PRINCE IN EXILE (66 page)

It was a jatayu. The largest Rama had ever seen. No. He had seen one this large before … at Mithila. When he and Lakshman had stood at the top of the Sage’s Brow, reciting the mantras that unleashed the Brahm-astra. The sky had been full of such flying asuras. And the one at the fore, leading that winged regiment, had been a man-vulture like this one. 

The creature issued a screel as it saw them looking up. It flew past them, beyond the hill and a hundred yards farther east, then began a slow turn, curving back. 

‘It seeks us,’ Lakshman said quietly. He did not add what he normally would have said, that perhaps they ought to prepare to defend themselves. 

Rama indicated a spot a few yards further. A kind of promontory jutting out over the river vale. He stopped there, Sita and Lakshman close behind. He glanced at Sita. She met his look with an expression that contained no discernible emotion at first. Then she reached out and squeezed his arm. He nodded, thanking her for the reassurance. He removed his bow from his shoulder and set it by his side, casually held. Lakshman followed his example. 

The jatayu approached the hill again, the rising sun backlighting it. Rama could see the sun shining through gaps in its feathers. That could mean only one thing. The creature was injured, its plumage severely damaged. As it came closer, slowing in preparation to land, he saw that its underbelly and wings had been singed badly, burnt black in patches. From the awkward way it moved, he sensed it was still hurting from those wounds. 

With a final screel, the bird-beast landed on the promontory. It flapped its wings several times, its enormous claws scratching yard-long rents in the grassy surface as it struggled to get a firm grip. The wind from that flapping was enough to flatten Rama’s river-dampened garments against his body. A powerful stench of charred flesh came to him. 

Finally, the jatayu settled down. Its hooked beak turned this way, then that, several times. Rama saw that it had lost most of the vision in its left eye; that was why it was turning its head, to look at each of them in turn with its remaining good eye. 

‘Jatayu,’ Rama said. ‘That is your name, is it not?’ 

‘Aye,’ the bird-creature said in a high-pitched tone, then made a noise in its throat as if trying to re-accustom itself to human speech. ‘Jatayu,’ it continued in a lower tone. ‘The first of its name.’ 

The legendary Jatayu itself. Rama was impressed and saddened both at once. As a young boy, hearing the tales of such creatures of myth and legend, he had dreamed some day of coming face to face with them. Never in those dreams had he imagined the circumstances to be as they were now. ‘How come you to this sorry state, my winged friend?’ 

Jatayu bowed its bald head briefly, as if unable to meet Rama’s eyes. It spoke in a broken patois that betrayed how long it had been since it had spoken anything other than asura dialects. ‘Once was Jatayu friend and ally of mortals. Your own ancestors called it friend, as you did just now. But many things changed over time. For too long now, it has been in the service of Ravana, lord of asuras.’ 

‘Yes,’ Rama said slowly. ‘I thought it was you I saw in the skies above Mithila, leading your flocks in battle against us.’ 

‘Jatayu admits it. It was at that very battle for Mithila that Jatayu lost its flocks.’ 

‘And suffered these grievous injuries as well?’ 

‘Nay. These were the result of Lanka’s burning. When the island-kingdom was torn apart by civil war these months past, following its master’s descent into mindless coma.’ 

‘I see.’ Then the demoness had spoken truly. Lanka was a spent force, Ravana no longer a power to reckon with. ‘And what business brings Jatayu here to Chitrakut hill this summer morning?’ 

Jatayu hesitated, scratching its claws restlessly. They were still strong and sharp enough to gouge out foot-deep depressions in the ground. ‘It wishes to make amends. Jatayu has done much for which it is ashamed. It knows it has not long to live now, with such grievous wounds and its powers enfeebled. In its infirmity and old age, it would like to try and balance its karma.’ 

‘A noble intention, nobly stated,’ Rama said. A spark of hope sprang up in his breast. He had feared at first sight that the giant flying creature had been yet another demon sent to plague them in their exile. But now he thought it might be a gift from the other side, from the side that so often stood by and watched without offering a helping hand. A rare gift from the forces of Brahman, like the jewelled bow and golden arrow given by Anasuya. ‘How may I help Jatayu achieve this noble goal? Tell me, old friend of my forefathers.’ 

Jatayu’s half-blinded eyes betrayed its surprise. ‘Rama is kind. Jatayu has done nothing but spy on his people, attack and murder them, and even attempt to attack Rama himself. Yet Rama speaks to Jatayu with respect and love.’ 

Rama went closer to the bird-beast, ignoring the awful stench of burned and rotting flesh, mingled with the natural unwashed odour of bird. He placed a hand on the edge of the creature’s wing, feeling the powerful but damaged muscle beneath the leathery hide. ‘Because I feel the same way as you do, old one. Jatayu seeks to atone for its past sins. So does Rama.’ 

‘Rama?’ Jatayu cocked its head. ‘What sins does Rama have to atone for? You are a soldier of dharma. Even Ravana feared you for your adherence to dharma. The force of Brahman has ever been strong with you, Rama. You are gifted with great prowess because of your adherence to dharma and the path of Brahman.’ 

‘Yet Rama has misused that very prowess. I have taken too many lives, my friend. It must stop. I must make amends for the blood I have spilled. That is why I seek only ahimsa now. The code of non-violence.’ 

Jatayu’s pupils flared. Each of those enormous grey-green orbs was as large as Rama’s head. They stared at him, and he could see his own image reflected in them. ‘That will not be possible, Rama. You cannot embrace ahimsa. Not today. Perhaps some other day, in the distant future. But not today. Nay.’ 

‘What does Jatayu mean? Why do you say these words?’ 

Jatayu wheezed, releasing a foul breath that told Rama more eloquently than the external wounds how badly the giant vulture-beast was really injured. ‘Because Jatayu comes here today to warn Rama and his companions. A terrible storm approaches Chitrakut. Rama and his companions must leave, must return to Ayodhya and seek aid. He must do so at once, for time is scarce. Even as we speak, the storm grows every closer to this peaceful hill. Before nightfall on this very day it will break here like a cloudburst. And if Rama remains here, he will be washed away.’ 

Rama shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. What is this storm you speak of? What comes?’ 

‘Supanakha,’ Jatayu said. ‘The demoness. She has sought the aid of her brothers Khara and Dushana. They are the last survivors of Lanka’s army, lost at sea and separated from the rest of the invading armada, and somehow spared by the Brahmastra. They have inhabited the seaward plains south of Chitrakut, and even now they make their way northwards, seeking you out. Seeking to avenge their sister’s humilation and mutilation at your hands. I saw them start out two days past, and it is no more than three days’ march from thence to hence. They will arrive here sometime today.’ It hung its head briefly. ‘Jatayu would have come sooner, but it is ashamed to admit that it took two full days to make up its mind. Only this day, in the still, silent hours before dawn, was Jatayu so assailed by its conscience that it rose out of the tree it slept in and flew north to Chitrakut, seeking to redress its past sins, seeking to warn you, Rama.’ 

Rama patted the bird’s underside reassuringly. ‘You did well, old one. You have indeed paid a measure towards the balancing of your karma today. Thank you for your warning.’ 

Both Sita and Lakshman had come forward on hearing Jatayu’s revelations. Lakshman said thoughtfully, ‘Two rakshasas, and Supanakha herself. That is all you saw, old one? Just these three?’ 

Jatayu squawked. ‘Would that it were so, Lakshman. If it were merely three rakshasas, Jatayu would not trouble you with warnings. You would dispatch them in mere moments. Nay, it is Jatayu’s sorrow to inform you that Khara and Dushana’s army of demons is great in number. Not as great as the army you felled at Mithila, surely, but for three Kshatriyas alone in this wilderness, they are still too many. You must retreat at once to your city, someplace where you can find your own army to defend yourselves against these rakshasas.’ 

Rama smiled sadly. ‘That is not possible, Jatayu. Rama is in exile. I can go no more to my city or my people to ask their help. Whatever befalls me now, I must face it alone. Tell me, how great was the number of rakshasas you saw? How are they armed? What war machines do they possess?’ 

‘They are armed heavily, and armoured as well. Their siege machines were lost at sea with their sunken ship. They do not deem it necessary to build more to confront three mortal Kshatriyas in a thatched hut. But I cannot describe their numbers in the mortal way. I can only tell you how great a distance they covered as they marched. It was—’ 

‘Fourteen thousand rakshasas,’ Rama said. 

All three of them looked at him. He nodded. ‘That is the number Supanakha named. Do you recall it, Lakshman?’ 

‘Yes,’ Lakshman said slowly. ‘“Fourteen thousand of my rakshasa brothers” she called them. Then she was speaking the truth.’ 

‘About that, as about all else, it would seem,’ Rama said. ‘So now we know their numbers. An army of fourteen thousand rakshasas marches to do war with us.’ 

‘What will we do, Rama?’ Lakshman asked. ‘Shall I go to Guha and ask him for help? Or—’ 

‘No, Lakshman,’ Rama said. ‘We shall not ask anyone for help. Nor shall we go anywhere. This is our home now, and we shall stay here. If we must go anywhere then it can only be southwards, further into exile. We can never turn our faces back towards Ayodhya again, not until our fourteen years are past. You know these things as well as I do.’ 

‘Yes, but Rama, the rakshasa army … how will we defend ourselves?’ 

‘We will not. We shall await them and attempt to parley. Perhaps we can make them see the futility of violence, as we have learned to see it.’ 

Lakshman shook his head impatiently. ‘And if we cannot convince them? Then what?’ 

‘Then we die.’ 

NINETEEN 

Supanakha’s anger had begun to ebb. The pain in her severed nose and ears had faded somewhat over the past several days. Her brothers had refused to treat the wounds with herbs, as it was against rakshasa custom. A wounded rakshasa must heal its wounds naturally or die. It was the rakshasa way of culling out the sick and old and infirm–and if it meant the loss of the young and wounded as well, so be it. Despite their strenuous objections, she had found some of the herbs she had learned of during her observations of mortals and applied them herself. The exposed flesh still gaped rawly, but the pain had subsided and so had the bleeding. At least she could think for the first time since the shameful encounter. 

They were marching through dense forest, the only sound their boots tramping the leafy undergrowth. It was a considerable noise, multiplied fourteen thousand times. The trees they passed beneath had no birds, the woods no animals; all had fled at the sound of their approach, clearing their way from the southwestern coast to these Panchvati plains. She marched at the head of the force, alongside her brothers. They were both armoured, as she was, Khara bearing his favourite killing device, an oversized axe-like weapon with a blade as large as a bull’s haunch, and Dushana his legendary mace, as long as a full-grown mortal, and as thick and heavy, with ugly spikes set into its business end. All three of them wore helmets with the shape and insignia of the boar tribe, for that was their clan. Strictly speaking, Supanakha was tiger, but then again, she was also part-yaksi, part-mortal, and the devas knew what else. It was enough that she was their sister, and so she wore the boar clan helmet, though the real reason she had put it on was to conceal her gaping facial wounds. She was sick of everyone staring at them while talking to her or passing by. She had already struck down a half-dozen rakshasas who had been too slow to look away, or had committed the fatal error of making a comment or sniggering when she passed them by. 

They were approaching the river, she knew. She could smell it ahead, perhaps two miles, no more. Soon they would be crossing the Godavari and marching up Chitrakut hill. And at Rama’s doorstep. She should be glad. She should be feeling exultant right now. Soon they would be ripping apart that flimsy hut and doing much the same to its inhabitants. She would have her vengeance. Both Khara and Dushana had special plans in store for Sita, and after they were done with her she would look a great deal worse than Supanakha. And then it would be Lakshman’s turn, for he must pay the price for humiliating her. 

Among rakshasas, killing was considered lawful combat, no matter what the circumstances. But mutilation was deemed an insult. The logic was that if you truly had a grouse, you would simply kill the subject of your hatred and be done with it. But to deliberately mutilate or maim someone left the subject less complete, and therefore inferior to his or her fellow rakshasas. There were no crippled rakshasa children, not even those born that way; they were suffocated, drowned or even eaten by their own parents before they could be seen by the rest of the clan. A rakshasa born deformed was considered to have been mutilated by the devas. What had been done to Supanakha was deemed far, far worse than if she had been killed and left as food for vultures. It was this humiliation that had convinced Khara and Dushana to assemble their legions so swiftly for this campaign. Not that they needed much persuading; since their fortuitous survival at sea and their miraculous escape from the Brahmastra, they were desperate for some opportunity to prove their valour in combat. They could not return to Lanka, or what was left of it, unless they had faced enemies and won a battle at the very least.