sura

1
The end
Ravana
Tomorrow is my funeral. I do not know if they will bury me like a mangy
dog or whether I will get a funeral fit for an emperor – an erstwhile
emperor. But it does not really matter. I can hear the scuffing sounds
made by the jackals. They are busy eating my friends and family.
Something scurried over my feet. What was that? I haven’t the strength to
raise my head. Bandicoots. Big, dark, hairy, big rats. They conquer the
battlefields after foolish men have finished their business of killing each
other. It is a feast day for them today, just as it has been for the past eleven
days. The stench is overpowering. The stink of putrefying flesh, pus,
blood, urine, death. Our’s, their’s. But it does not matter. Nothing matters
now. I will pass out soon. The pain is excruciating. His fatal arrow struck
my lower abdomen.
I am not afraid of death. I have been thinking of it for some time now.
Thousands have been slain over the last few days. Somewhere in the
depths of the sea, my brother Kumbha lies dead, half-eaten by sharks. I lit
my son Meghanada’s funeral pyre yesterday. Or was it the day before?I’ve
lost all sense of time. I have lost the sense of many things.
A lonely star is simmering in the depths of the universe. Like the eye of
God. Very like the third eye of Shiva, an all-consuming, all-destroying
third eye. My beloved Lanka is being destroyed. I can still see the dying
embers in what was once a fine city. My capital, Trikota, was the greatest
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city in the world. That was before the monkey-man came and set it on
fire. Trikota burned for days. Shops, homes, palaces, men, women, and
babies, everything burned. But we restored it. Almost every able man
joined in rebuilding Trikota. Then the monkey-men came with their
masters  and  destroyed  everything.  Hanuman  did  that  to  us.  The
monkey-man brought us death, destruction and defeat.
I don’t want to dwell on that. I should have killed him when my son
captured him. Instead, I listened to my younger brother, who plotted
against me. But treason and betrayal is  nothing new to the Asuras. I was
naïve. I foolishly believed that I would always be loved by my brothers
and my people. I never imagined that I would be betrayed. I feel like
laughing. But it’s not easy to laugh when one’s guts lie spread around
like a wreath.
Sounds of joy float down to me from my city. The enemy is celebrating
his victory. The monkey-men will be busy plundering Trikota. My
temples will be looted, the granaries torched, schools and hospitals
burnt. That’s how victory parties are. We have done that and worse to
many Deva villages, when the goddess of victory was my consort.
Some ugly monkeys must have entered my harem. I hope my queen
has the sense to jump from a cliff before anything happens. I can’t
control anything now. I can feel the hot breath of death on my face. The
jackals have come. Which part of my body will  they eat first?Perhaps my
guts, as they are still bleeding. What if part of my breastplate chokes a
jackal? I chuckle at the thought. A jackal sinks his teeth into my cheek
and rips off a chunk of flesh. That’s it. I’ve  lost  this bet, too. They have
started from my face. Rats are nibbling my toes.
I, Ravana, have come a long way. Now I do not have anything left to
fight for, except this battle with the jackals. Tomorrow, there will be
a procession through the streets. They’ll raise my head on a pole and
parade it through the very same roads that saw me racing by in my
royal chariot. My people will throng to watch this spectacle with
horror and perverted pleasure. I know my people well. It will be a
big show.
ASURATALE OF THE VANQUISHED
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THE END
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ASURATALE OF THE VANQUISHED
One thing I cannot understand is why Rama came and stood above me
after I had fallen. He stood there like he was bestowing his blessings on
me. Playing God? But I could play that game too and I folded my hands in
mock obeisance. To my amusement, Rama took it seriously. These Devas
have no sense of humour. Then he blabbered something about a place in
heaven. Thanks to Rama, all my previous sins have been washed away and
I have been assured a seat in the heavenly kingdom. I always wondered
how I’d get to heaven. I wanted to stand up, hug him right there, and thank
him. But I didn’t. I was dying and could not stand up. And who knows?
Rama might have taken it seriously and started mumbling some gibberish
in Sanskrit. I would have died of laughter. And that is no way for an
emperor to die. Then I might have lost the seat in heaven. I doubt if heaven
has a place for people who die of laughter.
Then just as suddenly, as it had started, the rats and jackals scurried away.
A shadow, darker than the dark night, fell upon me. A dark head with curly
hair blocked the lonely star from my view. Is  it Kala, the god of death, who
has come to take me away? I struggled to open my eyes wider. But dried blood
held my eyelids together. Is it one of Rama’s lowly servants  who has come to
severe my head and take it back as a trophy?I want to look him in the face. I
want  to  look  into  his  eyes,  unwavering  and  unflinching  in  my  last
moments. Something about that head and curly hair reminds me of my
past. Do I know him?He leans down and looks at my face. Ah! It is Bhadra.
My friend, perhaps the only friend left. I do not know if I can call him my
friend. He was my servant, a foot soldier to start with. Then he got lost
somewhere along the way. He strolled in and out of my life, was sometimes
missing for years together. Bhadra had access to my private camp when I
was the head of a troop that  resembled a wayside gang of robbers rather
than a revolutionary army. Then,  he had access to my private chambers
when I was the king of a small island. Finally, he had access to my bedroom
when I was ruling India. More than that, Bhadra had access to the dark
corners of my mind, a part that I hid from my brothers, my wife, my lover,
my people, and even from myself.
What is  Bhadra doing here? But why am I surprised? This is just the place
for people like him who move around in the shadow. I can hear him
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THE END
sobbing. Bhadra getting emotional?He was  never angry, sad or happy. He
acted as if he was very emotional now. But I knew he had no emotions.
And Bhadra was aware that I  knew.
“Bhadra, carry me away from here. Take me away to…” My strength failed
me. Actually, I don’t know whether the words actually left me or died a
silent death somewhere in my throat. Bhadra shook his head. I was cold,
extremely cold. My life was ebbing out of me. Then Bhadra hugged my
head to his bosom. I could smell this sweat. Pain shot through me from
every  angle and spread its poisonous tentacles into my veins. I moaned.
Bhadra laid me back on the wet earth, wet from my blood, the blood of my
people, the blood of my dreams, and the blood of my life. It was over. A
sense of sadness and emptiness descended on me.
“I will complete your work, your Highness. Do not worry. Go  in peace. I
will do it for our race. My methods may be different, even ignoble,
compared to your’s. I too, was once a warrior, but I have grown old. Arms
frighten  me  now.  I’m  terrified  of  war.  I  can’t  even  hurt  a  child.
Nevertheless, my methods are deadly. I will get  revenge for you, me and
our blighted race. Rama won’t  go free for what he has done to us. Believe
me and go in peace.”
I did not hear most of the things  Bhadra said. Strangely, however,  I was
soothed and slipped away from this foul-smelling Asura and drifted back
to my childhood. A thousand images rushed to me. My early struggles, the
pangs of love and abandonment, separation, battles and wars, music and
art, they flashed through my mind in no particular order, making no sense.
Meaningless, like life itself.
I sensed Bhadra bowing down to touch my feet, then walking away.
“Bhadra……,” I wanted him to come back and take me to some doctor who
would put my intestines back, fit  my dangling left eye back into its socket
and somehow blow life into my body. I wanted to withdraw to the Sahyas
forests in the mainland and start a guerilla war, as Mahabali had done years
ago. I wanted to start again. I wanted to make the same mistakes, love the
same people, fight the same enemies, befriend the same friends, marry the
same wives and sire the same sons. I wanted to live the same life again.
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I didn’t want the seat Rama has reserved for me in his heaven. I  only
wanted my beautiful earth.
I knew such things were not going to happen. I was sixty, not sixteen. If I
lived, I would  be a one-eyed, dirty, old beggar in some wayside temple,
with stinking, tattered clothes. A long way from what I once was. I wanted
to die now. I wanted  this to end. I wanted to go away. Let the burning cities
take care of themselves. Let the Asuras fight their own wars and be
damned along with the Devas. I only wanted to return to my childhood
and start over again, every single damn thing, again and againand again…
ASURATALE OF THE VANQUISHED
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2 The seed
Ravana
The monsoon wind swirled around the small hut hanging precariously on
a mountain cliff. Another push by the roaring wind and the hut would
plunge into the black torrents waiting hungrily below. Then we would be
just specks of death washed ashore. It would have been better had it ended
like that. But this was just the beginning of the end. Could I be obliterated from
the leaves of history just like that? Hadn’t I a mission to fail?I didn’t know then,
but I had been born to fulfil someone else’s destiny. To allow someone else
to become God.
Huddled together with three siblings and a morose mother, I looked down
at the brightly lit palace of my half-brother. It was quite near, yet a world
apart. I had been there once, hidden behind the shawl of my poor, black
mother, my younger brothers tugging at my fingers. My sister was lying
limp like a dirty old rag, tired and hungry, on my mother’s shoulder. We
were poor, dirt poor. The  only thing we had in abundance was poverty.
And hunger. Also shame.
As a last desperate effort, mother dragged us to beg before her stepson,
Kubera, the lord of all wealth, the richest man on earth.  In the glitter of
the palace and the sickening fragrance of abundance, we stood there with
a begging bowl. We got our alms, a few pieces of gold and also many
derisive glances from my stepbrother’s wives. Our needs were few and his
time was too precious to waste on us. A flick of his hand, some small
change, and he thought no more of us. Until the day I reminded him of
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our existence quite rudely and loudly. But that happened much later. By
then we had ceased being beggars.
I gained my biggest asset from that arrogantly opulent palace of avarice
and greed – my burning ambition. The fire of hunger would never quench
the flames of ambition the palace ignited in me. I knew then that the world
he owned and much beyond, would be mine and mine alone. Today, might
well be the last day I will be with my mother. Tomorrow,  if our small hut
survives this torrential rain, we will start our journey. I believe there is a
world out there to conquer. A better world awaiting us.
My brothers and I never had an education to speak of. No Brahmin was
ready to take us for free, even if we worked for them. We were wild, black
and naughty. We had learned  that we were half-castes. Our father, from
the  little I knew, was some lecherous Maharishi who used my poor mother
to scratch his itching groins and gifted us to her. He knew his Vedas and
he knew how to justify his lust. He was a Brahmin. My mother was of an
unknown Asura caste. He kept the relationship an open secret. He knew
enough of the Sanskrit Vedas, which the Brahmins claimed contained all
the learning of the world.
Father wasn’t a bad man, really. He was like any other of his caste –
gloriously self-centered. He considered that we were suitably rewarded
with his mere presence in our home. And conveniently forgot that humans
need food to live too. Oh sure, he named us after demons, as we never
showed any interest in his teachings. Many a time, we mocked him and
ever so often, I boldly questioned his faith when he and his friends chanted
the Vedas (after eating his full  while we went hungry). In our mud
veranda, Kumbakarna, Soorpanakha and I mimicked them. Only my
youngest sibling, Vibhishana, watched with awe, his  eyes fixed on the
Brahmins, listening to their  jabbering with rapt attention.
This was after my father gave way all his money to my stepbrother, Kubera.
We were left with nothing. Growing up was difficult, a continuous
numbing ache, the kind which throbs and slowly spreads its black fingers
over one’s soul. Yet, we never strayed from the path of righteousness. Our
sense of justice differed from what the learned and privileged considered
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right. We decided our righteousness and we defined our rights in our own
way. We learned  that the truth could be bent to suit one’s needs. Our
dharma was based on simple things: a man should be true to his word; he
should speak from his heart; and shouldn’t do anything  he considered
wrong. One should not cheat, even if one was sure to fail. One should
honour women and not insult anyone. If there was injustice, we had to
fight it at all costs. We never knew any of the great teachings of the ancient
Asura or Deva saints. We followed no tradition.  We were almost bastards.
The next day, we would be leaving this island. I had heard that there are
great nations to the north. I would travel across the length and breadth of
India. I wanted to climb the snowclad mountains of the Himalayas, swim
against the dangerous currents of the Ganga raging in her full monsoon
fury. I dreamed of passing through the thick forests of the Vindhya and
Sahyas and seeing the monkey men and the kingdom of the Yakshas and
Kinnaras. I dreamed of  being in the music-filled world of the Gandharvas.
Oh, what a world to conquer! What a life to enjoy!  One day I was sure this
Ravana would rule the world. From the mighty Himalayas to Lanka, nay,
from Lanka to the Himalayas, I would rule the world, with justice, peace
and prosperity for all.
Looming in the shadows of my myriad dreams, there lingered a small
doubt. Were these wonderful dreams just hunger-induced hallucinations?
I might die today, caressed by the black waves and dragged by the roaring
currents. My life might just flicker for a while and end in dark silence. Then
who would ever now the passions and ambitions I held close to my heart?
Who would know what glories I had planned for my people? My life
would be just like the foam on the frothing black waters down below,
soaring, ever-expanding, there now but then gone into the unknown.
My mother’s tears burned a hole in my soul. She wanted us to go out and
conquer the world, yet she wanted us nearby, too. Perhaps, she saw the fire
raging in my eyes and decided not to stop us. When I looked back, I saw
my mother, a hunched-back figure in tattered clothes, hugging my ugly
sister. She was the most beautiful baby for us, but when I saw her with the
sense of fairness my mother had instilled in us,  I had to reluctantly agree
with my father’s belief that my sister was the ugliest creature he had ever
THE SEED
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ASURATALE OF THE VANQUISHED
seen. I hated him for that statement. I hated him even more for the fact that
it was true.
The gatekeeper of my half brother’s palace was sitting on the beach with
his friends. They roared with laughter at the sight of us three teenagers
struggling with the catamaran and  raised a toast to our death. They even
insulted my mother with indecent songs. I wanted to wring their necks!
But I had promised my mother that I would not use violence until I got
wise to the ways of the world and the sense to use my power with fairness
and justice. I fixed my teary eyes on the distant shoreline – there lay my
hope of success in this cruel world, my world and my guru.
My brothers and I travelled through the thick, evergreen Sahya forest. We
saw glorious palaces and ports. Ivory and sandalwood, peacocks and
monkeys. We saw ships with kaleidoscopic-coloured sails sailing to distant
lands, laden with gold and diamonds, pepper and spices. We saw temples
where the gods resided and demanded a portion of the earnings which
men strived hard to earn. And we also saw the representatives of those
gods who plundered in God’s name. The cities were bright with lights as
brilliant as the sun and the women, beautiful like those in paradise. I saw
with mixed emotions of pride, jealousy and anger, the ships on which my
half-brother’s flags fluttered.
Whichever city we went to, Kubera’s enterprises had an office. He ran a
tightly  controlled  business  empire  from  his  palace  in  the  island.
Equestrians carried important letters to his business partners and trade
guilds. He owned more than 130 ships, which sailed to Greece, Egypt and
China. I was sure any junior manager of his numerous units would have
welcomed us to their gold-brocaded offices, had we identified ourselves
as Kubera’s siblings. But that was the last thing I wanted to do.
I could have easily led a comfortable life as a clerk in any one of my half
brother’s offices. It would have ensured that my family got at least one
meal a day. But how could I forget the bored look in my step-brother’s eyes
when he dismissed us from his palace with a few gold coins? I would
rather die of hunger, but I would never demean myself for a lowly job in
his business empire. It might have been false pride. Many worldly-wise
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THE SEED
people have said so, to get along in the world you had to be practical and
satisfied with what your measly life offers. But I was a dreamer. And I did
not want to just get along in this world. I wanted to own it. Why were our
people so meek and humble? That was something I always wondered
about. Why were only a few able to control the power and wealth while
the rest obliged them, and even laid down their lives to help this small
selfish gang oppress them and their children? Was it fear? I don’t know.
But wherever I looked, I only saw oppression. Money, caste, rituals,
traditions, beliefs, superstitions – all conspired together to crush the
humble majority. Why couldn’t there be a more just way of living?
The moment I started asking why, I was branded a hothead. The Brahmin
friends of my father once tried to banish me from the village saying I was
possessed by evil spirits and that I was a Rakshasa, a demon. Perhaps I
was too young and brash and my view of the world was yet to get
tempered with experience. Except for my youngest brother Vibhishana,
who was always quiet, I could see the same restlessness in the rest of us. I
believed Vibhishana was a bit of a nitwit. But he was the darling of our
village while we were growing up. He followed whatever was laid down
in the books and never  asked any questions. There were many times when
I felt that Vibhishana was most suited for this society and that he was going
to make it big in life. And I liked him. He was so small and vulnerable and
I always felt he needed to be protected from this cruel world.
I  desperately  needed  some  confidence.  I  wasn’t  intelligent  in  the
conventional sense either. I could not recite the Vedas backwards, the way
Vibhishana enjoyed doing. In any case, I thought the Vedas were a load of
humbug and it didn’t matter which way you recited them. Some jobless
Brahmin like my father, created them thousands of years ago. Instead of
making  themselves  useful,  the  Brahmins  prayed  to  the  gods  they
themselves invented for rain, sun, horse, cow, money, and many other
things. It must have been very cold, from whichever cursed places they
came. Otherwise, why would they croak like frogs, appealing to the gods
after putting hundreds of assorted twigs into the fire?
Perhaps I was prejudiced. I shouldn’t think that the work they were doing,
as Yajnas, was useless. In fact, it served as a perfect tool to mint money and
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gain material favours. They were no fools, these Brahmins. They knew how
to project even the mundane tasks of burning twigs as earth-shaking,
scientific discoveries and claimed to tame the forces that controlled the
world. And it was funny that the majority of people  like the carpenters,
masons or farmers, who were doing something meaningful, had become
supplicant to these jokers croaking under the warm sun, sweat pouring
from their faces in front of a raging fire and chanting god knows what.
They had a yagna or puja for everything under the sun. If you had leprosy
or a common cold, there was a god to whom you had to offer a special puja
to appease him. You wanted your pestering wife to elope with your
bothersome neighbour, there was a puja for that too. You wanted your cow
to have a calf or your wife to have son, the Brahmin would help you. He
would just conduct a puja and a divine calf or son would be born. You
curried favour with the Brahmins and your son would  become the biggest
pundit in the world by the age of sixteen. If not, he would perhaps become
rowdy like me, who did not respect Brahmins or rituals. He would become
a Rakshasa. I think there are many more Rakshasas among us now.
Perhaps, it was because the why virus spread. Couldn’t the Brahmins
conduct a puja so that our heads were cleared of sinful thoughts? This is
something I have to ponder over when I have time.
Wherever I travel I find imposters claiming to have direct access to god
and fleecing people. It is strange how kings of antiquity suddenly became
gods. How they metamorphosed into specialty gods is even more amusing.
I am no atheist. I strongly believe in God and am always willing to pray
for my material and spiritual progress. But for me, God is a very personal
thing and prayer needs to be spoken silently in my heart.
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