity and colour: the veins on every leaf visible, every knothole on the wooden slats of a wagon’s side in view, hearing every grinding creak in a wheel, smelling the raw red odors of freshly spilled human blood mixed in with the pungent smell of horse sweat, man-sweat and the rusty tang of the lohitstone.
The flaps of the following wagons opened and revealed armed men. Burly, hirsute, armoured men in the familiar purple and black of Ayodhya’s inner guard. PFs, or some new extension of the PF regiment – for PFs were meant to guard the inner city, not ride with trading gramas as hired escorts. Whatever they were, whomever they were, there were a lot of them, too many for Luv to simply disarm. He would have to fight them seriously to survive, kill some quite likely. And even then it would be touch and go.
The good warrior knows when to retreat, said his guru’s gruff voice in his ear. The code of the kshatriya means nothing if there is no kshatriya left to fight!
Agreeing with Bearface – sorry, Gurudev – was his mother’s voice in his other ear. Run, Luv, run! You can’t fight them all!
Ji, Maatr, jaisi aagya, he said in his mind as he began the heavy task of fitting arrows to bow and aiming not to maim or disarm but to disable, possibly kill. I would love to run. But not without my brother.
“Damnit Kush, where the hell are you?” he said aloud as he began shooting.
Kush emerged from the wagon to see his twin brother standing on a pile of lohistone landslide, the edges of the outcrop at his back, loosing arrows with concentrated ease. He appeared to be single-handedly battling what looked like at least five quads of armed PFs, even though PFs never ventured armed and uniformed outside the Ayodhya city limits. Clearly this grama was a notable exception to the usual rules.
Which makes sense, considering the cargo they’re carrying, he thought as he sprinted away from Luv and to the other side of the raj-marg, unnoticed by either his brother or the men busy trying to kill him. In three deft leaps and grabs he had climbed a tree and was standing on a near-horizontal branch twice as thick as his own thigh. It would have bent and drooped under a grown man’s weight but it took his own lithe form easily, and he steadied his left shoulder against the trunk, took aim at his first target and loosed. The man took the arrow in the meaty muscle joining shoulder to neck, and it popped out through his collarbone with a small explosion of blood. The man yelped like a pup and dropped the javelin he had been about to fling at Luv.
Without turning to look directly at Kush, Luv cried out with joy. “Kush!” Then added in a disgruntled tone even as he continued loosing and dodging: “Took your time, didn’t you!”
“Had to make a short visit to the royal treasury,” Kush called back, grinning. He continued loosing, and saw his third target drop, roaring with frustration and fury as he tried to clutch at the arrow sprouting from his shoulderblade. Hit the bone, hurts like blazes. That voice was old Nakhudi’s, who always seemed to know how to inflict maximum pain on the enemy without actually killing them. Only male enemies, as she liked to remind them, grinning to reveal her astonishingly white gleaming teeth in her buffalo-dark face.
The fight continued for another few moments, the PFs on and around the halted wagons trying with admirable skill to face an attack on two diagonally opposed fronts with diminishing success. Their leader, an efficient and intelligent-seeming fellow, tried to rally his men to use the wagons as shielding, while attempting to send a pair of quads around to outflank Kush – Luv was bolstered by the outcrop which would have taken hours to cut over and around – but the brothers had them at the deadliest cross-angle two bowmen could take, and the broken stones shielded Luv while the tree and foliage shielded Kush, and while many arrows and javelins were aimed at them, none came closer than a single wayward arrow that thunked into the tree branch between Kush’s big toe and its neighbour.
Then, as fierce fights usually did, this one dissipated like a puddle evaporating under a mid-day sun, and suddenly the captain of the PFs was waving his arms in surrender.
Kush grinned and dropped down from his perch, making his way cautiously towards the halted wagons. He had his eye on some men at the back who might, if still feisty enough, try to fling a javelin or two as he approached. But every one of them and all the others as well had at least one arrow in their arm, leg or back, and one massively built chap who had refused to settle down with just two or even three arrows had four bristling from his extremities, lying on his back and cursing the sky roundly with a raised fist, turning the air blue with his choice of profanities. Kush grinned even wider, making a note of several for future reference. Living in an ashram community as they did, good curses were hard to come by!
Luv had leaped up to the tall broken lohitstone boulder, keeping his weapon trained on the PFs as his brother approached. Kush winked at him as he came and saw Luv shake his head in mock-disgust – complaining about the moments when Kush had disappeared from sight earlier. The PFs quietened as he reached them, holding down their moaning and grunting and cursing as they saw the ‘men’ who had bested them up close for the first time.
Thank you for reading these exclusive excerpts from SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series! Do take a moment to leave a comment below.
Click here to request a copy of the AKB BOOKS Limited Signed Edition of SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
(No Advance Payment Required!)
Ten years have passed since Rama did the unthinkable and banished Sita. Now, she spends her days in quiet tapasya in the remote forest ashram of Maharishi Valmiki, even as her sons Luv and Kush grow ever more proficient at the arts of war. To the sorrow of many, they seem unlikely to ever cross paths with their estranged father. Yet destiny works in unexpected ways. Rama’s growing ambitions and his war-mongering advisors motivate him to launch the Ashwamedha yojana. The mightiest Ayodhyan army ever assembled follows the sacred stallion in a campaign of conquest that seems unstoppable…until a pair of improbable obstacles arise. Defying the military might of Ayodhya and the emperorship of Rama himself, two young striplings capture the Ashwamedha horse and challenge the great army. To Rama’s chagrin the challengers turn out to be none other than his own estranged offspring: the sons of Sita! Don’t miss the epic conclusion to the internationally acclaimed and bestselling Ramayana Series!
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
300 Pages/Limited Signed Trade Paperback Edition/Rs 400
Click here to request a copy of the AKB BOOKS Limited Signed Edition of VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series
(No Advance Payment Required!)
The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#4
THREE
Luv knew Kush was in trouble even before he heard the whinnying of horses and shouting of hoarse voices from beyond the outcrop. He wasn’t startled in the least but the old PF with the scar probably assumed he would be and made his move. He leaped off the wagon with surprising speed and ought to have rolled to the right, behind the cover of the wagon; instead he rolled left, grabbing the team’s rig, using the horses as a shield. Luv’s first arrow whizzed harmlessly through the gap where he had expected the man to be and his second remained notched and ready but unloosed. Firing under the team’s bellies would certainly startle them and with that lead roan stallion already impatient and restless to be on his way again, that would only result in a runaway wagon. Not part of the plan. He didn’t bother to call out to the man either: the fellow knew what he was doing and obviously still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Instead, Luv aimed at a new target, a slender leathery one, and fired off three quick arrows in succession. Then he grinned, pleased at the result, and loosed a fourth one directly behind the lead roan’s rump, close enough that were he to go collect that arrow it would probably smell of horse’s droppings!
The roan stallion snorted in response, kicked out once, then suddenly realized what had just happened. Somehow, by some miracle, he and his equestrian companions had been set free of their burdensome load. Without further ado, he lowered his head like a charging bull and started down the path. Startled, the rest of the team had no choice but to follow, and with the burden of the wagon gone, they broke instantly into a canter that turned quickly into a cheerful gallop as they went around the last abutment and disappeared from sight.
In the trail of dust left by their passing, the aging wagon driver lay sprawled on the ground, staring in dazed surprise after the fleeing horses. Before he could get back to his feet, Luv had leaped off the boulder, using a series of lesser stones to hop, skip, jump to the path. He aimed the bow at the man again, who started, convinced he was about to be killed.
“Easy,” Luv said. “We never hurt anyone unless he tries to hurt us first.”
The man showed Luv his open palms. “I’m not looking for a fight, yuvraj. Just an old wagon driver. I leave the fighting to the grama-rakshaks.” He jerked his head backwards, indicating the path behind the stranded wagon.
Almost on cue, a fresh burst of yells and horse sounds came to them from beyond the outcrop. Judging by the sounds, Luv estimated that it wasn’t the second wagon Kush was having trouble with but the rest of the grama. I should go to him, there might be too many for him to handle.
He saw the old driver watching him closely during the few moments it took him to think this and consider the options. Old man may not want to fight, but he’s still a shrewd one.
“What’s your name, oldun?” he asked.
The old driver frowned, his forehead wrinkling in a way that reminded Luv of the bed of the Sona river when it had dried up in last year’s drought. “Why do you need to know that?” he asked.
Luv raised the arrow a fraction.
The man shrugged. “All right. It’s Bejoo. Used to be Captain Bejoo of the Vajra—”
Luv cut him off. “Bejoo. I don’t need your atmakatha. Listen carefully. I’m leaving you alone here for a moment. I could tell you that I have companions watching you from the woods but I won’t do that because you seem like a sharp man. So I’m just going to ask you to stay here till I get back, and not run away. You do that and I’ll let you walk away unharmed. Run and I won’t. Clear?”
The man looked at him suddenly with a peculiar expression.
Luv raised the arrow another fraction. “Clear?” He couldn’t keep the tone of impatience out of his voice. Kush was definitely in trouble by now, or he would have been back.
The man swallowed, then nodded. “Aye. Ayuh, youngun. Clear as the Sarayu in spring.”
Luv looked at him sharply. “Remember. I know these woods like the back of my hand. Run and you die.”
The man nodded again. Again that same peculiar look. He looks like he’s just recognized me and we were long-lost friends. But Luv had never seen the man before in his life.
Luv turned and sprinted up the path.
“Kush!” he yelled as he went. “I’m coming!”
Kush heard the men laughing even over the thundering of the horse’s hooves and the racket of the wagon. They meant to run me down! By kshatriya code, that meant he was free to use mortal violence against them. When someone openly attempted to kill a warrior, he in turn was justified in killing the aggressors to defend his life. Even so, Kush scornfully discarded the idea: men who used a wagon to run down a solitary boy were not worthy adversaries. What was the phrase Maatr used? ‘Don’t soil your arrowheads with cowardly blood!’ He grinned. Maatr was always saying things like that, Vishnu bless her.
He whispered affectionately to both the horses whose rigging he was clinging to, their warm breath on his neck and face tickling him and making him giggle involuntarily. He had been ridden over before and had learned at an early age how to let the horse take you rather than resist and fight the onward-rushing force. Flesh, sinew and bone could be destroyed by that onrushing weight as easily as a footfall would snap a twig. But if a kshatriya was trained and prepared, it was like a wayward puddle being collected by an onflowing stream of water and just as effortless. He had simply let the pounding horses bear down on him, crouched down at just the right angle, and grabbed hold of the rigging between the two lead horses at precisely the right moment: the warrior’s moment, as he and Luv liked to call it. On the raj-marg, one either moved aside – often at breakneck speed to avoid some of those hot-riding royal contingents – or got crushed under pounding hooves and chariot or wagon wheels. Ever since they could remember, they had seen people killed thusly, often old folk too weak or slow to move aside in time, poor unfortunate carrying too heavy a load to toss aside in time and most heartrending of all, children as small as themselves, tiny bodies mangled from the hooves into a shapeless heap of shattered bones and oozing flesh. After viewing one particularly nasty aftermath of a visiting royal procession with an armed escort, Luv and he had begun to teach themselves how to survive such encounters without ending up as battered blood-mash. By the age of 5, when they were old enough to reach the rigging of the tall horses that thundered down the king’s road, they had mastered the art of letting the horse take them. Now, it was easy as clinging to Maatr’s breast.
He had began working his way down the length of the rigging almost immediately after being picked up. Now he looked up between a crack in the floorboards of the driver’s seat at the two men riding there. The one with the arrow in his shoulder was still cursing, but his indignation at his own pain was outweighed by his amusement at having run over the ‘brigand’. They were tough grizzled old veterans, probably ex-PFs like the one in the lead wagon. Luv didn’t waste more time on them. He was more interested in finding out what cargo they carried that had made them too nervous to halt. It was the work of only another moment to haul himself under the wagon itself, then up the side where he found enough space under the flap covering to slip into the vehicle itself without those in the following wagon seeing him.
Inside the wagon, the noise of the grama oddly muted by the heavy canvas covering, he stared around at the consignment for a long silent moment, stunned.
Of all the possible cargoes he had expected, this was not on the list.
Just then he heard the men shouting and the wagon slowing and knew that could only mean one thing: They had reached the stranded second wagon. And most likely, Luv as well.
Now, the fun would begin.
Click here to read Excerpt#5 from SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
Ten years have passed since Rama did the unthinkable and banished Sita. Now, she spends her days in quiet tapasya in the remote forest ashram of Maharishi Valmiki, even as her sons Luv and Kush grow ever more proficient at the arts of war. To the sorrow of many, they seem unlikely to ever cross paths with their estranged father. Yet destiny works in unexpected ways. Rama’s growing ambitions and his war-mongering advisors motivate him to launch the Ashwamedha yojana. The mightiest Ayodhyan army ever assembled follows the sacred stallion in a campaign of conquest that seems unstoppable…until a pair of improbable obstacles arise. Defying the military might of Ayodhya and the emperorship of Rama himself, two young striplings capture the Ashwamedha horse and challenge the great army. To Rama’s chagrin the challengers turn out to be none other than his own estranged offspring: the sons of Sita! Don’t miss the epic conclusion to the internationally acclaimed and bestselling Ramayana Series!
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
300 Pages/Limited Signed Trade Paperback Edition/Rs 400
Click here to request a copy of the AKB BOOKS Limited Signed Edition of SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#3
TWO
Luv fixed a bead on the lead wagon driver and kept his aim steady. The man looked like he had seen violence before, judging from the scar running down the side of his head and neck, and the way he had yielded without argument. Another veteran, for sure. What did they call them, those fellows who dressed up in those funny purple and black dhotis and vastras?
“PF,” Kush said softly beside him. “Tough old men willing to die rather than surrender. Keep your eye on that one. He looks like trouble.”
“I have him,” Luv replied. “You do what you have to.”
Kush disappeared.
Luv was watching the wagon driver’s eyes. They were looking downwards, at the ground, apparently not looking at anything in particular. Yet Luv clearly saw them widen as Kush vanished. Smart fellow, using his peripheral vision.
Yes, this one bore watching closely. Luv would have bet his straightest arrow on the grizzled old fellow being the head of the wagon train’s security force. An old ex-PF, retired, making a few cross-border trips like this one to keep busy and earn a little to keep up his sense of pride. There would be others in the remaining wagons, younger stronger men, more eager and less sensible, but this one was the head. Cut off the head and the body would flail uselessly. Or so it went in theory. He watched the old driver without staring directly at him – that was a sure way to ruin your focus and tire your eyes quickly – and didn’t miss the veteran’s veiled glances back up the path.
He’s expecting the next wagon to come around that curve any moment, hoping to use its appearance as a distraction to leap down to the right, roll quickly and use the wagon to shield himself.
Luv resisted the urge to grin. The man probably thought he could move pretty fast, even at this age.
And he probably can. But not faster than an arrow. Watch out, old uncle.
But it told him the man was an honourable fellow, willing to risk life and limb to earn his coin. And that made him dangerous.
Kush stood in the center of the path, directly in the way of the second wagon. Heavily laden like the first, it had taken a few moments to maneuver around the rock-strewn path. Two men rode in front of this one; an older man handling the reins, a younger one riding beside him with a shortbow laid on his lap. On catching sight of him, this man swore and raised the bow, fitting an arrow to the string. Should have held it loosely in one hand, ready to shoot. Before he could draw, Kush’s first arrow knocked the bow out of his hands. It struck the wooden frame of the wagon, bounced off and fell under the rear wheel of the wagon. Kush heard the sound of cured wood splintering. Waste of a good weapon.
The man swore again as he snatched up a javelin lying discreetly in a recessed groove beside his seat. He had the upper body bulk of a thrower and Kush had no doubt he had probably won many melas in his day.
He called out as the man raised the metal tipped wooden pole to shoulder height: “Drop the weapon. Keep your arm.”
The man showed his teeth and continued without so much as a sideward glance or hesitation. Kush sighed inwardly and wondered why they never listened. The javelin clattered back onto the wagon’s boards as the man stared uncomprehendingly at the arrow that had sprouted from his bicep, disabling his arm. To his credit, he didn’t scream or cry out. At least he’s a professional. He hated it when at times the vaisya traders too cheap to hire good protectors enlisted their own over-enthusiastic relatives to guard the trains. Someone always got badly hurt at those times.
Kush had already turned the bow back to the wagon driver, another arrow already strung and ready to be loosed. The older man didn’t need to have the basics of life explained to him. He was already clucking and prodding and yanking frantically at the reins. With an effort he managed to stop the wagon barely inches from Kush. The breath of the lead horses puffed warmly on Kush’s bare hairless chest.
He bent his head forward and nuzzled the dripping snout of the lead horse, a roan stallion with a white leaf-shaped patch on his forehead, whispering a few words of endearment, while keeping the bow cocked and aimed at the wagon driver. If the man jerked the team forward at that moment…Kush would have to dance merrily to somersault out of the way of the pounding hooves in time. But he trusted horses more than men. The roan’s eyes would flare the instant that happened, giving him the fraction of a second he needed to act.
He kissed the roan one last time: “Someday, I’ll own a herd of beauties just like you.” The roan whinnied in approval as he walked away.
He jerked his head sideways at the wagon driver and the protector, indicating to them to get off. When both men were on the ground, the younger one glaring balefully at Kush, ignoring the arrow stuck in the meat of his arm, Kush pointed the arrow at each one in turn, making sure they looked into his eyes and saw he was serious. The younger one still looked rebellious, so Kush shot an arrow past his head, nicking his scalp with the fletch as it hissed past, just enough to open a cut that would bleed without actually harming the man. The man cursed again, tried to clap his injured hand to the head cut, slapped his own cheek instead, then got busy trying to keep the blood out of his eyes. Head wounds never stopped bleeding on their own, and the man would need patching and herbs to staunch the small but troublesome trickle. That, along with the arrow still in his arm would keep him distracted enough. The driver would give Kush no trouble: he could see it in the man’s eyes. He probably had grandchildren in Ayodhya he wanted to get home to and fighting to protect some rich vaisya trader’s summer’s earning did not seem motivation enough to risk his life.
“Keep your arrows on them, brothers,” Kush called out as he ran past them. “I shall halt the rest of the grama.”
Their eyes flicked one way then another, attempting to seek out where Kush’s fictitious companions might be placed. Kush grinned as he turned the corner. Good. That would keep them well-behaved till he returned.
He rounded the corner just as the rest of the wagon train trundled into sight. He wondered what the Sanskrit highspeech word was for a train carrying only produce and goods for barter and sale. A grama was strictly speaking a travelling clan or extended tribe. These wagon trains that rolled through this neck of the woods were purely carrying loads of trade items guarded and ferried by hired hands from one market town to another. There were no families here, no kith or kin. Just male kshatriyas of every background possible, all armed to defend these goods. A vaisya-grama, it should be called, he thought scornfully. Not because there was anything wrong with the vaisya merchant class, but because a grama so wholly devoted to naught but the pursuit of wealth and individual profit was unnatural, an abomination. Then again, these were city gramas, and cities were corrupt places, breeding grounds of venial vices. These men probably thought they were merely fulfilling their dharma; not that they even knew what dharma truly meant.
“Halt!” he shouted in a voice far greater than seemed possible for one of his small frame and slender torso. His voice carried the conviction of a man who would enforce his own command with the unleashing of weapons if need be. Never mind that he was less than 10 years of age. It took more than years or kilos of muscle to make a man a man.
The line of laden wagons continued to approach without slowing down. The riders had to have seen Kush but they were urging their teams on regardless, chins tucked low, eyes narrowed. From the hunched, tensed way they sat, Kush sensed that they had either expected something like this to happen or were prepared for it. He also knew what they intended to do: ride over him. The foremost wagon rumbled at a steady pace towards him, just about twenty yards away now. He could see the colours of the eyes of the men riding on the rider’s bench. They looked grizzled and tougher than the ones on the front two wagons. Grama-rakshaks. Luve and he had heard of them, kshatriyas who travelled with gramas like this one, guarding them for a fee. It was the first time he was facing one.
He raised his bow, aiming it at them. They seemed to hunch a little lower but made no other move. The man beside the driver already had a bow in his hand with an arrow fitted to the string, stretched and pointed downwards. As Kush raised his bow, the grama-rakshak raised his own, both arrows ready to loose now. Other than that, there was no reaction to his shouted command.
He didn’t entirely blame them. A single bowman barring their way, that too one of his obvious physical appearance, probably seemed unworthy of any response.
He would just have to prove them wrong.
“Halt or I shoot!” he called again. The wagon was barely fifteen yards away now.
In response, the man beside the driver loosed his own arrow. It was well aimed and Kush felt the heated wind of its passing tickle his chest as he swung his body just enough to make space for the arrow to go by. His arrow was already loosed before he swung around, a fraction of a second after the grama-rakshak’s arrow.
The man cursed once, and stared down at the arrow sprouting from his muscled shoulder. It was not a serious wound but it rendered him incapable of using a bow for the time being, which was all Kush had intended.
The wagon driver cracked his whip and the team of horses lurched forward, breaking into a steady canter. The speed at which they moved startled Kush. It could only mean the wagon was not as heavily laden as Luv and he had thought. They covered the remaining ten yards to him in a trice and he barely had time to sling his bow before the towering Kambhoja stallions thundered down on him, fully twice his height and each weighing a half ton. More than two tons of horse and wagon pounded over him relentlessly.
Click here to read Excerpt#4 from SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
Ten years have passed since Rama did the unthinkable and banished Sita. Now, she spends her days in quiet tapasya in the remote forest ashram of Maharishi Valmiki, even as her sons Luv and Kush grow ever more proficient at the arts of war. To the sorrow of many, they seem unlikely to ever cross paths with their estranged father. Yet destiny works in unexpected ways. Rama’s growing ambitions and his war-mongering advisors motivate him to launch the Ashwamedha yojana. The mightiest Ayodhyan army ever assembled follows the sacred stallion in a campaign of conquest that seems unstoppable…until a pair of improbable obstacles arise. Defying the military might of Ayodhya and the emperorship of Rama himself, two young striplings capture the Ashwamedha horse and challenge the great army. To Rama’s chagrin the challengers turn out to be none other than his own estranged offspring: the sons of Sita! Don’t miss the epic conclusion to the internationally acclaimed and bestselling Ramayana Series!
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
300 Pages/Limited Signed Trade Paperback Edition/Rs 400
Click here to request a copy of the AKB BOOKS Limited Signed Edition of SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#2
KAAND 1
ONE
The heavily laden wagon train trundled noisily through the woods. Sunlight fell in beams through the high leafy branches of the sala trees, some towering twenty yards or higher, illuminating the dust motes thrown up in the wake of the rattling wheels. The forest was rife with the colours of spring, bright bursts of saffron, vermillion, scarlet, russet, mustard decorating the sloping hillsides across which the old trading path wound its way. Smaller animals paused in their foraging and raised slender necks or cocked furry heads to listen as the wagons rumbled past then continued their nibbling unabated, accustomed to the passing of mortals through this neck of the woods. A leopard stretched out upon a high tree branch snarled and bared her fangs silently as she paused in the act of sharpening her claws; long furrows of stripped bark and gouged slashes marked her chosen spot. After she had satisfied herself the mortal noisemakers were only passing through, not stopping, she resumed her energetic grooming, purring with pleasure as the soft crumbly bark yielded to her razor-sharp tips. Below and only a few dozen yards to the side, a mongoose ignored the sound and continued to burrow into a hollow trunk rich with the scent of cobra, disappointed to find only cracked egg shells and old sheaths discarded at the turn of the season. Suspended on the trunk of another tree, a wasp stuck in a drip of oozing sap struggled hopelessly one last time before succumbing to the treacly golden glue that sealed in its life. Cicadas kept rhythm as the forest went about its daily business of killing, eating, defecating, urinating, dying and living. Higher up the sloping hillside, a tribe of langurs dozed in the shade, dopey in the late afternoon heat; from time to time, a squabble or mating duel provoked a babble which then quickly subsided. It was too hot to fight, mate, or do much except wait for the coolness of dusk and the night when the forest truly came alive.
The wagon wheel rims deepened the ruts in the oft used path as they rolled along. Most of the occupants appeared to be coddled within the covered carts, sleeping or dozing. Even the drivers were still and silent, moving only the minimum they had to in order to keep the teams of horses in line. There were almost no arms in view, and those that were visible were tucked away in rust-rimmed sheaths and carelessly kept swaddles. At first glance, it appeared to be a traditional grama – literally, a travelling tribe, for a wagon-train was the traditional collective in which the Arya hunter-gatherer tribes of yore had moved from place to place before the relatively recent era of fixed townships and city-states. But the absence of any women, the complete lack of children, and the heavily laden carts, as evidenced from the exertion expdended by the horses drawing the wagons, as well as the covered wagons and oddly quiet procession, suggested something else altogether. There were none of the usual entourage of brahmins trudging doggedly behind the wagons chanting their shlokas either, which ruled out a religious procession. Vaisya traders returning from Videha to Ayodhya, laden with the spoils of a good season of barter? Perhaps.
At one point the path curved sharply, almost doubling upon itself as it skirted a jagged outcrop of rock protruding from the hillside. At the same time, the trees at the bottom of this little outcrop drew back, providing a roughly semicircular clearing. At some time in the not-too-distant past, two old trees had somehow been uprooted and fallen, cutting this clearing in half in a pattern that roughly resembled an arrow fitted to a curved bow. The trees were rotting and overgrown and intersected the original path in a manner which compelled all travellers to slow and maneuver their way in a zigzag fashion for a few dozen yards. Each wagon and horse rider had to slow down and turn left then right then left again, go around the edge of the outcrop where a particularly enormous boulder jutted out like the fist of the bowman preparing to loose the arrow that was the fallen trees, and then turn inwards one last time, riding in the shade of a brief valley-like enclosure between the sharp rise of the hillside here to the left and the tree line to the right, before coming back upon the original path and settling back into familiar ruts. This slowed the entire train and necessitated some concentration of driverly resources, apart from separating each wagon from the one before and after for a moment or two at each turning point.
When the first wagon completed this minor obstacle course and turned the sharp final left, the driver’s attention was immediately diverted to two figures standing upon the large boulder. The angle of the sun and the high positions taken by the two men made it impossible to look directly at them. They were little more than silhouetted male figures clad in simple dhotis, that much he could see. Both held bows loosely by their sides and bore quivers on their backs, each bristling with a goodly supply of fletched arrows. They wore no swords or other weapons that the wagon driver could make out, nor did they appear to have any other companions anywhere in sight. They stood together, facing outwards in an insolent casual posture that suggested they simply happened to be there on this fine spring day, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, and the arrows fitted loosely to the bows held in the lowered arms were simply things they happened to be carrying.
The driver raised his brows, but neither slowed nor sought to stop the wagon. For one thing, it was very heavily laden, overburdened in fact, and stopping and starting required far too much effort and energy, both on the part of the weary team as well as himself. He did not see anything that occasioned risking that much effort here. The two figures standing upon the outcropping boulder appeared to be simply…standing. If not for their oddly intense faces, he would have raised a gnarled hand and hailed them pleasantly. But there was something in their curiously identical features and stillness that reminded him of a duo of young lionesses he had seen once in the Gir woods, in the moment before they had both pounced from diagonal points, converging upon a magnificent but age-bowed stag. This pair put him in mind of that same relaxed yet powerfully gathered predatory stance. He was an old PF whose ancient war injuries had proved too restrictive for him to continue active service. He had retired on the king’s pension and now hired himself out to lead wagon trains like this one to help earn a little extra from time to time. Like all old soldiers who had seen violence explode, he knew how even the most innocuous gesture could sometimes seem provocative or hostile to a person of another culture. He lowered his half-raised hand and stilled his voice. Better to simply ride past and on. These were strange times and there were strange people afoot.
He clicked his tongue softly and completed the turn with deft ease, the wagon swinging around, rear wheels creaking noisily as it rounded the curve. The stallioni on the fore right of the team, a healthy young brute in his prime who was given to covering every female in sight if given the chance, tossed his head and shortened his steps reluctantly to compensate for the sharpness of the curve, nudged and coerced expertly by the driver. The curve done, he lowered his head and pulled hard, drawing lows of protest from his companions who were in no particular hurry to reach Ayodhya. The young stud moved as if he had an appointment with a female waiting eagerly for him in the capitol, straining at the yoke. The old driver admired his strength and youth without envying him; he had been somewhat of a bull himself in his youth; in retrospect, he preferred the quiet wisdom of age and experience over the brash virility of youth anyday. He was distracted for just a fraction of an instant by the young horses’s antics – long enough for everything to change.
Movement caught his eye on the boulder. He glanced up just in time to see the two figures that had been standing still as statues suddenly stir to action. Both bows were raised, cords taut, and the old wagon rider looked up to see the lethal metal points of two long arrows aimed directly at him. He had a brief instant to think of his great-grandchildren back in Ayodhya and of the toys he had bought for them from the toy mandi in Mithila. He had been looking forward to seeing their faces dance with delight as he drew each new treat out of the jute sack. Those little tykes were his greatest source of pleasure in these last years. But then again, he had seen his share of happy faces. He was not unafraid of dying, nor foolish enough to risk it just to save some rich vaisya trader’s season’s stock.
He clucked the team to a halt, yanking hard twice on the young stud’s reins for emphasis – the fellow was thick-headed enough to ram into the outcrop if not corrected firmly – then dropped his hands, shaking his head to indicate he meant to take no aggressive action.
One of the figures standing upon the boulder spoke. And it was then that the driver had his first real surprise in a very long time. At his age, with his war record and lifetime of experience, he had seen a fair share of unusual situations. But it had been a long time since he had been genuinely surprised as he was now.
Because when the person on the boulder began to speak, he realized what he hadn’t been able to see before due to the angle of the sunlight.
The two bowmen were just boys.
Little more than children.
Click here to read Excerpt#3 from SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
Ten years have passed since Rama did the unthinkable and banished Sita. Now, she spends her days in quiet tapasya in the remote forest ashram of Maharishi Valmiki, even as her sons Luv and Kush grow ever more proficient at the arts of war. To the sorrow of many, they seem unlikely to ever cross paths with their estranged father. Yet destiny works in unexpected ways. Rama’s growing ambitions and his war-mongering advisors motivate him to launch the Ashwamedha yojana. The mightiest Ayodhyan army ever assembled follows the sacred stallion in a campaign of conquest that seems unstoppable…until a pair of improbable obstacles arise. Defying the military might of Ayodhya and the emperorship of Rama himself, two young striplings capture the Ashwamedha horse and challenge the great army. To Rama’s chagrin the challengers turn out to be none other than his own estranged offspring: the sons of Sita! Don’t miss the epic conclusion to the internationally acclaimed and bestselling Ramayana Series!
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
300 Pages/Limited Signed Trade Paperback Edition/Rs 400
Click here to request a copy of the AKB BOOKS Limited Signed Edition of SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series – Except#1
arvaci subhaghe bhava site vandamahe tva |
yatha nah subhaghasasi yatha nah suphalasasi ||
Auspicious Sita, come thou near: we venerate and worship thee |
That thou mayst bless and prosper us and bring us fruits abundantly ||
Rig-Veda, Mandala 4, Sukta 57, rca 6
PRARAMBHA
Sita…
Sweet whisper in her ear, myrtle breath upon her cheek. She started awake with a lurch and a gasp. In the hut’s impenetrable darkness, her hands sought out by instinct the looming mound of her belly. Her palms gently massaged the sweat-slicked pot, soothing both herself as well as her sleeping sons. Slowly, by degrees, the nightmarish visions of ten-headed rakshasas, moon-swords and three-eyed devas faded away reluctantly, retreated hissing and snapping to the far corners of the humble hut. She was too middle-heavy to sit up easily; instead, she leaned upon one elbow, head throbbing, throat hoarse from shouting forgotten prayers to uncaring gods. The darbha grass pallet was dampened by her own exudations. She listened idly, hearing only the absence of human sounds. The ashram was asleep around her. The night was peaceful, the forest quiet – or as quiet as a forest could be at night. The very music of the woods told her that all was well, no menace lurked in the dark recesses of the surrounding wilderness, no rakshasas approached stealthily, no mortal or un-mortal foes threatened. Within the center of her being, the twin lives growing steadily – greedily, it seemed somedays – seemed barely to have stirred. She trusted their instincts more than her own now; for they seemed to sense better than she when true danger loomed. One kicked, the other kicked back instinctively, and she felt them both settling back into deep repose. The rhythmic cricketing of insects, droning of cicadas, and hooting of owls lulled her back to sleep. Darkness embraced her like a lover returned from a long war. She fell into sleep and nothingness caught her and began to tug her insistently down towards oblivion…
Sitey.
Her eyes opened, staring up into darkness. That name. Nobody called her by that name, in that tone. Her name Sita modified to the third-person plural, the tense used for royalty or formal addresses. Simultaneously affectionate as well as excessively formal. A name only a lover would use. Nay, not even a lover. Only a husband.
Janaki.
She swallowed, willing her heart to slow, feeling a fresh bead of sweat coagulating upon her brow – she had always had a tendency to sweat a great deal from the crown of her scalp – and it took great restraint to stifle the urge she felt to speak out. Quiet and serene as the ashram was, its occupants were light sleepers, accustomed to living in woods populated by the fiercest predators. Rousing them would take little more than a raised voice, a tone of alarm, or even a strange sound that did not belong: Maharishi Valmiki would be up and at the ready in a trice, broadstaff in hand, a mantra on his lips. Then the devas help any intruder, human or otherwise. So she kept her voice stilled and emotions under control. There were also the twins to consider. At this advanced stage of her confinement, waking them would make sleep impossible the rest of the night, for they would be kicking and ready for action no less quicker than the maharishi. The very fact that they still slept so soundly told her that whatever presence swirled around her this night, it was not a force of evil that intended harm to her. Just as the Maharishi was sensitive to sound, the twins were sensitive to all else.
And that name and that tone. Janaki. Daughter of Janak. Again, an appellation used by one who cared about her.
Rama, she mouthed silently, her heart turning at the use of his name. Is that you?
Maithili.
This one was less intimate, more generic. Woman of Mithila. Yet coming as it did after the other familiar terms of endearment, it was more touching, not less, for its formal generality. She shuddered and covered her face with the crook of her arm, feeling hot tears spill carelessly down her cheeks. The appellation, uttered in the most affectionate of tones, caused her mind to resonate with a deep ringing that issued outwards in concentric waves, seeming to reach to the very ends of creation.
Vaidehi.
Woman of the Videha nation. This last was so generic, so formal, yet spoken in a tone so familiar, intimate, caressing, sincere, that it broke the last reserves of her endurance. The dam burst and she turned her head and cried into the straw, cut ends digging uncomfortably into her neck and arms and cheek; not caring. She heard her own sobs in the stillness and thought with a sense of wonder: Who is that woman weeping so bitterly? Poor thing. She must have suffered some great loss.
My love, forgive me. I did what I had to for our sakes. For the sake of our sons. For the sake of our future.
No! She cried silently in her mind’s echoing chamber. You did it for dharma. As you do everything. That’s all you really care about. Nothing else matters so long as you fulfill your dharma. It’s the way it’s always been with you!
A moment of silence, as if he did not debate her accusation. Then, gently, soothingly:
Yes. But you serve dharma too. In your own way. Surely you see that?
She raised her face at last and screamed into the darkness with the true voice of her heart, audible only to phantoms and miasmas: I don’t want to serve dharma. I don’t want dharma. I just want you.
She waited. But this time no reply came. Only the silent darkness pressing upon her from all sides like an invisible cage shrinking by degrees every passing moment. She felt a sudden rush of remorse then. Regret at having spoken so harshly to her beloved – or to his phantom presence, or memory, or whatever it was that had come to her in the deep watches of the night.
Rama? She asked anxiously. Are you there?
But only the darkness remained. The darkness and the silence.
She lay awake the remaining hours to dawn, till the ashram stirred and the brahmacharyas rose and the daily round of chores and duties began anew. Within the swollen mound of her belly, the twins slept as peacefully as cubs in a den.
He never came to her again, that night, or any other night.
Click here to read Excerpt#2 from SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
Ten years have passed since Rama did the unthinkable and banished Sita. Now, she spends her days in quiet tapasya in the remote forest ashram of Maharishi Valmiki, even as her sons Luv and Kush grow ever more proficient at the arts of war. To the sorrow of many, they seem unlikely to ever cross paths with their estranged father. Yet destiny works in unexpected ways. Rama’s growing ambitions and his war-mongering advisors motivate him to launch the Ashwamedha yojana. The mightiest Ayodhyan army ever assembled follows the sacred stallion in a campaign of conquest that seems unstoppable…until a pair of improbable obstacles arise. Defying the military might of Ayodhya and the emperorship of Rama himself, two young striplings capture the Ashwamedha horse and challenge the great army. To Rama’s chagrin the challengers turn out to be none other than his own estranged offspring: the sons of Sita! Don’t miss the epic conclusion to the internationally acclaimed and bestselling Ramayana Series!
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
300 Pages/Limited Signed Trade Paperback Edition/Rs 400
Click here to request a copy of the AKB BOOKS Limited Signed Edition of SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.
SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series limited paperback edition sold out on pre-orders!
The limited signed AKB Books edition of SONS OF SITA: BOOK 8 OF THE RAMAYANA SERIES, the long-awaited conclusion to my Ramayana Series, was available for pre-order only via this website. (Don’t waste your time looking for the book elsewhere online or in bookstores as the Penguin mass market edition will only be published in 2011.) The pre-orders closed early due to an unprecedented rush – over 7 times more orders were received than the number of copies being printed! Pre-orders are now officially closed. Thanks to all those who ordered. Please pay the money via cash deposit or online transfer to the ICICI A/c (no cheques please). Please note that this is a Pre-Order: SoS will be despatched via courier only after 15th February.
Excerpts and further information about the book will be added soon. International orders and the limited collector’s edition hardcover will go on sale in mid-Feb when the AKB Books edition is officially released.
A few copies of the limited edition of VoR, GoW and V:S are still available but they’re selling out fast. Visit the AKB Books Order Page.
VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series limited edition almost sold out!
The 2nd Limited Edition of VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series has sold out! Due to the number of orders continuing to pour in, I’ve ordered and now have copies of a 3rd Limited Edition. However, due to copyright restrictions, I can’t promise there will be further editions. So if you or anyone else you know wants to read the long-awaited seventh part in my Ramayana Series, now’s the time to order a copy.
The only way to get the book now is to order it online right here via this website. The mass market edition by Penguin is expected to be in bookstores sometime before end-2010. HURRY! COPIES SELLING FAST!
Click here to know more about Vengeance of Ravana.
Click here to read excerpts from Vengeance of Ravana.
Click here to order Vengeance of Ravana within India.
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VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series limited edition copies available!
Happy days! By popular demand, I’ve reopened orders for a 2nd limited edition of VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series. The only way to get the book is to order it online right here via this website. The mass market edition by Penguin is expected to be in bookstores around mid-2010. This limited edition is only available for a short time. HURRY! COPIES SELLING OUT FAST!
EVIL NEVER DIES. It only changes form and shape.
Ravana is dead. The asura threat is ended and Rama is on the throne of Ayodhya at last, seeking only to live in peace with his beloved Sita.
But their peace does not last long. An old enemy breaks free of his subterranean prison to convey a shocking message. An army arrives at the gates of Ayodhya, led by a mysterious being bearing a terrible weapon. Gods descend upon earth. And in the end, besieged on every side, Rama makes a terrible tragic decision.
But is he truly following his dharma or is he and everyone else merely being manipulated by the masterfully planned…Vengeance of Ravana!
The long-awaited 7th volume in the Ramayana Series begins an enthralling two-part conclusion to the epic saga. Followed soon by the stunning 8th and final volume Sons of Sita. Available in limited edition hardcover and large paperback versions. Linked to VORTAL:Shockwave and Gods of war.
Click here to know more about Vengeance of Ravana.
Click here to read excerpts from Vengeance of Ravana.
Click here to order Vengeance of Ravana within India.
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The AKB Bookstore is now open!
Hi there! Welcome to the AKB Bookstore. The one-stop online shop to order my books and have them delivered anywhere across India or the rest of the world. Start by visiting the AKB Books Page to find out more about each title, look at the covers, read excerpts, and choose your edition. Already know what you want? Go straight to the AKB Order Page.
VORTAL: SHOCKWAVE – Excerpt#5
5
In Which Vhy Tries To Tell Vir About Mikey And The Vortal, Viveka Is Mistaken For The Enemy, Vhy Is Confronted By The Duplicate Mikey, & Viveka Becomes A Prisoner Of War
5.1 Vir
When I came out of Sarla’s hospital room, Vhy was waiting for me. I put my arm around him and hugged him tightly. I could smell Pantene shampoo on his hair- the same brand I used- and Chiclets on his breath. When I released him, I saw his eyes were wet and shiny. He was only 17 after all and he had never experienced a major illness or death in our immediate family—thank God. This was probably very hard for him.
“Bete,” I said gently. “Don’t worry, she’s going to be fine.”
“Papa,” he said. He was the only one who preferred to call me Papa, not Dad. Somehow, I liked it. I had always called my father Papa till the day he died and he had called his father the same.
“Papa,” he said again, and I could see him swallowing hard, as if making a major effort to speak. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
“Bete, it’s late now. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? I’m going to be here until your Jogi-mama and Sundri-mami arrive. They’re already on the flight from Delhi. You can come in the morning on your way to college, your mother should be conscious by then. We can talk after you see her.”
“No, Papa, it’s important. We have to talk right now.”
I looked at him curiously. Vhy was the dreamer, the most carefree and happy-go-lucky of my three kids. Viveka was the sensible, motivated one. Mikey was the eccentric, rebellious one. Vhy usually became passionate only about movies. He was a junior Alfred Hitchcock, Steven Spielberg and Wachowski Brothers, all rolled into one. He had seen The Matrix 17 times on its first release, God knows how many times on DVD since then. It was his Bible.
With a tinge of concern, I said, “Bete, what is it? Some problem?”
He looked around. Then, without pointing directly at them, he indicated Mikey and Mrs. Mudgal, still seated in the waiting area by the nurse’s desk. His voice was low and urgent as if he didn’t want his voice to carry down the dead-silent hospital corridor.
“Papa, it’s Mikey.”
“What about Mikey, bete?”
He hesitated for a moment. “He’s changed.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, changed?”
“I mean, it’s like…” he stopped, then started up again, “it’s like he’s not Mikey anymore. Not our Mikey. Like he’s someone else.”
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I’d put it on silent mode to avoid being disturbed while in the hospital, but Anant had told me he would be calling me after he spoke to another couple of specialists about another minor operation Sarla might need.
I was reaching for it when Vaibhav caught my hand and looked at me with an expression of sheer desperation. “Papa, listen to me. I’m telling you, Mikey, our Mikey, he’s gone. That guy sitting over there, he’s someone else. Our Mikey’s been Switched.”
“Switched,” I repeated tonelessly, not sure how to react to this extraordinary accusation. “You mean…”
“I mean, he’s been replaced. And a duplicate put in his place. That duplicate.”
I looked at Mikey, talking quietly, soberly with Mrs. Mudgal. I had seen him calm her down earlier, when she had started to get upset again. He had handled phone calls for me, helped pass on messages to and from the doctors and nurses, got us all snacks and coffee when we needed it…he was behaving so well, I had meant to take him aside later and give him a little hug, to show him how proud I was of how well he was standing up to this crisis.
“Vaibhav, bete, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
He looked frustrated. “It’s the computer.”
I stared at him blankly. “The computer?” What did a computer have to do with anything?
He went on, growing more agitated as he continued talking in a hoarse whisper, still desperate not to be heard by his own brother. “Yes, Mikey’s comp. The other night, I was with—“
He stopped and rubbed his forehead, pinching the skin tightly the way he did when he got upset sometimes. “He was in his room, logged on to some kind of weird internet site. Then he disappeared. Vanished from his chair.”
I blinked. “You were sitting in Mikey’s room and you were both browsing some internet site and then he disappeared?”
“No, I wasn’t there. He was alone in his room. And he just disappeared. Vanished. Poof. Like in a movie.”
“I don’t understand. If you weren’t with him, if he was alone in his room, how could you see him disappear? Did he tell you this? He must have been pulling your leg, bete.”
He looked down for a moment, exasperated. Even as a little boy, Vhy had never blown up or lost his temper right away; he tended to turn his anger inwards. He was doing that now, I could see, struggling with his frustration. I wanted to help him, but didn’t know how. The cell phone in my pocket stopped vibrating. Whoever it was, it must have been urgent, or they wouldn’t have let it ring that long. The crisis over the thrill ride animation had still been cresting when I’d left office. I hadn’t spoken to anyone there since.
Vhy looked up at me again. “The door was open. Someone looked in and saw him sitting there. Then I looked in and he wasn’t there, he was gone. Then I turned my back for a second, just a second, and poof, he was back in his chair again. I’m not making this up, papa. It really happened. Just last night! And today, all this is going on.”
I tried not to sigh visibly. I didn’t know how to deal with this…whatever it was. I tried to be as patient as possible. “Who someone?”
He stared at me uncomprehendingly.
“Vhy, you said Someone looked in and saw him sitting there. I’m asking you, who someone?”
He looked away again, this time I thought I saw a flash of what looked like embarrassment cross his face. What was he embarrassed about? The fact that he was talking gibberish when his mother was in a serious condition in the ICU? I had never known Vaibhav to behave like this before, but he was definitely not himself!
“It doesn’t matter who, papa,” he said. “The point is, Mikey was Switched somehow. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. I saw it happen. He vanished, then ten minutes later he was back. But like the way he is now, changed completely. Not the real Mikey. I told Viveka about it, but she didn’t believe me. Now, it’s happened to her too. The maid told me Viveka was in Mikey’s room when Mom went to speak to her, just before the attack took place. Viveka must have been using Mikey’s comp for some reason and the same thing that happened to Mikey happened to her too. She’s not the real Viveka anymore. She’s been Switched too.”
I stared at him. Long and hard. I hadn’t seen Vhy so intense and anxious since the night he’d had a high fever before his ICSE Maths finals, a year and a half ago.
“Vaibhav,” I said, puzzled. “What are you talking about? What is this whole story for? Why are you telling me all these things? And now? Is this the place, or the time? Come, on bete, get a hold on yourself. Your mother needs us to pull together, to stay in control. I’m depending on you and you’re telling me all these stories!”
He sighed with typical adolescent exasperation. I wondered for a moment—just a fleeting moment—if he was on drugs or something. But I dismissed the thought instantly: I knew my children too well. Still, something was definitely wrong with Vaibhav and the only other thing I could think of was that the sudden shock of what had happened had affected him somehow. Maybe…just maybe…I shouldn’t have given him so much freedom, allowed him to watch so many movies without restriction. Maybe, at this time of sudden stress, his movie-addicted mind was unable to cope, and was therefore trying to retreat into some fantastical movie-ish explanation for the very real things that had happened.
“Papa,” he said with a tone of desperation. “You’ve got to believe me. Both Mikey and Viveka have been Switched. They’re not our Mikey and Viveka anymore. That’s why Mom was attacked. By the other Viveka.”
I was trying to think of what to say in response to that when, to my relief, I saw the lift at the far end of the corridor open and Anant emerged. He was looking at his cell phone and then he looked up as he came down the corridor and when he saw me, he shut his cell phone.
He was frowning when he came up. “Vir, I was calling you just now but there was no answer.”
“Sorry, Anant, Vaibhav just needed to talk to me for a moment,” I said apologetically, trying not to sound irritated with Vhy.
Anant nodded at Vaibhav perfunctorily. “Hello, Vaibhav.” He looked at me, “Vir, I have to go home and get some sleep. Major surgery tomorrow and it can’t be postponed. I’ve checked with Dr. Patel again. He’s keeping a constant watch on her, so there’s nothing to worry about. I need you to just chat with him for a moment to discuss the plastic surgery I suggested earlier. If you do it within the first 72 hours, it’s best. That way, there’ll be virtually no visible scars.”
I nodded. “Sure. You’re going up again? Then I’ll come with you.”
I looked at Vhy. “Vaibhav, bete. We’re all tired. I need to speak to Dr. Patel about your Mom having another minor operation. Take my suggestion, go home, eat something—I told the maid to keep dinner ready. And get a good night’s sleep. You’re tired. It’ll do you good. Sleep well. And we’ll talk in the morning, okay?”
He looked at me with an expression that was part-puppy dog who had been kicked and part-Forrest Gump. He seemed about to say something, then glanced at his tau standing next to us, waiting impatiently, and just nodded. I thought of saying something else to him but I couldn’t think of anything. His extraordinary story had left me completely wordless.
Then, he just turned and walked away, not in the direction of the lift which would take him downstairs to the hospital lobby, but the other direction. He walked past the waiting room and I saw Mikey look up and give him a vulnerable look that was wholly unlike our usually sullen and withdrawn Mikey; it told me how much the sudden shock of Sarla’s incident had affected our youngest as well. He was clearly calling out for some brotherly help. But Vaibhav just walked past, ignoring Mikey completely, and went through the door marked Exit. He was taking the staircase. And we were on the 14th floor.
“Vir?” Anant said. “Can we go now? Patel’s waiting for you before he goes on his rounds.”
I thought of going after Vaibhav, of sitting down with him and trying to figure out what was troubling him so much that he had to make up such elaborate stories. Was it the classic attention-seeking device? Or perhaps it wasn’t an attempt to get attention at all, perhaps he had seen something unusual, but his overactive movie-filled imagination had interpreted it as much more than what it was.
But I couldn’t deal with it right now. There were more important things to be done. And I still had to figure out what to do about Viveka—Where was she? What had happened to her? Why had she attacked her mother? I was worried sick about her. I was still trying to come to terms with what had happened, struggling to deal with it one thing at a time. I just didn’t have the mental space to deal with Vhy’s bizarre story.
“Okay,” I said to Anant. “Let’s go talk to Dr. Patel.”
5.2 Viveka
The crossbow in the man’s hand wavered slightly as I cried out. I thought he was going to shoot me in reflex and my body tensed at the thought of that metal bolt piercing my flesh.
He cursed in the same tapori bhaasha, using Marathi and Gujarati swear words combined in a uniquely Bollywood mixture.
“Girl, control yourself. You almost tasted the steel of my bow just now.”
I raised my arms again, anxious not to anger him. “I’m sorry. I just…. I was just…. I mean, I couldn’t help it. When I saw your face…”
He frowned suspiciously, keeping the crossbow aimed at my chest. “What about my face? What’s wrong with it?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. How do you tell a man from another world, an alternate Bombay as this obviously was, that he’s the spitting image of a Hindi film star in our world? That too, a very major megastar. Right down to the last bicep in his muscular arms and the lean hard line of his jaw. I almost expected him to start dancing that familiar step, the one where Hrithik presses his hands outwards and jerks his body, and sing, “Ek pal ka jeena…” Because that’s who he was: the spitting image of Bollywood’s current badshah, Hrithik Roshan.
“Don’t play games with me, girl,” he snarled. “I’ve had a very nasty day. And it’s going to get far worse, thanks to your pardesi associates down there.”
He jerked his head in the direction of the battlefield below, indicating the larger forces coming from the North. I stole a quick glance. The army was still massed in lines stretching as far as I could see in this dusky light. They were clearly waiting…but for what? Then I remembered a scene I’d seen in some film—don’t ask me which, okay, I’m not a movie cyclopaedia like Vhy—where the larger army waits for the smaller force to surrender. Some American Civil war saga.
As I glanced down, I saw a horse rider bearing a white flag riding from the ranks of the South army towards the North army. He looked very small and forlorn, but there was no mistaking that white flag—he was a herald, seeking to offer terms of surrender. I hoped his offer was accepted: I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if that great North army actually attacked the measly South one.
Then I realized what this duplicate Hrithik Roshan had just said in his pidgin Bambaiya bhasha.
“Wait a sec,” I said. “You think I’m with those people down there? No way! I’m on my own here. I’m not even from this world.”
“Not from this world,” he repeated slowly. “You speak oddly, girl. Which area of the North are you from? Jogeshwari? Vasai?” He looked me up and down again. “You must be one of those Pawai princesses. I’ve heard tell they will–”
“Look, I just told you, I’m not from the North or the South. I’m from elsewhere. Besides, you’re the one who speaks oddly. What sort of language is that anyway?”
He looked as if I had just insulted his mother. “This is Tapori. The language of my land.”
He used his free arm to indicate our surroundings. “You Northerners come here, invade our land, destroy our homes and now you insult my language too. Tapori is the greatest language in the seven islands. It is the language in which all the great epics were composed.” He sneered like the second, tough-guy Hrithik in ‘Kaho Na Pyaar Hai’, the one who takes revenge on the bad guys for killing the first nice, sweet-boy Hrithik before the interval. “But what would you know about such things, a common barbarian like you!”
Barbarian? me? If he hadn’t had a crossbow in his hand, I would have picked up a rock and slugged him. I settled for putting a hand on my hip, and pointed a finger at him. “Tapori? Is that what you call it? Well, at least you picked a good name. It’s tapori Hindi, that’s for sure.”
He looked at me up and down. As my initial shock at being caught and then at recognizing his famous face wore off slightly, I began to feel afraid again. I was in a strange, hostile land, captured by an armed man who regarded me as an enemy. I had no idea what he might do to me.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
I did as he asked, feeling his eyes move over my body as intimately as a hand on bare skin. Suddenly, I felt almost naked in the cut-off jean shorts. Why the hell wasn’t I dressed in something less revealing than these flimsy shorts? That was simple: I was supposed to be working on my PC at home, not transported against my will to a strange world and taken prisoner by an armed stranger with a crossbow.
“You wear strange garb too,” he said. “I have never seen a Northerner in such garments before. Not even a princess of Pawai. Is it your custom to be as unclad as a common rundi? Or perhaps that is your profession?”
I wanted to slap him for saying I was dressed like a whore. But he was too far away. And it would have been pointless. Besides, he was right. Even in the USA, I hadn’t dressed like this out of doors. It was only because I was working alone in the privacy of my own bedroom that I’d slipped into these shorts and the tee shirt to be more comfortable. Damn. If I’d known I was going to be judged by some filmstar-lookalike in another dimension, I would have worn my boringly conservative churidar-kurta.
He peered at my cut-offs in a way that made me hold my breath with anxious anticipation. I relaxed only slightly when I realized he was trying to read the designer label.
“Pepe,” I said, trying to help. “And the tee shirt’s from Columbia, New York. I did a post-grad course in filmmaking there, after passing out of Michigan U.”
He tried to repeat the unfamiliar words. When he tried to say “Pepe”, it came out sounding like the Punjabi “Papey”. I couldn’t help laughing.
His face darkened with anger. The crossbow rose an inch higher, pointing at my throat. I stopped laughing.
“Silence, girl! We’ll soon see how you laugh when I take you back to my camp for questioning. We know how to deal with pardesi spies like you.”
I held up my hands appeasingly. “Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. It’s just that this whole situation is so bizarre.”
He put his free hand to his mouth and whistled three loud, sharp tones. Instantly, a horse came riding back out of the smoky dimness. It came within three yards of him and stopped, waiting. So that’s how he had tricked me earlier: I had heard the horse riding away and it hadn’t occurred to me that the rider had stayed behind! Smart move.
“Hey,” I said in English. “That’s one hell of a neat trick. That horse really responds to you.”
“Girl,” he said curtly. “Stop your barbarian chatter, and get on the horse. I would make you run, but it is too far, and I must be back before the battle commences. Move now!”
“Achcha, baba, I’m getting on,” I said, using Bambaiya Hindi again—or Tapori, as he called it with such pathetic pride. “But if you’re going to order me around, at least use my name. I’m Viveka. Everybody calls me Viv for short.”
“Viveka,” he said, looking at me suspiciously as if revealing my name might be some new trick on my part.
“And you are?”
It didn’t really matter what his name was, but I couldn’t resist asking. I had to know if he had the same name as his filmi counterpart back in our world. If he was the spitting image of a Hindi film superstar in my world, maybe his name was similar too. It would help me figure out how similar or dissimilar things were between the two worlds.
It was eerily similar. Not the exact same name, but close enough to send a shiver up my spine.
“Rikit,” he said gruffly. “Rikit Raushan, son of Rankesh Raushan of Mahim Island. Now, get on that horse before I put a bolt through your unclad leg.”
5.3 Vhy
I reached home feeling frustrated and angry with myself. I should have made Dad listen to me somehow. But he was so worried about Mom. And there were things to be done at the hospital. I didn’t blame him for not believing me—for looking at me like I was some attention-deficit South Mumbai rich delinquent, even though at the time I was so mad as hell, I had felt like shouting and kicking the walls while going down the hospital stairs. No, it wasn’t Dad’s fault at all, from any point of view.
Besides, I knew how freaked-out my story sounded: “Papa, Mikey and Viveka were sucked into some kind of internet vortal and came out as different people.”
But it was the truth. I knew it. Ruchi knew it too. We had seen what we had seen. There had to be a way to convince Dad. Before something else happened.
The maid was still in a state of shock. She was trembling when she opened the door and her eyes looked like she had been crying nonstop. I felt really bad for her. She must have got the shock of her life, seeing Viveka attack Mom like that. Just the thought of it made me feel like someone had shoved a fistful of ice down the back of my shirt. Your sister attacking your mom, slashing her badly enough to put her in hospital. Badly enough to need an emergency operation and plastic surgery.
I tried to control my own feelings and stayed calm long enough to give the maid the night off. She almost sobbed with relief, saying “Thank you, baba, thank you, hah? Mein kal subah-subah aati hoon,” and was out the door in, like, ten minutes. I wondered if she would be back in the morning, then realized I was too tired to deal with one more thing right now.
Then I collapsed on a couch in the living room and zombied-out totally. Like, I lay there for an hour or maybe a year, totally blank. Too much had happened too fast. Was it just yesterday that Ruchi and I were sitting in my bedroom watching ‘Eyes Wide Shut’? Just last night that we saw Mikey disappear at his comp? Then saw him reappear again out of thin air? It seemed like another lifetime.
When I came to my senses again, I got the scare of my life.
Mikey was standing there beside the couch, looking down at me with this really really weird expression on his face.
It shouldn’t have scared me. After all, hey, this was my younger brother, good ole Mikey Hard Rock maniac. Pizza-lover extraordinaire, tech nerd and net junkie, lone wolf and social outlaw.
Except that it wasn’t really him. This was the other Mikey. The one who had come back through the Vortal. Just like Viveka had this morning. The duplicate Mikey.
And if the duplicate Viveka had been vicious enough to put my mom in the hospital, then what might this duplicate Mikey do to me?
He grinned just then, as if reading my thoughts and leaned closer. Close enough to bite.
5.4 Viveka
You don’t argue with a strange ruffian pointing a loaded weapon at you. Even if he does look like Hrithik Roshan in ‘Kaho Naa Pyaar Hai’. I did as he told me. I went to the horse, put my foot in the stirrup and was about to get on when suddenly a sound burst out.
It was the sound of a man screaming. And it was coming from below, from the wadi on the east side of Pali Hill.
Both Rikit Raushan—that name was just too weirdly similar—and I turned to look. The two armies were massed below, facing one another, the Northern one still outnumbering the Southern by at least five times as far as I could tell.
The screaming was coming from the man with a white flag I had seen earlier. When I had last seen him, he was riding toward the Northern army, evidently bringing an offer of peace.
It seemed the Northerners didn’t care much for his offer. Because he was riding back now in the direction of the South, minus one arm. The arm, still holding the pole with the white flag, lay on the ground several metres behind him, the white cloth splashed with bloodstains that were visible even from here.
Rikit Raushan sucked in his breath as he came up beside me, watching the drama unfold.
“Barbarians,” he said. “Attacking an unarmed man bearing a flag of truce. I told the General not to waste time parleying with them.”
We watched the armless rider, clutching his shoulder to try and staunch the blood gushing from it, staining the rump of his horse and leaving a dark scarlet trail on the ground as he rode. He hadn’t reached even halfway back to his own lines when a javelin came whistling through the air behind him, arcing high in an Olympian trajectory. It struck him squarely between the shoulder blades, driving his face down into the mane of his horse.
His horse rode even faster. The momentum jostled him out of the saddle and he hung sideways, hanging from one stirrup. He must have been dead before he reached safety.
Rikit Raushan bristled with rage beside me. “Cowards!” he yelled. “Let’s see how you fare against a man bearing steel!”
He unsheathed a sword and raised it in the air. For a moment, I thought he would charge down the hillside and take on that army single-handedly. Now he reminded me of yet another Hindi film. I had recently seen ‘Fiza’—my mom had dragged me along to keep her company since my dad never saw Hindi films—and it was eerie to see the same jutting jaw, the biceps rippling with tension, the light-coloured eyes burning with fury. The real Hrithik Roshan had only been acting in that film, but his counterpart in this world was demonstrating real passion, real emotion.
It took a great effort on his part to not go charging down the hillside, but I saw him control himself and turn away. Seeing that display of self-control gave me a glimmer of hope. I used the moment to try to appeal to his better sense.
“Listen,” I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible—or as sincere as anyone can sound when speaking in pidgin Bambaiya Tapori bhasha. “You must believe me. I am not a spy. I don’t even know why you people are fighting. I’m here by mistake and all I want is to find my brother and go home again. I have nothing to do with this war of yours.”
He wasn’t listening. Below, the Northern army was sounding trumpets and preparing its first assault, even before the murdered peace-rider had reached the Southern lines.
Even I was silenced for a moment as the entire Northern army gave out one mighty roar and charged forward in a massive charge. It was an awesome sight, even seen from a kilometre away on top of this hill and I couldn’t even imagine what it must be like to actually face those charging hordes. I shuddered. What sort of hellish place had I come to?
“They attack without a parley,” he said beside me, his voice choked with anger. “They butcher our peace-rider. And they mean to leave us no quarter.”
He turned to me, his sword still in his hand. “The Northern barbarians. They outnumber us six to one and will not stop until our homelands are awash in the blood of our innocent women and children. By killing the bearer of the white flag they have announced that they will take no prisoners.”
He put the point of the sword to my throat, eyes blazing. They were the exact same shade and tint as that of his counterpart back in my world. “Then why should we?”
5.5 Vhy
The sight of Mikey, the fake Mikey, bending over me while I slept, grinning down at me in the darkness was scarier than any nightmare.
I almost fell off the couch, clutching at the corner of the coffee table to keep my balance. My heart yammered like the soundtrack in a bad horror film.
The duplicate Mikey backed away at once, until he was standing in the shadows by the wall unit.
That was worse, ‘cause now I couldn’t see his face clearly. And he just stood there silently looking down at me. Like one of those two lions in that movie that Bill Goldman wrote, based on a true story he came across while on a holiday to Africa with his wife, ‘The Ghost and The Darkness’. I felt the hairs on the back of my hand standing on end with anticipation. It felt like something was about to happen; something really bad.
I felt like screaming and running from the house. Like getting away from this spooky guy who used to be my kid brother. But I remembered Mom lying unconscious in a bundle of bandages in that ICU bed, and Viveka who had suddenly turned into a vicious animalistic creature, attacking Mom, leaving her hurt badly enough to need operations and ICUs, and then leaping over a 12-foot wall like Jack Nicholson in ‘Wolf’, if the witnesses were to be believed.
I forced myself to calm down. I took three deep breaths like Van Damme takes in one of his martial arts action movies before he starts his main climax fight, and, getting up from the couch, I walked over to the light switches, forcing myself to move slowly.
Mikey should have blinked when I switched the lights on. Instead he just stood there, staring directly at me. It took me a moment to adjust to the brightness even though I’d been prepared for it, and I reminded myself once again that this person standing there was not my brother. Hell, he might not even be like us normal people.
While my rods and cones did their thing, he moved towards me. I felt he didn’t even move like the old Mikey. The differences were subtle enough that Dad and Mom and Viveka hadn’t noticed them at breakfast this morning, but knowing what I knew, everything he did screamed ‘phony’ to me. Or, as Ruch would have put it, ‘Snatcher’.
My head was woozy and my eyes felt gritty. I must have fallen asleep without realizing it. I glanced at the wall clock and was shocked at how long I’d slept, and at the fact that Dad wasn’t home yet. But the fake Mikey was still standing there and I was still more than a little bit spooked at the sight of him staring at me like a scientist at a lab specimen.
“What?” I said challengingly, the way I would have said it to a guy who was rubbernecking Ruchi a bit too interestedly at a movie hall. “What?”
He shook his head, looking away. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just seeing if you were fast asleep or just resting.”
I didn’t believe him. I was sure he had been trying to do much more than just see if I was awake. Much worse.
“I’m awake now,” I said. “What’s hassling you?
He was silent for a moment. I lost my patience. “Come on, dude,” I said. “Speak up. What’s your glitch?”
“Vaibhav,” the duplicate Mikey said. “I need to talk to you. About what happened this morning.”
There was another shred of proof: the real Mikey would never have said something like that. He’d have come directly to the point, sub-vocally muttering whatever he had to say, throwing in a lot of hardrock lingo. He would have said something like: “Vhy, man, I need to open a channel with youse. Can we, like, connect?”
I walked to the living room toilet and slid the door open. I left it open as I went in and splashed water on my face. It gave me a few seconds more to come completely awake. “About what?” I said, toweling my face.
He had walked over to the open door while I was washing my face. I could feel him watching me even with my face buried in the towel. “Everything,” he said. “Mom and Viveka. What happened this morning.”
The mention of the attack turned my face hot, as if the water I’d just splashed had been burning hot, not thanda-thanda nal ka paani.
“What about it?” I said cautiously, coming out of the bathroom and glancing either way quickly. I didn’t know what his game was, but I made sure to keep a safe distance from him, just in case he was leading up to a reprisal of Viveka’s attack. Correction: The duplicate Viveka’s attack.
“It’s my fault,” he said.
I blinked at him. Like Govinda in one of his corny comedies, wagging his eyelashes with exaggerated surprise. Except that my surprise was genuine.
“It all happened because of me,” he went on. “I’m responsible for it all, Vaibhav. I caused the whole thing to happen. By opening that stupid Vortal.”
5.6 Viveka
Rikit Raushan’s sword was at my throat.
I could see the naked hatred in his eyes and feel the pinprick of the sword bite into my flesh. He had placed it at a point just beside my artery. I could feel it pulsing against the cold steel of the blade. One flick of his wrist and I would be as good as dead—I doubted there were any hospitals in this world, or doctors on call. The image of the poor peace-rider’s life-blood pumping out from his hacked-off stump flashed in my mind and I swallowed involuntarily. The sword bit deeper into my skin.
“Please,” I said softly, because even speaking made the swordpoint seem closer. “You have to believe me. I’m not from this place at all. I’m from another world altogether.”
I said it in Hindi. Not the ‘tapori’ he spoke but decent North Indian Hindi like my father and mother spoke. The word ‘world’ came out as ‘desh’, which was close enough.
“So,” he said with a tone of bitter triumph. “You admit you’re a pardesi, Northern spy!”
“No!” I said. As loudly as I could manage with a sword pressed to my throat. “I’m not from the North. I’m from right here.” I tried to gesture with my hand. “This was my house. I mean, the place where my house used to stand.”
He grimaced disbelievingly. “You’re a poor liar, spy. The only house that stood here was a lookout point for our fauj. That’s why the Northerners blasted it with their cannons before this invasion. And your own lying tongue betrays you. Only a Northerner would speak your bastardised version of shudh Tapori.”
“It’s your ‘tapori’ bhaasha that’s bastardized,” I said angrily. “I’m speaking shudh Hindi.”
He laughed and shifted the sword from left hand to right in one smooth motion. The man was obviously an expert warrior and horseman, besides his uncanny resemblance to the hottest new superstar in Hindi films. But right now, he viewed me only as a vamp.
“Enough banter,” he said. “I am needed back at my camp to report on the positions of your Northern army. I have no time to waste on your foolish lies.”
“So you’re the spy,” I told him. “And the coward who’s so eager to murder an unarmed woman.”
That shook him. I saw his eyes grow wider and angrier. The swordpoint pressed harder against me, piercing my skin. I felt blood trickling down the front of my tee shirt and shut my own eyes instinctively.
Instead of the stabbing pain I expected, I felt the sword withdrawing. When I opened my eyes again, I saw him sheathing it and turning toward the horse. He pulled a coiled rope off the saddle and came back.
“Come on,” he said brusquely. “We’ll see if you talk as boldly when you’re being questioned by my lieutenants.”
He briskly tied my hands behind my back and pushed me toward the horse. Putting my foot into the stirrup, he shoved me up. Then he got on behind me, clutching the reins with one hand and pressing me forward with the other hand. His hand brushing my bare thigh made me feel underdressed and vulnerable, but there was little point in complaining. He wasn’t even aware that he’d touched me. Besides, I was just glad to be alive.
He urged the horse forward and we began to ride, steadily increasing speed.
We rode a path down the side of Pali Hill, heading toward what would have been Carter Road in my world. Behind and to our left, the sound of the battle rose as the two warring armies clashed with a terrible roar of voices and weapons.
VORTAL: SHOCKWAVE is a complete fantasy adventure in one book, as well as the first of a series, The Vortal Codex. It is also directly related to my Ramayana Series, Gods of War series, and other series. Signed copies of the limited edition large paperback are available at Rs 400 per copy, delivery by courier free anywhere in India.
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SLAYER OF KAMSA: Book 1 of The Krishna Coriolis will be out next month (October). Written in a pacier style than my Ramayana Series, this short impactful book details the rise to power of the monstrous Kamsa and his brutal campaign to thwart the birth of the prophesied 8th Child. 