Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Read online

  A baby left in the wild for wild animals to feast on… Lord Rudra have mercy.

  ‘Mercy,’ pleaded the man. ‘I told you the truth… Mercy…’

  Kumbhakarna glanced at Raavan again. Raavan nodded. Kumbhakarna drew his sword and beheaded the man in one clean strike.

  The decapitated head of the criminal flew in the air and hit the head of his associate tied up next to him. He screamed in panic, as a bloody fountain erupted through the gaping neck, on to him.

  A loud flapping of wings made Raavan and Kumbhakarna look up. A kettle of vultures was descending on the village. They watched as one of the birds tentatively pecked at one of the dead bodies that lay scattered about on the ground. On discovering meat that was still warm, the bird squawked in delight and began feasting on it.

  Raavan turned his attention back to the man burning beside him. Uncontrollable tears of rage flowed from his eyes as he looked at the now insensate, almost unrecognisable creature slumped against his bonds. He felt no pity, no remorse. Only fury.

  Raavan and Kumbhakarna sat on the ground, their backs against the wall. The five dead men were still tied to the trees. Sukarman, barely alive, had been yanked away from the door to which he had been nailed, and tied to a tree. Some of his bloodied flesh still clung to the nails. He had fallen unconscious under the slow burning and torture. But Raavan was careful to ensure that Sukarman didn’t die. He had to suffer as much pain as was humanly possible. Pain, the very memory of which would terrify his soul for several lifetimes.

  Meanwhile, Raavan’s soldiers had carried the lifeless bodies of Vedavati and Prithvi to the village landlord’s house. They had to be washed and clothed before the cremation ceremonies.

  By now, the vultures had been joined by other creatures of the wild. Crows. Wild dogs. Hyenas. There was enough meat for everyone. The animals ate quietly. They didn’t fight with each other. They didn’t make too much noise. They knew there was enough food to last them for several days.

  It was an eerily macabre sight. Wild animals everywhere, feasting silently on dead human bodies. An unconscious man tied to a tree. Soldiers with bloodied swords standing to attention. And two brothers, braving their broken souls, sitting outside the house of the woman they admired. The person they loved. The Goddess they worshipped.

  Raavan’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen, his face drained of all expression. Kumbhakarna took his brother’s bloodied hands in his own. The blood of the criminals who had killed Vedavati had soaked their limbs but it had done nothing to cleanse their grief. What words could alleviate anguish such as this?

  At last, Raavan spoke. ‘I hate this…’ He stopped as tears began flowing down his cheeks again.

  Kumbhakarna looked at his brother. Silent.

  Raavan’s voice emerged, raw with grief and anger.

  ‘I hate this cursed land.’

  Chapter 17

  Each time Sukarman slipped into unconsciousness, a bucket of water drenched his face. He had to be kept conscious, to experience every moment of the torture. Though his body hung limp, the taut ropes kept him upright against the tree. He had been stripped bare except for his loincloth. Blood oozed from his numerous lesions and almost every inch of him was either scorched or slashed. Except his face.

  When Sukarman finally managed to open his eyes, he saw the Lankan pirate-trader standing in front of him.

  Raavan.

  Among the richest men in the world. Certainly, the angriest man alive. A man with an intense craving for vengeance. ‘Why didn’t you just take the money?’ Raavan’s voice was a mixture of rage and desperate sadness. ‘Why? Why did you have to kill her?’

  Hope flickered in some corner of Sukarman’s mind. He thought he might still have a chance to explain himself. And the thought fired some energy into him. ‘I did try… I tried so hard… But she wouldn’t… listen.’

  Raavan looked at Kumbhakarna and then back at Sukarman.

  ‘I told her that she’d never cared about money before… so why now? But she wouldn’t agree… she was being… stubborn… Even that husband of hers suddenly grew a spine and snubbed me. She asked me to take everything else they owned… but she wouldn’t give me… your hundi… But everything else they owned was worth nothing… and I needed to settle my gambling debts… My debtors would have killed me… I told her that… but she was being so… unreasonable,’ he wheezed.

  Raavan stared at Sukarman in disbelief.

  Sukarman’s voice was barely audible as he continued, ‘I told her… that you would give her more… that you… are fabulously rich… wouldn’t care… but she refused to listen… She said she would not part with the hundi… said the hundi was holy… it had been given by someone who had discovered dharma… that she would not surrender Raavan’s chance to discover the God within him…’

  A low moan escaped Kumbhakarna, as he clutched his hair in despair. But Raavan just kept staring at Sukarman, unable to respond.

  Sukarman was not done. Misreading Raavan’s silence, he mumbled, ‘I was trying to reason with her, but one of the others lost his patience… I can’t blame him… She was being… stubborn.’

  Raavan had had enough. He lunged at Sukarman and unleashed a vicious upper cut that caught him on the chin. Sukarman’s head snapped back and hit the trunk of the tree. Kumbhakarna stepped up and grabbed him by the hair, holding his head steady as he punched him squarely in the jaw, breaking it with an unmistakable crack. Then he pushed the broken jaw down, forcing Sukarman’s mouth open.

  Raavan picked up a small piece of half-burnt coal and pushed it into the slack mouth.

  Sukarman’s body convulsed as the red-hot coal singed the skin of his mouth before being pushed down his throat. Kumbhakarna held his mouth open, while some of the Lankan soldiers rushed forward with more pieces of burning coal. Raavan took them one by one and stuffed them down Sukarman’s throat. He was using his bare hands, unheeding of the pain. As more and more pieces of burning coal found their way down Sukarman’s oesophagus, his body flailed in agony.

  He was being burnt alive, from the inside out.

  But Raavan and Kumbhakarna would not stop. They kept forcing more coal pieces into Sukarman’s digestive tract.

  After some time, he stopped moving.

  A pungent smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. Smoke was coming out of Sukarman’s mouth. His stomach seemed aglow. As though his insides had caught fire. The wretched man was being cooked alive.

  Still, the brothers did not stop.

  Rage had taken over their souls completely.

  They had lost everything.

  Their Goddess. Their world. Their sanity.

  They had lost it all.

  Preparations for the ceremony were complete. Two large pyres had been prepared. The bodies of Vedavati and Prithvi had been cleaned, bathed and dressed in fresh white clothes. Sacred Vedic chants had been whispered into their ears. It was believed that the power of the mantras would give the souls of the departed the strength to continue on their journey.

  Once all this had been done, holy water was poured into their mouths and tulsi leaves placed on their lips. Some more tulsi leaves were bunched together and placed in their nostrils and ears. Vedavati’s hands were arranged on her chest, with her thumbs tied together. The big toes of her feet had also been tied together. The same was done for Prithvi. It was believed that this helped conjoin the right and left energy channels, thus ensuring the movement of energy in a circle within the body. Earthen lamps were lit at the precise spots where Vedavati and Prithvi had been found dead, with the flame facing south, in honour of Lord Yama, the God of Death and Dharma.

  Through all of this, Raavan and Kumbhakarna remained outwardly calm. There was no space here for undignified crying and indecorous mourning. Dignity. Respect. Honour. That was what the Goddess deserved. The great Kanyakumari would leave this earth in the same manner in which she had lived. With dignity, respect and honour.

  The two brothers stood beside Vedavati’s unlit pyre. S
he would be cremated first, and then Prithvi.

  Holy ghee was brought in an earthen pot. Kumbhakarna held the vessel as Raavan scooped out dollops of ghee and poured it over Vedavati’s body. As he did so, both the brothers chanted from the Garuda Purana. When Raavan wiped his hands clean, some of his men came up and placed more wooden logs on Vedavati’s body. Soon, only her face was visible.

  As Raavan stepped back, a wooden log was brought to him, lit with holy fire.

  Kumbhakarna gathered the courage to look at Vedavati’s face one final time. The punctures had been covered. A patch had been put over the hole where her left eye had been.

  Her face—even now, after all that she had suffered—was calm and gentle. Like that of a Goddess. Kumbhakarna struggled to hold back his tears. He would not be undignified. Not in front of her. Not in front of his Goddess.

  He had heard it said enough times, that the tears of loved ones made it difficult for the departed soul to leave the world. The living had to control and suppress their grief, for the good of the dead.

  He looked at Vedavati’s still body waiting to be engulfed in flames, and unexpectedly, all of a sudden, the rage left him.

  He looked around in a daze, as though waking up from a long sleep. In the village beyond, he could see that wild animals were still feasting on the dead bodies of the villagers. Men and women who could be called cowards, but not criminals. He looked back at Vedavati’s face and was ashamed. Of himself, and of what he had done.

  He knew that she would be disappointed in him and his brother. He turned to look at him now.

  Raavan was holding the log with the holy flame and walking up to the pyre.

  Kumbhakarna stepped back.

  Raavan pushed the log into the pyre, setting it ablaze. Letting Lord Agni, the all-purifying God of Fire, consume the body of the Goddess.

  Someone handed Raavan an earthen pot filled with holy water. He punctured it and, following the sacred tradition, started walking anti-clockwise around the blazing pyre. Water trickled out of the small hole in the pot as he walked. He performed the circumambulation three times. In doing so, he was, in effect, stating to the world that he would assume the responsibility for repaying Vedavati’s debts. Not monetary debts, for money was meaningless to the soul—he was promising to repay her unfinished karmic debt and ensuring that she would be free of all attachments and responsibilities in this world. Her soul could then, hopefully, travel towards moksha, and be liberated from the cycle of births.

  Kumbhakarna looked at his brother as he circled the pyre, and then at the village they had destroyed.

  There was much to do. Much to atone for.

  He hoped they wouldn’t let her down.

  It was late in the morning the next day, when Raavan and Kumbhakarna woke up. They had spent the night on the banks of a lake not far from the village. Despite the exhaustion of the day, they had managed barely a few hours of sleep.

  Both the pyres were still smouldering, though the flames had died out. The physical bodies of the noble Kanyakumari and her gentle husband had been reduced, mostly, to ash. Twenty of Raavan’s soldiers had been stationed at the cremation ground through the night, to keep away any wild animals that might choose to venture there. Their fears were unfounded, though. There was enough food to keep the animals in the village.

  After their ritual bath, Raavan and Kumbhakarna went back to the cremation site. A few ceremonies still remained to be done. They began with Vedavati’s pyre.

  A bucket of holy water had been arranged. Tulsi leaves floated on its surface. Raavan took a coconut and smashed it on the ground. It broke vertically, from one narrow end to the other. This was rare and considered auspicious; the soul would certainly find moksha. The coconut water was added to the water in the bucket. The solution was stirred by hand as Sanskrit hymns were chanted. When this was done, Raavan ritually drizzled the holy water onto the smouldering pyre, extinguishing the last of the flames.

  Four Lankan soldiers came up and removed the ashes from the platform. Kumbhakarna and Raavan bent over the pile and painstakingly sifted through it for the asti, the small pieces of bone that hadn’t been reduced to ash in the pyre. Almost everything else that formed part of the body—flesh, organs, muscles—had been consumed. The ashes were to be returned to Mother Earth in an easily usable form. What remained of the bones would be immersed in the holy waters of the Ganga.

  Raavan knew that asti was the root for the Sanskrit word astitva, which meant existence. These bones, which had tenaciously refused to be consumed by the holy fire, symbolised the remnants of existence. They had to go back to the source of it all, to the Mother Goddess, in the form of the flowing, nurturing river. They would merge with the water, in the bosom of the Mother Goddess, so that even the residual bits of existence could find peace.

  Raavan and Kumbhakarna carefully washed each of the small bones, then placed them in an earthen pot. It was almost impossible to distinguish which part of the body they had been a part of. Then, to his utter surprise, Raavan came upon the bones of two fingers which seemed almost intact. The flesh, the muscles, the tendons, had all been burnt away. What survived were three bone phalanges from each of the two fingers. Six phalanges in all. Clearly distinguishable.

  When most of the skull had not survived, what were the chances of these phalanges surviving?

  As he held the fragile bones in his open palm, it struck Raavan—these were probably the vestiges of the hand with which Vedavati had held his hand. For the first time. Just a few days ago. She had never touched him again.

  He would never see her again. But he could still hold her hand.

  Raavan couldn’t control himself anymore.

  He wept as he touched the bones to his forehead, like they were hallowed relics of the most divine Goddess. And then he kissed them lightly.

  She had left these for him.

  He knew, then, that he would survive. That he would find a way to live the rest of his life. For he knew that he could hold her hand any time he wished to.

  She had left these for him as a crutch. So that he could walk through the agony that he knew the rest of his life would be. With her hand as support.

  With her hand to hold.

  Raavan turned the urn over and let Vedavati’s remains slip into the holy river. Further down, Kumbhakarna did the same for Prithvi.

  It had been three days since the cremation. The brothers had ridden out towards the river with all their soldiers, picking up young Samichi on the way. Despite Kumbhakarna’s repeated pleas, Raavan had refused to conduct funeral ceremonies for the villagers of Todee and had left their dead bodies where they were. As rotting food for wild animals. He had no qualms about condemning their souls to suffering for all eternity.

  Raavan watched closely as the earthly remains of Vedavati disappeared into the holy river. The asti were a part of the Mother now.

  But he hadn’t surrendered all of it. He had kept the finger phalanges, the remnants of Vedavati’s hand. They hung around his neck now, bunched together to form an unlikely pendant.

  He started up the steps of the river ghats, with the urn still in his hand.

  ‘Dada,’ said Kumbhakarna, stepping out of the water. ‘You have to drop the urn into the river too.’

  Raavan looked down at the urn—empty and bereft. As though it, too, was in mourning.

  ‘Dada…’

  Raavan did not respond. He looked around him. At the holy Ganga, the verdant banks, the dense forest cover… at the land of India. The land blessed by the Gods.

  He closed his eyes. A feeling of disgust overcame him.

  A country that cannot honour its heroes doesn’t deserve to survive.

  ‘Dada… the urn…’ Kumbhakarna reminded him.

  To Kumbhakarna’s surprise, Raavan turned and started walking back towards the shore.

  ‘Dada?’

  Raavan reached the river bank, bent down, and picked up some soil—the earth of the Sapt Sindhu—and put it in the urn. Then he
started walking back into the river, at a furious pace, like a man possessed.

  ‘Dada, what are you doing?’

  Raavan bent and dipped the urn in the water, so that the soil was washed away. Like he was immersing the asti of the land itself.

  ‘Dada?’ Kumbhakarna’s voice conveyed his mounting anxiety.

  Raavan filled the urn with water and poured it over his head. Like the ritual bath at the end of a funeral ceremony.

  ‘No, Dada!’ Kumbhakarna rushed forward, frantic to stop Raavan. But he was too late.

  Raavan broke the urn on his arms and let the pieces fall into the river. Then he turned towards Kumbhakarna, eyes blazing and fists clenched tight. Rage poured out of every cell of his body. He gritted his teeth and said, ‘This country is dead to me.’

  ‘Dada, listen to me…’

  ‘Control the monster, did she say?’

  ‘Dada, what are you saying? Listen to me…’

  ‘I will unleash the monster! I will destroy this land!’

  Chapter 18

  ‘Magnificent piece, Dada,’ said Kumbhakarna.

  Two long years had passed since Vedavati’s death.

  Twenty-four-year-old Raavan had been playing a raga dedicated to the Devi, the Goddess. Most of the ragas created in honour of the Goddess celebrated her motherly embodiment. There were others dedicated to her manifestation as a lover, a daughter, an artist and so on, but very few were dedicated to the warrior Goddess. The raga Raavan had composed captured the essence of this form—fierce, angry, and wild. Like nature in all its tempestuous and uncontrollable glory.

  He called the Raga Vaashi Santaapani. The roar of the furious Goddess.

  ‘I have yet to hear another piece that’s as powerful,’ said Kumbhakarna. ‘In fact, I think it’s the most beautiful raga I have heard in my life.’

  Raavan nodded absentmindedly. He didn’t seem to care too much for the compliment.