PRINCE IN EXILE (91 page)

Her tail switched more enthusiastically the further she went into the cave. 

*** 

The Pushpak slowed as it reached the end of the wellspace. Vibhisena held on to the railing with both hands tightly clenched, trying to control the churning of his stomach. Had he really thought he could climb all this way down? Mandodhari was right. He would have taken hours, assuming he hadn’t been exhausted midway, or worse, gotten dizzy and simply rolled off the edge. He had never come down here without the Pushpak, and now he knew why. The distance was ridiculously great. But when that voice had spoken in his mind, he had lost all rationality and reason. And had rushed down the stairway like a man escaping a fire. A fire that he had believed to have burned itself out thirteen years earlier. Why, only this Holi day he had performed the traditional agnihotra and considered the world blessed for being rid of the evil that had once manifested itself in the form of his brother. And now, it appeared he had spoken too soon. 

Just when I thought it was ended
,
it begins again
. 

As the Pushpak reached the bottom of the wellspace, he gripped the railing tighter. This part of the flight always caused the most discomfort to his sensitive stomach. He felt his bowels loosen and churn as the vehicle slowed to a dead halt preparatory to changing direction. The Pushpak’s motion was so smooth and silent that if he chose to seat himself on one of its luxurious couches and shut his eyes, he would barely be aware of being transported. That was exactly what he did most times. But he wished to keep his eyes open and senses alert on this occasion. It was not hope or joy that made him feel this way. It was fear. 

Because, despite everything, despite his own prayers for Ravana’s safe recovery, he had lived in fear of this very day. Not just fearful of Ravana’s awakening itself, but of what might follow afterwards. 

‘Brother-in-law,’ Mandodhari said in her caustic, commanding way. ‘Sit down before you fall down.’ 

He summoned the words with some effort. ‘Do not worry about me.’ 

The Pushpak reached the end of its downward voyage just then. The cylindrical wellspace down which they had descended perhaps half a mile now opened out into a gigantic subterranean chamber. Despite being here a hundred times before, the epic scale of the place was something he could never get used to seeing. The cavern into which they had dropped was easily a yojana long, nine long miles, and more than half as wide. The ground below was a yojana below the roof of the cavern—which in turn was actually the base of Mount Nikumbhila—though at present it might as well have been a bottomless abyss, so dark and limitless did it appear. In sum, all that one could see was darkness, pitch-black and absolute. It was the other senses that recorded the enormity of the place, giving the sensation that one was not within the bowels of the earth but out of doors, beneath the cerulean sky, so vast was the chamber. It had always been thus darkened, for all the earlier visits. But now, as the Pushpak shot out horizontally, flying parallel to the rocky ceiling of the cavern, illumination began to appear. Vibhisena gasped as the first blaze of light exploded on either side, as if the walls of the cavern themselves were aflame. He shielded his eyes as entire patches of the sloping rocky walls began to light up with a greenish-golden glow. The very rockwall itself seemed to burn from within with the phosphorescent light. As the Pushpak shot along at a blinding pace, the walls continued to illuminate. By the time the vehicle reached the centre of the cavern, all sides of the vast chamber were lit by the same eerie light. 

The Pushpak slowed to a complete halt, then, with a perfection of motion that no mortal-controlled vehicle could ever match, dropped like a stone once more. Even its smoothness of motion could not deny the laws of nature, and as the vehicle fell the nine miles to the floor of the cavern, Vibhisena desperately fought back the urge to retch. Fortunately, his stomach was empty yet for he did not break his fast until after morning prayers and gradually he began to recover his self-control. He sensed Mandodhari looking down at him, casting her customary glance of pitiful scorn, and forced himself to stand straighter and compose his features. Doing so provided him once more with an undesired view over the railing, and he could not help but see that the floor of the cavern, still miles below, was being illuminated by the same sorcerous process. The macabre greenish-golden glow lit up the bottom of the rock-hewn chamber, like a seething carpet of asura sorcery. So brilliant was the light that Vibhisena could see the skin on the back of his own hands tinted an unnatural hue by the light. The whole cavernous chamber was illuminated now, in a spectacular display of asura shakti. Except for one tiny section in the very centre of the ground, which was glowing deep fiery red. It was the size of a small rectangular patch on the approaching ground far below, but grew rapidly as the Pushpak sped downwards at an incredible pace. 

Vibhisena forgot his flight-sickness at the sight of that rectangle of garish red light. Even though it was still too far to see clearly, his mind visualised the oversized body that lay there, the powerful muscles unshrivelled by the normal process of atrophy that would have ravaged any other fleshly form. For Ravana was not subject to the normal processes of flesh and nature. 

Countless times over the years, at this very point in the voyage, Vibhisena had imagined the possibility of exactly such a moment and shuddered at the thought that some day, the comatose body lying there might open its ten pairs of eyes and regain consciousness. 

Today, that long-dreaded moment had arrived. 

He held on tightly as the Pushpak’s descent accelerated, hurtling into the den of Ravana.

THREE 

Ravana lived. 

In the cosmic maelstrom of his mind, ideas, information, facts gleaned from a million sources by his asura shakti, all churned and whirled with dizzying speed. He saw through the eyes of rakshasas in the habitat, many miles above his private den-chamber, milling about in confusion as the news of their master’s reawakening rippled through Lanka like a sea-typhoon. They were both nervous and exultant. For too long they had lived under the matronly control of Lady Mandodhari, occupied with the seemingly endless task of rebuilding. They were tired of toiling night and day like ants, quarrying granite hills, hauling stones, chiselling caverns, mining ores, smelting, forging, mortar-mixing, brick-baking, brick-laying … these were not the tasks the rakshasa race had been bred for. Theirs was an ancient, warmongering breed, created to wreak havoc and ravage the mortal world. Many of them were descended from the rakshasas who had followed Ravana himself in his assault on swarga-lok, the capital city of the devas itself. How could warriors who had invaded heaven and defeated the gods be expected to spend their lives living together in enforced harmony, building and festooning? At first, they had followed their mistress because she was their mistress, wife to their stricken lord, mother of his heirs. By rakshasa custom, she possessed the right to reign as regent in his stead. Until such time as Ravana was declared dead, even her sons dared not question her authority. 

And Mandodhari had done well at first, Ravana saw. His consciousness swept the length and breadth of the island-kingdom, taking in more knowledge than any normal sovereign could hope to gain from a thousand spies in as many years. Crows were immune to his shakti, but he possessed the bodies of other birds—gulls, eagles, pigeons, swallows, mynas, hawks and even gaily coloured parrots that flew over the new Lanka, white and gleaming in the morning sun. He saw through the eyes of the birds, circling and hovering, barely able to believe the evidence of his avian vision. He passed over the site of the blackstone city-fortress that had been destroyed thirteen years earlier, gone now, demolished to the base by Mandodhari’s ceaselessly toiling rakshasa minions. Upon its subterranean foundations, now rose a white marbled city of vaulting arches, carved facades, leaping fountains, towering steeples, domed temples. In the body of a gull, he cried out plaintively in protest, and dropped a load of guano upon a polished golden spire. Such gleaming magnificence did not befit the rakshasa race. It was an abomination to asura eyes. How could the demon races, scourge of the natural world, live in the shade of such ridiculously grandiloquent architecture? Had he possessed his full shakti he would have called down the elements, drawn all power out of the sky and earth and ocean, and erased this beautiful-ugly eyesore from existence. Instead, he seethed impotently, his rage bursting the hearts of a dozen birds, dropping them lifeless, bleeding from the eyes to land in feathery heaps upon the startled heads of milling rakshasas. He calmed himself with a mighty effort, taking the body of a swallow, dipping down, flying at eye level, to peek within the interiors of this damnable new Lanka. He saw temples, honouring the holy trimurti, Shivlingams to the Lord of Destruction, shrines to Sri, Brahma, Vishnu, Kali, Indra, Ganesha, Karthikeya, Agni, a score of other deities major and minor. Furious, he fluttered impotently, shedding feathers and droppings on the shoulders and backs of irate rakshasas who bellowed and swatted at the offending bird. He leaped to the body of a tomcat, sunning himself contentedly upon a wall after a belly filling meal of fish. He fled squabbling and scratching madly, through the markets, mauling dogs thrice his size, unable to believe the orderliness and hygiene of the streets, the citizens, the buildings. This was not how rakshasas were meant to live! No wonder that these fools had turned soft and thick-waisted, the very maggots of their flesh dried to husks, the snakes of their eyes grown venomless and docile. Without war and a steady diet of violence and bloodletting, rakshasas grew indolent, slothful, self-abusive. But this was even worse: these fools had turned tame, as if they had been moulded into something akin to civilised
mortals
! He spat, hissing, terrifying a cow outside a temple into bolting and inadvertently driving its horns into its minder’s side. This would not stand, he would not let it stand. 

As the heavy lathi of a vigilant city guard came down upon the rear end of the spitfire cat, he left its body, leaping in the nick of time to a mouse skulking the shadows of a gutter. The mouse’s whiskers twitched with glee as it watched the life battered out of the suddenly shocked cat, then it turned and made its way down, into the intestines of the city. Even here, it was disgusted to find more puja flowers and burnt agarbattis, their sickly sweet fragrances more redolent of temples and worship than the gut-churning stench deserving of a gutter. He scurried down, down, through labyrinthine tunnels that led eventually to the ocean, finding holes in crumbling rock that led into the ancient foundations of the original city, the Lanka that had existed even before he had taken possession of it, the ancient Lanka over which reigned his half-brother Kubera, demigod entrusted with minding the treasury of the devas, until Ravana had wrested it from him by force. Here, amid the dank crevices and malodorous vapours, he finally found something that restored a modicum of relief. The blackstone of which these ancient foundations were built was living rock, the stuff of Narak itself, the hellworld. And, he was pleased to note, while Mandodhari’s elaborate attempt to transform Lanka into the civilised city of her desires had been largely successful, the transformation was more cosmetic and superficial than she realised. For here, miles below the gleaming white city she had constructed these past thirteen years, lay the true heart of Lanka: black, malevolent and mindlessly devoted to the dark asura gods that pre-dated even the devas. And all her mammoth reconstructions were restricted only to the surface, neglecting the true, dark soul that lay beneath the surface. 

The mouse stopped and chittered with rodent delight, as the spirit that travelled within its tiny form finally found reason to be glad. There was nothing to cause worry, after all. Like a wife redecorating a house in her husband’s absence, Mandodhari had aired and dusted, cleaned and washed, freshened and brightened Lanka for a few brief years. But it would take him, the lord of the estate, mere days to restore it into the hellish chaos that he favoured. The mouse’s heart exploded and the spirit occupying it soared away, trailing laughter and fear. 

*** 

Vibhisena regained control of his churning innards with a great effort. It took him several moments of disciplined breathing to restore his natural state of calm, or something akin to it. When he opened his eyes and looked about, he found two pairs of eyes glaring at him. 

Indrajit, Ravana’s eldest son, towered above them all, his dark features marred by the scars of a thousand conflicts. His body bulged with masses of muscles, his torso as solid as a marble slab. The skin around his mouth was red with wine-stains, his hair unkempt, eyes wild, garments in disarray. Indrajit was not known for his good temper, nor for his ability to abstain from either wine or the sensual pleasures. The years of peace and withdrawal had seen him plunge deeper into a life of hedonistic excess. But the lack of violent outlets for his natural aggression had not been taken well by Ravana’s eldest. From time to time, Vibhisena had heard ugly rumours of violent death among Indrajit’s wives and children. War was a way of life for all rakshasas, but for certain warriors like Indrajit, it was a physical necessity. In the absence of the usual outlets, Indrajit had resorted to abusing his own dependents. Never mind Vibhisena, even his mother dared not question his behaviour. Although, he recalled, Mandodhari had made a sincere attempt to make him mend his ways, at the risk of her own life. 

In contrast, the handsome fair-skinned rakshasa with a frown creasing his shining face was a rakshasa of a very different character. Akshay Kumar was sugar to Indrajit’s bile. He enjoyed good living and the inevitable sensual delights too, but he preferred to take his pleasures with grace and charm. Not for him the rapacious brutality of his older brother. Akshay Kumar won his sexual conquests through the wiles of seduction. He was as gentle as his brother was rough, but no less self-indulgent. And even that gentleness he left behind in the seraglio, for on the battlefield he was a formidable yoddha. It had once been said among the rakshasas of Lanka, that if Indrajit battled his brother Akshay Kumar, the earth would grow old and die before the duel was resolved, for both were as equally matched in strength and prowess as they were unequal in nature and habit. But to look at Akshay Kumar, you would not think so at first. He had the slender, supple body of a dancer. Yet everyone knew that beneath the handsome, slender exterior was a warrior of blood and steel. Akshay Kumar’s prowess on the duelling field was legendary. If he could not compare in open battle with his larger and stronger older brother, in personal combat he was the undisputed superior. You would lose count of the number of rakshasa husbands who had turned a blind eye to his cuckolding shenanigans rather than challenge him to a duel whose outcome was certain. And those rakshasas too foolish to think before they ran at him ended up blind in both eyes. Knowing this, his smooth-faced sensuous-lipped features were no comfort to any who dared cross his path, or deflect him from any planned seduction. After all, he was his mother’s son.