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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Mar 06, 2010 | Ashok | Comments Off

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Jan 30, 2010 | Ashok | 81 Comments »

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.

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 pre-order Sons of Sita within India.~~ SOLD OUT: Pre-orders closed.
Overseas orders currently unavailable.

The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.

Jan 29, 2010 | Ashok | Comments Off

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.

The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.

Jan 27, 2010 | Ashok | Comments Off

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.

The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.

Jan 26, 2010 | Ashok | Comments Off

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.

The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.

Jan 25, 2010 | Ashok | Comments Off

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.

The Penguin Books mass market edition is expected to be in bookstores in early 2011.

Jan 24, 2010 | Ashok | Comments Off

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.

Jan 11, 2010 | Ashok | Comments Off

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.
Click here to order Vengeance of Ravana outside India.

Jan 05, 2010 | Ashok | Comments Off

VENGEANCE OF RAVANA Book Trailer

Dec 24, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

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.

Dec 20, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

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.

Dec 13, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

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 14^th 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.

Click here to browse more AKB Books
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Nov 29, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

EPIC ENDING: Vengeance of Ravana and Sons of Sita conclude The Ramayana Series

VoR front cover As many of you already know, about a year ago I realized I had to publish the last two parts of my Ramayana Series before allowing my Mahabharata and Krishna series to be published.

My reasons are explained in an introductory essay included in both the books, which are titled VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series and SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series.

These two books shall be collected later into a hardcover omnibus volume titled KING OF DHARMA: Part 4 of The Ramayana Series completing and concluding the series definitively. There will be no further volumes in the Ramayana Series.

However – and this is crucial – the story itself continues directly in The Krishna Coriolis and is also connected to my other series which began with Gods of War, VORTAL: Shockwave, the upcoming comic series Sword of Dharma, the upcoming ITIHASA and INDUS RISING series, and of course, my long-awaited WiP (Work in Progress), the Mba.

To know how and why, you will have to read the same introduction I just mentioned. Those of you who have been familiar with my original EPIC INDIA LIBRARY plan which I outlined way, way back in 2001, even before Prince of Ayodhya was published will know that this is all part of that great concanetation.

VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series

was available for pre-order in an exclusive signed & personalized, limited-run hardcover edition upto 15th November 2009. Pre-orders are now closed. The mass market paperback edition will be published by Penguin.

Nov 11, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

Vengeance of Ravana: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#5

FOUR

Bharat saw the sword turn at the very last instant.

His mace was already deployed, held in an overhand grip and swinging downwards and to the right, aiming for his opponent’s right shoulder. It was impossible for him to stop the momentum and swing it again in time to thwart the oncoming sword thrust. Nor would the bulbous head of the mace make contact with its target in time to prevent him, Bharat, from being pierced. His opponent had gambled his own right shoulder, possibly more, on delivering this thrust; Bharat’s mace would meet its mark and certainly wound, maim, disable, perhaps even permanently cripple the man. But not quickly enough to prevent him from sticking Bharat in a vital organ. For by turning that blade at the last instant, he was aiming precisely at the fleshy area between Bharat’s ribs and hipbone. And from the angle at which the blade was aimed, the point would enter Bharat’s flesh just below his lowest rib, penetrating sharply upwards, deeply inwards, slicing through his liver. A fatal wound. All the vaids in Ayodhya would not be able to save him from succumbing to that one. Bharat had seen enough men stuck in the liver to know their fate from just the shade of blood that seeped out: rich, liver-dark blood, fecund with the body’s densest nutrients and life-energy.

All this he realized in the flash of an instant when he glimpsed the sword turn: it unreeled before his mind like a long scroll abruptly unfurled, the permutations, combinations, possibilities. It all added up to one simple conclusion, reached almost instantly: Bharat was a dead man.

Even as his veteran warrior’s instincts flashed this conclusion on the unrolling reel of his thoughts, the prince of Ayodhya still found himself admiring the audacity of the move.

It was a bold, impudent action: the man was willing to have his own shoulder, possibly even his collarbone and part of his rib cage, shattered by a direct, brutal blow from a twenty kilo mace. All in order that he might despatch Bharat with a fatal wound. Even in that split second it took him to size up the threat, to weigh the possibilities and outcome, Bharat found himself admiring the man’s gumption. A mace blow to the shoulder was nothing to shake off; it would be far more painful than Bharat’s own wound, if considerably less life-threatening. In short, the man had won the fight. He had put himself out of action, but he had finished off Bharat. No question about it at all.

Or at least, he would have done so. If he had been able to follow through on his bold action.

To the men watching the fight–several dozen of them, all burly, powerfully muscled macers and swordsmen, all sweaty and mud-caked from their own sessions in the fighting field, for they had been at it since before dawn–there was no conceivable way that Bharat could avoid the lethal sword strike now. Several of them winced, grimaced or otherwise failed to conceal their distaste at the sight of a fellow kshatriya suffering such an awful blow, that too their own prince as well as their guru in warcraft–even as they admired the swordsman’s brilliant last-second twist and turn. None of them, certainly not Bharat himself, had seen that sudden twist of the sword coming, or deemed it possible. But that was because no hale and hearty soldier willingly risked certain bodily harm to his own person, possibly even permanent disability, merely to despatch a single opponent. It was one thing to be brought down by a superior opponent; it was a completely different thing to bring down an opponent by a manoeuvre that caused grave bodily harm to oneself. If this had been a battlefield bout, after wounding Bharat fatally the man would have been down on the field, gravely injured, unable to move or fight thereafter. For him, the battle would be over, possibly even the war. There was no point to such a desperate manoeuvre. It was not the way of a kshatriya.

It was the way of an assassin.

A fanatical attacker with one mission and one only: to slay his opponent. Whatever the cost.

That was the reason why the attacker didn’t care about being injured, crippled even. He was here to die anyway: to sacrifice his life in order to achieve his mission, to kill Bharat.
All this happened in the blink of an eye: the turn of the blade, Bharat’s grasping of the inevitable consequence of this tactic, the watching crowd’s realization of the same deadly fact, and Bharat’s realization of what this implied.

And then the blade struck. Flesh.

Bharat’s flesh.

Pierced. Blood. Spurting. Skin. Tearing. Pain. Blazing. Muscle. Crying Out.

Time fragmented into shards, like shattered glass frozen at the instant of explosion. A stream of water being poured from a skinbag into a horse trough seemed to stay suspended in mid-air. A bird in flight, overhead, glimpsed from the corner of Bharat’s eye, seemed locked into immobility. A horse neighing and starting to buck, froze motionless. The wrangler pouring water into the trough, staring wide-eyed, mouth parted to reveal gawky, misshapen teeth. A bar of sunlight, reflecting off the armoured shoulderpiece of one of the mace-men watching from the sidelines, seemed to halt before touching the ground. Motes of dust dancing in the bar of sunlight, a horsefly, particles of bloodspray–my bloodspray, he realized with a distant, dim detachment–hung in the stunned silence of the moment, and Bharat felt the cocoon of pure, perfect warlust grip the universe itself in a tight godlike fist, slowing down time to a crawl, freezing nature herself, until he felt as if he alone could move through this silent tableau at will, slicing sunlight into strips if he desired, piercing a drop of water with the tip of a blade, sending an arrow whirling into the eye of a bird…felt in this sacred moment of moments as if he ruled time, gravity, and all forces of nature, and was master of atoms and elephants alike, lord of creation–and destruction.

It was sorcery, pure and simple.

Yet it had not been achieved by the recitation of any ‘magic’ mantra. Or by the infusion of any potion, the recitation of any spell, the casting of any runes.

It was a feat he had acquired mastery of through fourteen long years of hardwon practice, combat, warfare…fourteen long, hard, bitter years. Even more, if you counted the years of training under Maha-guru Brahamarishi Vashishta in the gurukul as a young boy, the adolescent years of constant practice in the palace courtyard and fighting fields. The years he had spent struggling to keep pace with, match, and then outmatch the undisputed champion of Ayodhya, winner of every individual event in every sporting contest he participated in, his own brother. Rama. And struggle he did, not because he resented his brother’s inherent superiority in all warriorlike activities and sport, but because he desired to be Rama. To see the same light in his father’s eyes when he looked at the eldest of the four sons of Dasaratha. To hear the crowd roar as deafeningly as it roared for Rama. It was not that Maharaja Dasaratha, or anyone else, loved Bharat, Shatrugan or Lakshman any less than they did Rama, it was simply that they adored Rama more than they could possibly adore any other being. The irony was, so did Bharat himself. How could he not? Rama was perfection incarnate, or as close to it as it was humanly possible to be, and yet call oneself human.

And so he had striven to become more than human. In all things, but most especially, in the realm of the warrior. Not just on the playing field, but on the battlefield.

And in these past years, since Rama’s exit into exile, as Bharat had resided at Nandigram, preferring to manage the day-to-day affairs of the kingdom of Kosala from that humble village rather than from the great seat of political power that was Ayodhya, he had had occasions innumerable to hone those skills, to polish the edge of that blade into perfection. For the time for playing fields had passed with the passing of Rama into exile. And Ayodhya had entered into a new age, a darker, more daunting age of constant threat, fears, doubts, internal strife, external assaults and more physical threat and challenge than was usual for an apparent time of peace. It had been the hardest fourteen years of Ayodhya’s existence, even harder than the time of the Last Asura War, because the threat was not as obvious and externalized as it had been then, it was an insidious, internalized, constant and unceasing stress that had at times threatened to tear apart the very fabric of this great city-state and the kingdom at large. The enemy within.

And it was that same enemy that had now struck at Bharat again.

In that instant when the blade penetrated Bharat’s flesh, he slipped instantly into this private space, this shell of invisible armour he had designed and crafted himself over the past near-decade and a half that he had acted as regent of the kingdom in Rama’s stead, withstanding everything a king could be expected to endure, and then some, all without even the privilege of wearing the crown whose thorns pierced his head. He had learned how to do this and had done it over and over again, to great effect. In a way, he was known for it. And feared. They called it “Bharat’s Wall”, and kshatriyas who had watched him fight, even Shatrugan who had watched him at such times, spoke of it afterwards in reverential, glaze-eyed terms, as if wishing they could attain such a lofty level of skill themselves.

And now, as Bharat moved as easily as a bird through smoke in the extreme superstate of awareness that he attained at such instants, he saw that same glazed look on his opponent’s face. For the man had come so far, achieved so much more than what the other assassins before him had achieved–the closest before had merely been able to fire an arrow from a rooftop ten yards away the last time–and had executed a move so brilliantly conceived and executed that even Bharat had been admiring it ruefully only a moment ago.

But now, the man knew, and his face reflected this knowledge, he had failed.

Bharat moved through the silence like a knife through silk, cutting time and space as easily as that polished blade sliced fabric, and felt the tip of the sword pass through the outermost layer of the skin over his ribcage, scraping agonizingly against and scoring his lowest two ribs–a tiny spurt of blood, a searing heat as the tight band of muscle was severed at that point–and emerged without having penetrated through the flesh itself, without having attained its intended goal, his vital organ.

And the man’s eyes had widened, his mouth opened wide in dismayed snarl, even as he realized he had been thwarted. Impossible. Undoable. And yet. And yet.

The moment unfroze. Time unlocked. Gravity reclaimed her rightful power.

And Bharat let the hand carrying the mace complete its trajectory, the weight of the heavy weapon, specially customized, engraved and tooled for him according to his precise specifications based on years of mace-fighting experience, carrying his arm into an angle impossible for any human body to sustain, and he felt the agonizing wrench of his right shoulder dislocating from its socket, a sensation like hot knives tearing their way out of his shoulder, screaming to break free. The mace lost its momentum and slumped, thumping the assassin lightly on the muscled bicep of his arm, hard enough to hurt and leave a bruise for days, but not hard enough to smash bone and rend flesh. Then his hand, already falling to hang limply by his side, lost its grip on the handle of the beautiful hand-crafted weapon, made in a tiny hamlet near Nandigram by an old PF veteran with only one arm and one functional eye, and the companion of many combats fell with a dusty thud to the ground. The assassin, who by rights ought to have been sprawled on the same ground with a shattered shoulder at least, remained standing, staring in disbelief at Bharat. For all his shrewd ingenuity and boldness in that manoeuvre, the one thing the man had not come prepared for was the possibility that his target would risk a move as bold, as audacious as his own, and allow himself to suffer injury in order to accomplish his mission: to survive.

The assassin had turned his blade, risking being maimed or crippled, in order to deal Bharat a fatal wound.

Bharat had countered his attempt by turning his mace, a far heavier, unwieldier, and more difficult weapon to manoeuvre in such a fashion, and had knowingly dislocated his own shoulder, in order to avoid the assassin’s fatal strike. It had been a breathtaking counter-move, the more so for the speed with which Bharat had seen the unexpected threat–an assassination attempt by a familiar practice partner in the middle of a practice bout–had sized it up precisely, and had then executed a counter-manoeuvre that perfectly thwarted the attempt. It was one the kusalavya bards would be reciting verses about in wayside ashramas for decades to come.

The assassin had failed. His blade had merely nicked Bharat’s skin and scored his ribs lightly, a mere trifle for a kshatriya of Bharat’s veteran status and record. He had suffered worse injuries during practice sessions, which this was supposed to have been before his opponent turned out to have a different agenda.

Bharat had succeeded and though his shoulder screamed agony at this moment, he knew he had no time to waste. The other warriors, alert enough to have seen exactly what had happened, and to have reacted instantly–even now they were leaping the rope ring and swarming to Bharat’s aid–were too far away to be of real use in the few instants he knew he had left to act. Shatrugan was at their head, bellowing a cry of rage and vengeance as he sped with frightening swiftness, dust churning in the wake of his bare feet, his javelin held menacingly low by his side, his eyes wide and furious, his teeth bared and flashing in the early morning sunlight, sweat-oiled muscles working powerfully, for he had just finished his own session with another practice partner. But they would all be too late, much too late. For such matters were decided, like all truly important matters usually were, in the space of a blink of an eye. Already, Bharat sensed, the assassin’s sword was moving again, turning now to the most inevitable next target: not Bharat himself, for that horse had fled already, that opportunity lost, but towards his own naked throat.

Bharat turned and with one smooth motion, grasped at the man’s wrist. But both men’s bodies, naked except for grimy once-white langots, were slippery with sweat and dust, and his grip slid inches upwards, to the man’s forearm. Bharat’s intention was to twist the wrist, break it if possible, and cause the sword to fall. Instead, his hand slipped up to the forearm and succeeded only in shifting the angle of the blade by an inch or so.

The man’s sword, instead of penetrating his throat dead centre as intended, slashed it diagonally. Close enough to serve its purpose. The result was instantaneous. An explosion of blood from the abruptly severed artery splattered Bharat and then Shatrugan, who reached them only a moment after, and the man fell to the ground, already shuddering in his death throes. Bharat tried to bunch his arm into a fist and failed, feeling only a sense of helpless agony in the disabled limb. He had wanted the assassin for questioning and that was impossible now. The man would be dead in moments with that wound.

Shatrugan and he watched helplessly as the assassin bled to death, his blood spreading to stain the dust of the fighting field. Shatrugan knelt down to examine the man more closely, in case he may bear some clue to his identity or affiliation – unlikely, but still worth giving a once-over. The other kshatriyas who practised routinely with them daily, their closest and most trusted war-comrades, stood around, watching. Several of them spat in disgust. The assassin was well known to them all, had caroused and drunk and fought beside them on a dozen occasions over the last year and a half; this had been a long-planned and meticulously executed infiltration and assassination attempt. Only the new buck-toothed novice to the royal syce came running to gawk. Others on the practice field, after a brief pause to take in what had happened, continued as before. This was, after all, not the first time this had happened. Ever since Rama had gone into exile fourteen years ago, Bharat had experienced his share of assassination attempts. There were always people who blamed Bharat for Rama’s banishment; not entirely incorrect, since it had been for Bharat’s sake that his mother Kaikeyi had demanded that Rama be banished. But once he had settled in at Nandigram, making it clear that he had no intention of seating himself on the throne until Rama’s return from exile, the attempts had reduced in frequency and had finally ceased. If anything, over time, he had come to earn the respect of Rama’s supporters, who held up his example as the story of the ‘perfect brother’, whatever that might mean. And in time, even those supporters had begun to attend him at Nandigram, accepting him grudgingly as Rama’s regent.

But since Rama’s return from exile, the assassination attempts had begun again. This was the third in as many days. And it was certainly not the last.

He bent down, wincing at the sharp knife of pain in his shoulder, picked up the fallen mace, and was about to turn away when Shatrugan called out softly.

He frowned at the expression on his brother’s face. “What?”

Shatrugan glanced around briefly then moved his head closer to Bharat, close enough so that only he could hear him. “He’s an Ayodhyan.”

Bharat stared at him, trying to think through the implications of that simple assertion.

He did not ask Shatrugan how he could be so certain of the fact; the how of it was less important than the fact itself. It meant that the people of Ayodhya – or some of them at least – wanted Bharat dead. Which in turn meant…he didn’t even like to speculate on what it meant. It was the legacy of fourteen years of infighting, politicking and a messy mix of resentment, accusation, allegation, commercial rivalries, old tribal feuds and internal dissension.

Shatrugan held out something, an amulet of some sort dangling from a black thread.

“This was around his neck.”

Bharat didn’t touch or take the charm, merely glanced at it. Even so, it sent a chill through his body. Despite the warming morning sun, the throbbing heat in his shoulder, the searing rakes where the blade had scored his flesh, he still felt a chill when he looked at the iconography of the little amulet. He had seen its like before, if not this exact same design. It was based on ancient symbols from an earlier age; an age before civilization, cities and sanatan dharma. This particular combination of symbols was easy enough to read if unusual. It merely inverted the usual honorific of the Suryavansha Ikshwaku dynasty, piercing it with a ragged blade. The meaning was crude but clear: Death to the Dynasty that rules Ayodhya. Death to Bharat and Rama and all their bloodline.

He realized he had been wrong. The assassination attempt was not directed at him alone: it was directed at his entire family, clan, and by extension, the entire nation-state that they governed and protected. It was only one part of a far larger mission of total annihilation.

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Nov 08, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

Vengeance of Ravana: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#4

THREE

The traveller reached the top of the rise and paused.

The view was breathtaking. Ayodhya the unconquerable lay spread before him like a bagful of precious gems carelessly strewn across the lush green carpet of the Sarayu valley. The river herself wound her way sinously around the natural hillocks and rocky banks upon which the city’s architects had built their structures, integrating their city planning with the natural lay of the land.

At a glance, the city itself seemed as much a part of the vast valley, as if it had always existed, and always would. It was the Arya way to build and live in harmony with nature, for all things were the fruit of Prithvi Maa, and only by her gentle grace and forbearance could mortalkind survive on this realm. Yet even judged by that standard, Ayodhya’s city planning and architecture were a sight to behold; a melding of man-made aesthetic and natural beauty that made one want to gaze for hours.

The traveller did not have hours to spare.

Already he feared he might be too late. It had been several days since Rama and his entourage had returned to Ayodhya. He had set out within moments of the end of the war of Lanka, knowing full well that speed was of the essence, but the Ayodhyans had travelled by Pushpak, and even his swiftest walking stride could hardly match the blurring speed of the celestial vehicle. Now, he fretted that he might have arrived too late, that the fateful decision that he sought to prevent might already have been taken, and events set into motion that could not be undone. He prayed it was not so, that his long arduous trek had not been in vain. For the event he sought to prevent would alter not only the course of his own life, that of Rama and those near and dear to him, but the lives of all presently alive, mortal and otherwise. Its impact would be felt at the end of the farthest corridors of history, in unimaginable ways at inconceivable future times. He used the brief moment of respite that he had allowed himself now to send up one final prayer that he might yet be in time to prevent that terrible turn of events.

He took up his stout staff, worn and battered from the long walk, and numbed his mind to the ache and pain from his bruised feet. They were unaccustomed to such travel, for the past year had seen him engaged more in meditation and contemplation rather than physical activity, and his body, so long abused by harsh living and the numerous injuries, scars, old wounds and fresh marks of a violent existence, had only just begun to soften and grow accustomed to the peaceful ascetic life when he had risen to undertake this mission. He had pushed it hard these past several days, walking constantly with only the barest minimum of rest, sleep and frugal nourishment. Roots, herbs, a fruit or two…he had eaten little, grown even leaner than whip-thin, and he longed for a good hot meal and a pallet to rest his weary head.

But there was no time for eating or rest.

He had work to do. Vital work. A Queen to warn. A King to appeal to. And, if his foreboding was right, a kingdom to save–perhaps even an entire civilization.

And to achieve any of those, he had to reach on time. Before that fateful decision was made. Before the die was cast whose rattling echo would haunt the halls of itihasa for millennia to come.

If he reached even an instant too late, then this breathtaking view of great, noble Ayodhya would be worth no more than a mouthful of ash. Ayodhya herself, the unconquerable, would finally fall. Not to an army of asuras, or even mortal enemies. But to the greatest enemy of all. The enemy within.
He gripped the staff tightly, marked the progress of the narrow winding pathway down the side of the steep slope that led downwards to the raj-marg on the north bank of the river, and began to descend.

As he descended, the sun appeared over the eastern rim of the valley, sending blades of golden light across the perfectly blended amalgam of mortal and natural aesthetic achievement that the world knew as the capitol of the Kosala nation, home of the Ikshwaku Suryavansha dynasty, seat of the sunwood throne. Sunlight glittered on the tips of the Sarayu’s wash, caught the wings of butterflies traipsing through the North bank woods where a certain crown prince had once whiled away youthful hours in daydreaming and kairee-munching, blissfully unaware of the years of toil and violence that lay ahead. It caught the tips of blades of new grass shoots emerging from the rich alluvial soil of the valley where a nest of baby kachuaas swarmed blindly, tiny mottled shells clattering over one another as they sluggishly fought their way toward food, light, water, survival. With the new day, the struggle for life and survival had begun anew.

The traveller strode toward Ayodhya.

As the traveller completed his descent and reached the raj-marg, turning his aspect and his feet in the direction of the city’s looming first gate, a figure crouched upon a high branch on the far bank of the river watched him curiously. It had observed the stranger from the moment he had appeared over the rise and stood, contemplating the view, for if there was one thing that the being that crouched upon the tree did exceedingly well, it was to watch, to observe, to spot what most others might fail to notice, or notice too late. He knew that the sentries posted by the city did an exceedingly good job of patrolling and defending the outskirts of the city and its environs, and that they were especially alert in these warlike times, but even their garuda-sharp eyes could not cover every inch of terrain at once, and their disciplined quad-sweeps could be bypassed by a shrewd intruder or two–not for long, but it was possible. The watcher did not brook martial discipline much, particularly the variety favoured by humans; he had found that most conflicts were won by a combination of shrewdness, stealth, and ferocious explosive force applied at the least expected time and place. He had enough first-hand experience to know whereof he spoke. He also had enough first-hand knowledge of the wiley ways and methods of foe that fought not by the Arya rules of war nor cared for the kshatriya code of conduct. He did not know of any such foe still extant, but that was beside the point. He had made a vocation of watching and observing, and old habits died hard, especially among his species.

That was what found him here this morning, and every morning, routinely patrolling the outskirts of the city in a route so random and individualistic that it was perhaps more effective than the regularly timed quad-sweeps of the Ayodhyan defense system. It was this idiosyncractic loping through the trees–for that was his preferred method of ambulation–in a zigzag pattern completely unpredictable and unique to each new day, that had brought him this glimpse of the traveller on the rise. The traveller presently vanishing into the dusty haze that overhung the raj-marg in the wake of his swift progress. The watcher made no attempt to follow the traveller, or to seek out the nearest quad of PFs making their methodical sweeps of the area–he scented there was one not three hundred yards away, working their way through a thicket on the same rise the traveller had descended from only moments ago. He knew the traveller would be accosted in moments by either the PF regiment permanently stationed on the raj-marg or the bristling gate-watch who were ever-vigilant under the command of newly elevated General Drishti Kumar. It was not the traveller himself that concerned him now; it was the reason for the traveller’s visit.

As it so happened, he knew the traveller. Not personally, for he had never had occasion to meet the man face to face. But he had watched him fight alongside his lord and lady for years in the forests of Janasthana, during those harsh years of his lord’s exile, watched him risk life and limb countless times in the service of Rama’s war against the rakshasas of the region. Watched him fight fiercely, despatch any number of the brutal creatures that had plagued Rama and his companions since the feral cousin of Ravana, Supanakha, had maddened her cousins and their clans into declaring war against Rama after he spurned her. Yes, the watcher had watched as this man, this traveller now come to Ayodhya, had fought as fiercely, brutally, bestially, as any rakshasa himself, driving fear into the hearts of even his own exiled fellows. For while they fought to live, to survive, this one had fought as if driven by some inner demon, a rakshasa of his own making, and inflicted more violence and harm upon his foe than was necessary to simply survive: he fought to decimate, to destroy, to eliminate completely.

Of course, that was in the past. For the watcher knew that this man had parted ways with Rama after the battle of Janasthana, and had heard that he had dropped the sword and taken up the cloth, so to speak, turning from the physical rigors of warriorhood to the spiritual rigors of priesthood. He had heard of the immensely disciplined tapasya undertaken by this former bandit and bearkiller, of the enlightenment he had received while meditating within a nest of fire ants–a story that was fast becoming a minor legend in some parts–and of the life of peace and philosophy he had taken up with enthusiasm thereafter. But all this had been received in bits and pieces, and he had not paid much attention to it, being somewhat preoccupied with an war to wage, and a considerable army to manage, several armies as a matter of fact. And he had never liked and trusted the man himself back when he was a warrior in Rama’s camp of outlaws and exiles in Janasthana, had felt the intrinsic distrust and burning hatred of any human who had made a practise of slaying creatures of the land. Bearkiller, the traveller had been at one time, long before he joined Rama’s ragged band of exiles, and his face had borne permanent testimony of ravages wrought by a much earlier attack by one of the same species that had lent him his name and earlier reputation. The ugly face-altering scars that disfigured his visage were now mostly concealed under a dense growth of beard and an unruly head of hair. The muscular body that had displayed the scars of countless conflicts as well as earlier encounters with the furry nemesis that lent him his nickname was now covered with a red ochre garb that flowed from head to foot; along with the wildwood staff he gripped in one hand, it lent him the appearance of a tapasvi sadhu quite convincingly.

But the watcher was not convinced.

To him, the man that he had first heard called Bearface, later, Ratnakaran, and now Valmiki, was not one to be trusted entirely. He did not trust his motives, the extreme alteration in his appearance and vocation, or his reasons for coming here to Ayodhya now, at this particular juncture in time and history.
So, while he had chosen to let him pass, to be dealt with by the PFs and gate-watch, he intended to race back to the palace ahead of him. To alert his lord, Rama.

Yes, that was what he would do, must do.

His mind made up, the vanar named Hanuman uncurled his long muscular tail from the branch on which he had sat perched, contemplating, until now, and with one supple surge of his powerful muscles, propelled himself from that sala tree to the next. In moments, he was a blur loping and swinging through the trees, moving not unlike the smaller, less-muscled simians that his kind were often mistaken for by foreigners, yet with a sinuous grace and sheer power that no monkey could ever emulate, moving faster through the trees than most land animals across the ground.

As he raced through the trees, startling squirrels and confusing birds by flitting past them even before they were able to burst into flight, the sun crested the top of the craggy northeastern ranges and shone its golden beam into the valley of the Sarayu, sending its message of warmth and brightness into crannies and crevices, stirring sleeping reptiles and compelling creatures of the earth to emerge blinking sleepily in the light of a new day.

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Nov 07, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

Vengeance of Ravana: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#3

TWO

He fell up instead of down. It felt so natural, it took him a moment to realize what was happening. But his senses already knew what his mind had yet to comprehend.

The weight of the earth, the incessant loving tug of Prithvi maa, keeping her children close to herself, was gone. In its place was another pull, drawing him up to the sky. He looked down, and saw the courtyard far below, receding fast. He saw the balcony on which he had stood a moment ago, diminishing at astonishing speed, then the top of the palace, gleaming quietly resplendent in the moonlight, the Seer’s Tower beside it, then the palace complex whole, and then the entire royal enclave…soon the city itself was falling away far below, reduced to a sprinkling of fireflies upon a green patch surrounded by darkness. The speed at which he was falling–if falling was the right word–was astonishing. He felt the wind rushing past, drumming in his ears, felt the night grow colder around him, enveloping him in its dark embrace, his unclothed skin giving up its hard-won warmth reluctantly.

He looked up. And saw the sky. But it was not the sky he had seen above the palace only moments earlier. That had been dark in the usual natural way, a deep midnight blue, almost the exact shade the royal artists used to euphemistically portray the colour of his black skin, a smattering of cottony clouds drifting majestically, backlit by a resplendent moon. That had been placid, peaceful, almost langurously lazy.

This was something else altogether: a carpet of boiling, raging black smoke–an ocean, really, for it stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. He turned his head and saw that the moon, his other namesake, had been banished beneath the ocean of roiling cloudwaves. As Rama meant black, and Chandra meant moon, so Rama Chandra could be interpreted to mean black moon or dark moon. And so his mother had teased him as an infant in arms, singing lullabies to him of her own casual composition, weaving the words ‘dark moon’ into the homespun lyrics. He had carried those lullabies and the memory of her love and warmth and maternal perfume with him through some of the darkest nights of his life. Yet it was only now, for the first time, that he saw a true dark moon, submerged beneath the ocean of clouds, yet still blazing luminously, like a gleaming silver coin caught by a ray of sunlight at the bottom of a murky pool. It seemed to pulse sporadically, like a heart filling and emptying with pale white light instead of blood, and even through the raging cloudstorm-ocean, its light illuminated everything, searing through the dense frenzy of the smoke waves. As he looked directly at it, it blazed now, like a maddened jeweled eye set deep in the flesh of the forehead of some vengeful deva. The air, Himalaya-cold now, made his skin prickle apprehensively. He shivered and brought his arms closer to his body, clasping them to his bare chest. It made no difference to the pace of his falling–rising–which was so rapid now that he could barely look up without blinking, so great was the force of wind buffeting him. It roared in his ears like the ocean on the shores of Lanka.

He glanced down again, and saw that the lights of Ayodhya had vanished entirely, and the very bowl of the earth itself lay revealed beneath him now, like a dark ball veined with emerald and sapphire threads thickly intertwined. His breath, smoking now as it left his shivering lips, caught in his chest to see it so far removed. Surely even garudas never flew so high. Far in the north, he could glimpse the peaks of mountains as well, and he was much higher than the loftiest peak now…and still flying upwards at tremendous speed. Except, he was not actually flying. There was no conscious volition in the act, nor was he doing anything to make this miracle of flight possible. Unlike Hanuman, who could pound the ground, take a mighty leap skywards and shatter the protective shackles of Prithvi maa, he had no power to soar bird-like. He was simply falling, it was just that he was falling upwards instead of down.

He sensed a change in the pace of his falling, a slowing down. It felt like the opposite of falling now, for at the very end of a fall, the earth seemed to rush up to meet you, flying at you like a rushing mass. But as best as he could make out, the cloud-ocean, boiling and raging with purple and gold veins showing through the morass of smoky chaos, seemed to be approaching slower than before rather than faster. A moment later, he was certain of it–his pace had definitely slowed. Shutting his eyes momentarily from the wind, now cold enough that he could feel the prick of icy particles needling his naked skin, he heard it change from a roaring whirlwind to a growling giant, then fade out gradually to a numbing silence. He opened his eyes again to see the approaching closer as he reached the end of his descent–ascent? He felt himself slow until he was almost floating. He opened his arms, bracing himself for impact even though a part of him knew no impact was forthcoming. With an eeiry absence of sound or sensation, he saw his body execute a perfect somersault, feeling no pressure of the earth’s pull–or cloud’s pull, either–and as gently as a feather touching ground, he saw his bare feet come to rest upon the dark purple-black cottony surface of the cloud ocean.

He released a long deep breath and continued looking down for a moment. The substance beneath his feet had no substance to speak of. It was like standing on ground wreathed in dense ankle-depth fog, except that he could feel no ground beneath his bare soles, only a vague sensation of cold wetness. Like standing on dew-wettened grass? No. It was more like the sensation of placing one’s bare foot on the surface of a pond of cool water, feeling the water slap against the sole of the foot, yet holding the foot in mid air so it did not immerse itself into the water. Yes, that came closer to describing how this felt, except that he was standing with all his weight on both feet, and even so, he was not being pushed down through the skin of the water, was in fact, impossibly, able to stay suspended, standing on water–or a cloudbank filled with it.

He took a step or two, mentally bracing himself again, and confirmed it. He could even sense the upsurges and downsurges in the mass of smoke-wreathed fluid through the soles of his feet–for these were monsoon clouds, he felt certain, even though monsoon clouds this pregnant with rain should not have been able to rise this high above the land. Yet the whole thing was incredible. How was he able to walk upon the belly of a cloud? To traipse upside down on the underside of a monsoon cloud, looking up–down?–at the earth itself, far, far below, faintly illuminated by the light of the dark-shrouded moon, a silver-limned orb now hanging suspended in a vast pit of darkness. He had arrived here by falling up, like a wingless bird. Even the unbearable cold, for he could hardly imagine how frigid it must be at this height, had grown bearable somehow; he felt a chill wind wafting across his bare chest and limbs, but he was neither freezing nor severely inconvenienced. It was as if he had simply acclimatised. Even more curious, he was able to breath and move as normal, as if he was on any earthly surface. It was impossible, a dream surely…or a nightmare.

Then he looked around, and saw the shapes coalescing around him, across the seascape of cloud for as far as the eye could see, an army of writhing, threshing, frenetic forms locked in the ugliest dance of all. After a lifetime spent locked in the frenzy of that same mad dance, he knew at once what it was. He was looking at a theatre of war.

Not just any war.

The war of Lanka.

His war. Against the rakshasa hordes of the lord of asuras. The war he had fought to regain his abducted wife Sita.

He was standing on what seemed to be a hillock of cloudy mass, elevated over the rest of the cloud-field. Several yards below him, ranged on every side for as far as his eyes could see, ghostly shapes thrashed and writhed and engaged in mortal combat. His heart clenched as he recognized familiar companions, fallen foes, and identified enough familiar details to know that this was indeed the battle of Lanka taking place once more, this time fought by ghostly replicas of the original combatants but otherwise perfect in every detail. Rakshasas and vanars, bears and rakshasas, and in the distance, even a silhouetted Rama and Lakshman, arrows flying from their two bows as if from a single arrow-machine, raged in blood-lust. It was unnerving, unsettling, to see the carnage that had cost him so dearly repeated once more. The blood and gore and ichor might be vaporous, the figures mere simulacra, but the action and the memories it evoked were all-too real, and awoke terrible dread in his heart. He heard himself moan softly, agonized.

A soft chuckling reverberated in his left ear. He swung around, startled and ready to lash out, bare-handed if need be, prepared for anything except the apparition that appeared.

A man stood beside him. Not a rakshasa with ten heads and legendary sorcerous powers. Not the king of asuras, conqueror of devas and yaksas, terror of the three worlds. Not He Who Makes The Universe Scream.

Not Ravana.

The man who stood before him was no rakshasa or asura. He had two arms, two legs, two eyes, one head…he appeared normal and mortal in every way. He was well-built in a way that clearly indicated he was a kshatriya by profession, well-developed musculature and sharply indented angles that suggested an active and vigorous lifestyle. His bristling oiled moustache was matched by unruly long hair, tamed by a wooden clasp behind his head. He was clad in a simple yet well-woven dhoti and anga-vastra. Even at first glance, there was something about him that instantly caused Rama to associate him with the specific sub-varna of kshatriyas called rakshaks. A sense of coiled power in those heavily muscled limbs and torso, coupled with a relatively less developed lower body suggested that he was more suited to house guarding and site protection than the leaner, more wiry physique suited to the rigors of long travel required of any serving soldier. At best, he could be a mace-wielder, but he lacked the exaggerated shoulders and back muscles that macers were known for. No, Rama thought, all in the space of the time it took him to take in the stranger’s appearance, this was almost certainly a rakshak.

“Who are you?” he asked, on his guard, but not adopting a fighting or defensive stance. There was no sense of threat from the man, no suggestion of impending violence. Still, he was prepared for any sudden move, any sign of treachery. “Where is Ravana?”

The man smiled. There was something not unpleasant about his features, something vaguely familiar, like a family resemblance. He arched his thick eyebrow, his broad, high forehead creasing with a trio of horizontal lines. “After all we have been through together, do you still not know me?”

Rama frowned. He glanced down briefly at the war raging below–or above, depending on your perspective. It was still in furious progress. “I don’t understand. What is this place? How are we able to witness events that have gone before. Why have I been brought here? I heard a voice…Ravana’s voice…it summoned me…” He indicated the ghostly conflict raging around them. “What is this? Sorcery or illusion?” And, with a sudden ferocity that surprised even himself: “Who are you?”

The man’s face re-composed itself into a conciliatory expression. “Patience, Ayodhya-naresh. All will be revealed.”

The man turned and walked away, up the sloping side of the cloud-hillock on which Rama stood. Rama saw now that the hillock rose sharply behind him to ascend upwards into a mist-wreathed darkness. He looked upwards, where the convex bowl of the earth had been only moments earlier, and saw only darkness wreathed in mist. He looked back and saw that the ghostly images of warriors had vanished, leaving only an undulating ocean of dark monsoon cloud, pregnant and heavy with the promise of rain. Apparently, the stranger intended to take him someplace higher up, up some kind of cloud-mountain the top of which was obscured in the strange mist that had sprung up unexpectedly, that was curling around Rama’s ankles and feet now. Rama remained where he was, surprised, and more than a little chagrined. He did not like what he felt; did not want any of this. It felt strange, like a dream that was surreal, exotic, enticing, yet with a constant sense of dread, of mortal threat, lurking behind the strange exoticity. The man stopped when he realized Rama was not following him, and looked back. He was already several yards up the mountain.

“Come,” he said simply. “You do wish to know, don’t you?”

Rama hesitated. Then shrugged. He had awoken to a voice, the voice of his dead arch-enemy. It had summoned him. On the dead rakshasa’s command, he had leaped off the balustrade of his palace verandah. Instead of falling to his death on the tiled courtyard, he had fallen up, to a realm made entirely of clouds. He was looking over a re-enactment of the battle of Lanka, perfect in every detail to his eye. And now a strange man, a rakshak perhaps, was asking him to walk up the side of a cloud-mountain. He may as well follow this madness through to the end, go where this stranger took him and get to the bottom of this mysterious waking dream. He began walking.

The man waited for him to catch up, deferred to him when he approached, making it clear that he was not seeking superiority over Rama, was if anything, being suitably humble before the king of Ayodhya. They walked together across the impossibly solid cloud-field, the slope rising steadily above. They reached the place where the mist curled and clung, obscuring view of what lay beyond and above. He paused. The man paused beside him. He looked back, down, wondering at the battle scene he had seen. He hesitated, not afraid, for fear was a warrior’s most loyal companion, but considering. What sorcery was this? It was like nothing he had heard of or experienced before, there was something totally alien about its nature and deployment. What purpose had the ghostly vision of the Lanka war served?
He looked at the face of the rakshak. The man looked back impassively, yet not unkindly.

“We must go on.” His voice was deep and resonant, and pleasant to the ear. It was the voice of a man whose life had been spent in service to persons such as Rama, a raj-rakshak, a royal guard. Again that sense of maddening familiarity danced at the periphery of Rama’s memory, but he could not place the man, or why he seemed so familiar.

“What lies beyond?” Rama asked, the mist swirling around his feet. It felt neither cold nor wet, simply like a gentle breeze nipping at his ankles.

“The answers to all your questions,” said the man.

Rama stepped forward, into the mist. The man walked beside him.

Together, they passed through.

Nov 06, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

Vengeance of Ravana: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#2

PRARAMBHA

ONE

Rama.

Blackness. As impenetrable as a caul over a newborn’s eyes. As dark as his name which meant black, and was given to male infants darker complected than the average dusky skinned Arya male. In his case, so dark that the royal artists often used a deep shade of midnight blue to distinguish his skin, back in the days when things such as portraits had been an insignificant yet inevitable part of his life. Back when he was still a prince, a yuvraj, carefree and happy in the first flush of youth. Before life had turned upon him like a hunting hawk upon its handler and ripped that casual innocence to shreds.

Awaken, Black Prince.

Crow feather. Night shade. Shyam rang. Or his favourite, Kisna. Although Kisna, or Krishna as it was pronounced in commonspeak by those unschooled in Sanskrit highspeech, was as likely to be used for a girl as a boy. Unlike Rama, which was always unquestionably a masculine name, he didn’t know why. Nor was he the first of his name: there were at least three previous Ramas in the Suryavansha Ikshwaku dynasty. And any number across the Arya nations, for dark complexions were common across the length and breadth of this land of the relentless sun.

Enough. I bid you rise…NOW.

A hand not made of flesh and bone grasped him in a vise and hauled him back to consciousness.

He woke, choking, gasping for breath, and leaped to the floor. Reached for his sword. Missing. His bow, arrow, rig. Likewise. His clothing, also gone. Weaponless, naked but for a langot, he spun on the balls of his feet, keenly honed warrior senses alert to attack from any front by any foe.

He was in his bed chamber, the king’s bed chamber, no less. For he was king now in all but name, and after the coronation on the morrow, the title would be his as well. Although it was and perhaps would always be, his father’s bed chamber. It was larger than he had recalled it, certainly far greater in span and length than his own princely chambers back when he had resided here. Although, after 14 years of forest exile, constant battle and rough living off the land, even a woodsman’s hut would seem comfortable. This…this was beyond luxurious; never a poet, he had no words to describe it now.

Marbled floors gleamed by the light of moonshafts falling through latticed windows. Alabaster columns marched down the length of the chamber like stolid sentries perpetually on guard. Statuary cast in ebony, ivory, jade and softwood depicted a variety of devas, auspicious animals, and Ikshwaku ancestors in a variety of postures, every detail precise and perfect. The fingers, arms and necks and anklets of the kings and queens among them glittered with real ornaments of precious metal and stone, kept polished and pristine over centuries. Immense portraits and epic landscapes adorned the vaulting walls, some aspiring to the ceiling a dozen yards above. Richly brocaded tapestries hung in cul de sacs. The lush carpetting yielded to his bare feet like a velvet invitation. Everywhere he turned, seeking, scanning, darkly majestic furnishing gleamed with exquisite artistry and lavish care. The entire vast chamber was redolent of the woody perfume of sandalwood, his favourite aroma.

Yet it was empty, every yard of it. He completed a full circuit of the chamber and stood, puzzled. He had not imagined it. That grasp that tore him away from his dreamy meanderings had been as real as any rough hand laid on his flesh. So had the voice. He stood there in the moonlight, breathing silently. A gust of night wind parted and raised the gossamer curtains, and dried the cooling sweat upon his muscled chest. And slowly, like a debt returned too slowly over too long, it came back to him.

There had been a dream much like this, on a night very similar, a long time ago. Before Lanka. Before the abduction of Sita. Before the rakshasa wars, the exile, the marriage, the battle of Bhayanak-van…before the day, that Holi day, when his life had changed forever, wrenched from its course like a river denied its pathway to the ocean.

A dream of Ravana. Warning him. Threatening. Mocking.

Abruptly, a terror rose in his blood. He spun on quicksilver feet, and in less than a breath’s span, was at the side of the bed he had left only moments ago.

Sita.

The bed raiments were strewn on the side where he had been sleeping. Unaccustomed as he had been to the caress of such fine cloth for so long, he had pushed them away impatiently before falling asleep. But on the side where she had laid herself down, they were gathered and overlapped, and now all he could see was the raiment itself.

A dark dread lay on his heart like a stone. He reached out, willing himself to be steady, and plucked a loose end of the gathered cloth in his hand. Gently, he lifted it, and pulled it away from the bed, bracing himself to find nothing more than a rumpled space where she had lain, still faintly warm with her heat. Gone. Again. Taken.

Instead, he found her. Lying curled beneath the bedclothes like a bird nursing a broken wing. He caught his breath at the sight of her, unable to believe his eyes alone. Still holding the blanket in one hand, he reached down with the other, and gently touched the crook of her arm. He could smell the musky odour of her body, feel the heat gathered beneath the blankets. She stirred in the throes of deep slumber, moaned softly, but did not turn over or rouse. Too exhausted, at the end of her tether. His heart went out to her. If only he could have reached Lanka sooner, if only the war had been less complicated, if only he had used his brahman shakti from the very outset…But he had done what had seemed right, and what had been had been.

He started to lower the cloth then stopped. He watched her a moment. His heart stuck in his throat to see how thin she had grown over the weeks of her captivity, how pale and bony. Bird like. Yet, watching her thus, her faced stripped of all self-control in the langour of sleep, there was something about her face and aspect, an inner glow that belied all the recent hardship, defied the preceding years of tortuous existence, the blood-smirched struggle for survival that had been their way of life for fourteen long years. A proud dignity that still shone on her features, which could not be hidden. It made him want to take her into his arms, to embrace and love forever. She was still the strong, indomitable woman he had fallen in love with and married, those many years past. Neither exile, nor hardship, nor war, nor Ravana had broken her. Nothing could. A bird with a broken wing…indeed. But a Garuda among birds.

He lowered the raiments, replacing the blanket as nearly as he had found them. She had always liked to cover her head while she slept, a habit he could not brook. He would feel suffocated to sleep thus, yet she could not sleep otherwise. And now, he thought with a faint smile as he stepped back from the bed, she could certainly afford to cover herself and sleep thusly; in the finest silks and velvet coverings in the whole wide world.

But not for long.

He spun around, scouring the chamber. After the life he had lived, the things he had seen, there was little that could unnerve him, and yet, some part of him could not accept that this was happening. Ravana is dead. I killed him on the battlefield of Lanka, in full view of both our armies. He sliced the air with his open hand, in the manner he had learned from a dark-skinned fighter from the Kerall waterlands who had fought with him in the wilderness of Janasthana. He could leap twice his own height in the air, and strike with a sword in a full circle before touching ground again. But there was nothing to strike here, no foe to defend against.

“Show yourself,” he snarled, almost beneath his breath.

Where I am now, your weapons and fists can no longer harm me. Yet I can do to you and your’s as I desire. Perhaps I shall start with your wife…

“Craven!” He started to cry out but choked back the shout. He did not want to wake Sita if he could help it. He must draw the bodiless intruder away from her. He drew upon the steel-edged self-discipline that had earned him his formidable reputation, using a pranayam breathing pattern to calm his ragged nerves and soothe his battle-weary muscles. Old guru Vashishta had taught him that yogic breathing pattern; in another lifetime, it now seemed. A happier, youthful time.

Coward, he hissed silently, knowing that he did not need audible speech to be heard by his tormentor. Why do you hide from my sight and seek to taunt me with words? Face me like a warrior if you dare.

A sound in his head, like a chuckle with a hundred echoes.

No.

Not a hundred.

Ten.

Only ten.

If he listened closely with his now fully attentive mind, he could even catch the nuances of those ten different voices, voices he knew so well now from hearing them up close on the field in the crystalline hyper-awareness of battle.

At that moment, the saliva in his mouth began to taste of the coppery tang of blood and he knew then that this was no nightmare; it was indeed Ravana speaking. But how? And more importantly, why?

Why do you think, King of Ayodhya? We have unfinished business.

He spun around on the balls of his feet: This time the voice had seemed to come from just behind his left shoulder. He had even felt the faint heat of voice-breath upon his bare skin. But there was still no one there. No one that could be seen by mortal eyes.

But even the invisible one could be cut by steel if struck at a certain moment, when a particular one of those ten voices was speaking. He did not know how he knew this; he just did. If only he had his sword. He missed it, his constant companion through all his struggles. How could he have let himself be parted from it? Then he recalled. Sumantra had insisted on taking it away, and when he had protested, the aging minister had simply held up the sword in both palms, showing it to Rama. And he had seen, really seen, what a state it was in: blood and gore and bodily fluids and materials had dried and encrusted themselves along its length so many times over that they formed a scabby coating. The hilt was cracked and bent, its jewels long lost in the heat of one of a thousand encounters. The blade was chipped and marred in a hundred places, barely retaining any vestige of its former honed perfection–the once-lethal blade was now little more than a macabre souvenir. That sword, he had realized in an onrush of commingled pride and sadness as he met Sumantra’s heart-rending gaze again, told the history of his struggles more eloquently than any court poet. But now its work was done; it needed to be repaired, and rested, perhaps retired. Not unlike himself.

Except that, unlike the sword, he was still on call, still required to serve. He breathed, drawing energy from the air, in the way that tapasvi sadhus in the deep aranya drew sustenance from the air alone. Breathed and waited.

Finally, as if realizing that he would not be baited into leaping and flailing about, the voice spoke again, and this time, because he was listening intently, he heard the unmistakable inflection: that doubling of tones, like ten men speaking at once yet not quite precisely in unison.

Outside.

He needed no further explanation or command. He moved toward the verandah and exitted the royal chamber to find himself upon a patio lined with flowering plants and stone statuary intertwined with vines and creepers. Here beneath the open sky, the nightwind caressed his naked skin, a vetaal’s lifeless breath. From the vantage point of a royal view, he scanned the sleeping capitol city with a glance. Countless house lights still flickered, even though it was long past the midnight watch, and faint sounds echoed and carried even from the farthest reaches of the great city-state: his people, Ayodhyans, all working to prepare for the grand coronation tomorrow, a few perhaps still celebrating the return of their king.

There was nobody in sight.

Jump.

“What?” he asked, startled. His voice would not carry inside to Sita from here.

Do you still wish to face me like a man? Like a warrior? Then do as I command. Leap from the balustrade.

He let his teeth show, flashing white in his wine-dark face. Do you mistake me for a fool now, Lanka-naresh? Have you forgotten that I brought you down upon the field of battle? Do you really think I will leap to my death at your bidding?

A sound of impatience clicked in his mind.

Mortal unbeliever. If I wanted to kill you by stealth I would have done so at any time I chose. The fact that you yet live is proof enough that I have bigger plans for you than a quick blade in the dark–or a short fall to a brain-crushing end.

Now it was his turn to chuckle scornfully. “Why should I–?” he began then stopped. Why should I trust you? he was about to say. But the question was an absurd one. He could not trust the lord of rakshasas at all, of course. And yet. And yet. He sensed the asura spoke truly; what he said was beyond dispute. Simply luring Rama to a suicidal fall might serve a lesser being’s thirst for revenge. It was not Ravana’s way.

And yet, there was some game here that he could not fathom. Starting with the most startling question of all: How could Ravana be speaking to him if Ravana was dead?

There was only one way to find out.

He leaped up to the balustrade, the action as lithe and easy as it had been in his youth, despite his wounds and aches, despite his hardships, despite everything. What he had lost in age and agility, he had made up for in experience, skill, and the constant relentless use of his body and mind, like a well-used bow grew easier to string and draw over time.

He looked down. The king’s chambers were at the top of the main palace complex, and the drop that lay below him now measured easily a hundred feet. At the bottom lay the closely set flagstones of the innermost courtyard, each a quarter ton of solid rock hauled by elephants all the way from the Karakoram principality. The lights of mashaals gleamed dully on the buffed stone, and he glimpsed sentries patrolling diligently, in larger numbers than was usual owing to the presence of so many high personages tonight, most of all, their long-awaited king and queen. The night wind carried the scents of the city, sometimes pungent, sometimes intriguing. The perfumes of Ayodhya, dressing to celebrate her king’s return.

“Jump?” he asked. But it was a rhetorical question. He knew the voice that gave the command would not explain or provide reasons: it was a voice accustomed to being obeyed by armies, that spoke to devas and asuras in the same level tone. Jump, it had said. And he grinned wolfishly and decided he would obey. Whatever mystery lay here, it was clear he would not resolve it without taking bold action. As the moments passed and the voice did not speak again, he knew that he had no other choice, no other means of learning what Ravana meant, except to do as he bade and follow this nightmare through to its very end. He resisted the urge to glance back into the chamber where Sita lay asleep. He would not weaken his resolve. Better to draw the asura away from her. Reaching a decision, he nodded once to his invisible foe, inhaled sharply, spread his arms like a bird about to take wing, and sprang out from the balustrade, his strong legs carrying him yards out into the empty darkness, high above the solid ground, his body arching like a diver leaping into oceanic depths.

He hung suspended in the air a moment, then slowly, inevitably, began the long quick fall to the courtyard.

Nov 05, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

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

VENGEANCE OF RAVANA

Book 7 of The Ramayana Series

by Ashok K. Banker

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

Traditional Folk Song (Favourite bhajan of Mahatma Gandhi)

SAMAPTAM

Raghupati.

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

Raghava.

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

Raja.

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

Ram.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The price of war is the prize of war.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What say you?”

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

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

“JAI SIYARAM.”

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

Nov 04, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

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Nov 03, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

Best Books in the Ramayana Series
	Prince of Ayodhya
	Siege of Mithila
	Demons of Chitrakut
	Armies of Hanuman
	Bridge of Rama
	King of Ayodhya
	Vengeance of Ravana
	Sons of Sita (expected)

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VENGEANCE OF RAVANA: Book 7 of The Ramayana Series

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was available for pre-order in an exclusive signed & personalized, limited-run hardcover edition upto 15th November 2009. Pre-orders are now closed. The mass market paperback edition will be published by Penguin.

Nov 11, 2009 | Ashok | Comments Off

Book 7 of The Ramayana Series

by Ashok K. Banker