Raavan- Enemy of Aryavarta Page 7

  He made no attempt to hide his irritation. ‘Listen Kaikesi, your grandfather caused enough trouble after my father’s death and I am not—’

  Vishwamitra stopped mid-sentence as he spotted the child standing next to Kaikesi, holding her hand. The six-year-old was big for his age and could easily pass off for a ten-year-old. He was also extraordinarily hairy. The rishi noticed the crude outgrowths from his shoulders and ears, which clearly established that he was a Naga. Only a doting mother would find a child as ugly as Kumbhakarna beautiful. But Vishwamitra had a big heart. Especially for those whom he perceived to be disadvantaged. His face creased in a smile. ‘What a lovely child.’

  Kaikesi looked at Kumbhakarna with pride in her eyes. ‘He is.’

  Vishwamitra beckoned to the boy. ‘Come here, child.’

  Kumbhakarna nervously slid behind his mother, clutching the end of her angvastram.

  ‘His name is Kumbhakarna, noble Maharishi,’ said Kaikesi respectfully.

  Vishwamitra bent sideways to catch the child’s eye. ‘Come here, Kumbhakarna.’

  Kumbhakarna took a quick peek at the rishi. Then retreated behind his mother.

  Vishwamitra laughed softly. He turned to Arishtanemi and pointed at a plate. His previous visitors had left some homemade sweets for him. Arishtanemi brought the plate to the maharishi.

  ‘I have some laddoos, Kumbhakarna,’ said Vishwamitra with a smile, as he chose one and held it out.

  At the mention of his favourite sweet, Kumbhakarna stepped forward hesitantly. He looked up at his mother. She smiled and nodded. He ran to the maharishi and grabbed the laddoo. Vishwamitra laughed and held Kumbhakarna affectionately, then made him sit by his side.

  Kaikesi, not nervous any longer, went down on her knees before the seated Vishwamitra.

  ‘Great Malayaputra,’ said Kaikesi, ‘I wanted to request… my son Kumbhakarna… He is…’

  ‘Yes, I know. Sometimes the outgrowths bleed a lot. It’s painful. And it can be fatal if not controlled,’ Vishwamitra said, looking straight into Kaikesi’s eyes. The great sages of yore had the power to read a person’s thoughts merely by looking closely at their eyes. Vishwamitra, one of the greatest modern sages, also had this capability.

  ‘You know everything, Guruji. Can you help him?’

  ‘I can’t cure it completely. That would be impossible. But I can reduce the bleeding. And I can certainly keep this adorable child alive.’

  Tears of relief filled Kaikesi’s eyes as she brought her head down to rest on Vishwamitra’s feet. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  Vishwamitra touched Kaikesi on the shoulder and bade her rise. ‘But he has to take my medicines every day. He can never stop. Never. Or death will start closing in.’

  ‘Yes, Guruji. I will never—’

  ‘They are rare medicines. And difficult to obtain. Arishtanemi here will ensure that you get them regularly. Make sure you keep the medicines away from bright light and heat. And use them exactly as Arishtanemi tells you to.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, Guruji. How can I ever repay you?’

  ‘You can tell your grandfather to apologise to me for what he did all those years ago.’

  Kaikesi didn’t know what to say. Her grandfather was no more. She said nervously, ‘Guruji, my grandfather… he…’

  ‘He’s dead?’ asked Vishwamitra, surprised. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Guruji,’ said Kaikesi, the tears flowing freely again.

  ‘In the name of Lord Parshu Ram, stop crying and speak.’

  ‘Noble Maharishiji …’

  Vishwamitra looked into Kaikesi’s eyes. ‘Someone else has the same condition?’

  Kaikesi wiped her tears and said, ‘Nothing can be hidden from you, Guruji. My other son, Raavan… He is also a Naga.’

  Vishwamitra exhaled softly. He smelt an opportunity here. Raavan was a Naga too?

  ‘He’s a… he’s a…’

  Vishwamitra cut in. ‘I know he is a smuggler.’

  Kaikesi looked at Arishtanemi anxiously and then back at Vishwamitra. Tears poured down her cheeks. ‘We went through some very difficult times, Guruji. He… he did what he had to. He’s my son, Guruji… I can ask him to stop the…’

  Vishwamitra sat quietly, his mind racing.

  From what I’ve heard, Raavan is already gaining a reputation. He is young, but able to acquire and inspire followers. Efficient. Intelligent. Cruel, too. A potential warrior. He could serve my purpose. He could serve the purpose of Mother India.

  Kaikesi was still crying. ‘The growth on his navel has started bleeding, great Malayaputra. He will die like this. Please help him. He is not a bad person. Circumstances have forced him to become what he is.’

  If his outgrowths bleed, he will always need my medicines to stay alive. He will be under my control. Always.

  ‘Please, Guruji.’ Kaikesi prostrated herself at Vishwamitra’s feet again. ‘Please help us. We are both from Kannauj, you and I. Please. Help me. Help my son.’

  Vishwamitra smiled. ‘It has been difficult. I know.’

  Kaikesi sobbed silently, still crouched at the maharishi’s feet.

  Vishwamitra placed a benevolent hand on her head. ‘I will have medicines sent every month for the both of them. I will keep them alive. As long as I can and must,’ he said.

  As soon as Kaikesi and Kumbhakarna left, Arishtanemi turned to Vishwamitra. He looked puzzled.

  ‘Guruji,’ he said carefully. ‘I don’t understand why you want to help Raavan. Kumbhakarna is a child. He needs your help. But Raavan? I have heard stories of his ruthlessness. His cruelty. And he is not even an adult yet. He will only get worse.’

  Vishwamitra smiled. ‘Yes, he is cruel. And you are right, he will only get worse.’

  Arishtanemi looked even more confused. ‘Then why do you want to help him, Guruji?’

  ‘Arishtanemi, the Vishnu will rise during my tenure as Chief of the Malayaputras.’

  The Malayaputras, the tribe left behind by the previous Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram, had two missions to fulfil. The first was to help the next Mahadev, the Destroyer of Evil, whenever he or she arose. And the second was to identify from their midst the next Vishnu, the Propagator of Good, when the time was right.

  Arishtanemi looked shocked. ‘Guruji, umm… I don’t mean to question your judgement, but I’m not sure Raavan… you know… the role of the Vishnu is very…’

  ‘Are you crazy, Arishtanemi? Do you think I would ever consider Raavan for the role of Vishnu?’

  Arishtanemi gave a short nervous laugh, clearly relieved. ‘I knew it couldn’t be that… I was just…’

  ‘Listen to me carefully. If you take away all the traditions and the hoopla, then who, or what, is the Vishnu to an ordinary Indian?’

  Arishtanemi remained silent. He had a feeling that whatever he said would be the wrong answer.

  Vishwamitra explained, ‘A Vishnu is basically a hero. A hero that others willingly follow. And they follow the Vishnu simply because they trust their hero.’

  ‘But what does that have to do with Raavan, Guruji?’

  ‘What does every hero need, Arishtanemi?’

  ‘A mission?’

  ‘Yes, that too. But besides a mission?’

  Arishtanemi smiled, as he finally understood. ‘A villain.’

  ‘Exactly. We need the right villain to act as the foil for our hero. Only then will people see the hero as their saviour, as the Vishnu. And only then will they follow the Vishnu along the path that we have determined. A path that will revive the greatness of this land. That will allow it to take its rightful place once again in the world. That will remove poverty and hunger. End injustice. End the oppression of the lower castes, the poor and the disabled. That will make the present-day Indians worthy of their great ancestors.’

  ‘I understand now, Guruji,’ said Arishtanemi, bowing his head. ‘If all I’ve heard of Raavan is correct, he has the potential to be a good villain.’

  ‘A perfect villain. For not only will h
e be a believable villain, he will also always be under our control,’ Vishwamitra said.

  ‘Yes. Without our medicines from Agastyakootam, he will die.’

  Agastyakootam was the secret capital of the Malayaputras, hidden deep in the hills, in the sacred land of Kerala.

  Vishwamitra nodded, as if confirming the plans to himself. ‘We will help Raavan rise. And when the time is right, we will destroy him. For the good of Mother India.’

  ‘For the good of Mother India,’ Arishtanemi echoed.

  Vishwamitra’s expression changed as his mind harked back to the past. When he spoke again, it was with barely suppressed rage. ‘That… that man will not stop me from fulfilling my destiny.’

  Arishtanemi knew who Vishwamitra was talking about: his childhood friend turned mortal enemy, Vashishtha. But he knew better than to respond. He stood quietly, waiting for the wave to pass.

  ‘Dada!’ Kumbhakarna screamed excitedly, running down the stairs. His elder brother was walking into the house accompanied by Akampana and Mareech.

  The massive profits Raavan had made over the last few years had turned the seventeen-year-old into one of the wealthiest traders in Lanka. But his success had only made him hungry for more. He spent most of his time out at sea, working hard. As a result, visits to his lavish new mansion, perched on one of the hills that surrounded Gokarna, were rare. And these rare visits were a source of delight for his eight-year-old brother, Kumbhakarna.

  ‘Dada!’ yelled Kumbhakarna again, rushing into the large courtyard that formed the centre of the mansion, straight towards Raavan. His belly jiggled as he sprinted.

  Raavan dropped the gifts he was carrying and spread his arms, laughing, ‘Slow down, Kumbha! You are too big for these games now!’

  But Kumbhakarna was too excited to listen. He may have been only eight but he was already as big as a fifteen-year-old. The two extra arms on top of his shoulders shook wildly, as they always did when he was excited. With his unusually hirsute body, he resembled a small bear.

  As Kumbhakarna jumped into his brother’s arms, the impact caused Raavan to stagger. Kumbhakarna giggled happily.

  Raavan swung his brother around, laughing. For a few moments, the ever-present pain in his navel was gone.

  Kaikesi emerged from the kitchen in the far corner of the ground floor. From her bloodshot eyes, it was clear that she had been crying. ‘Raavan.’

  Raavan set Kumbhakarna down and looked at her, his expression changing to one of resignation. The pain in his navel was back. ‘What is it, Maa?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Raavan rolled his eyes. ‘Maa, what is it?’

  ‘If you need to ask, then you are not a good son.’

  ‘Well, then, I am not a good son,’ said Raavan, always on edge with his compulsively gloomy mother. ‘I’m only going to ask you one more time. What is the problem?’

  ‘You have come home after four months, Raavan. Don’t you want to spend time with your family? Why do I have to keep demanding this? Is money all that matters to you?’

  ‘I can spend all my time with you and we can live in a hovel, dying of hunger. Or I can work and keep all of you in comfort. I have made my choice.’

  Mareech and Akampana shuffled their feet uncomfortably. These testy exchanges between Kaikesi and Raavan were becoming more frequent.

  Kaikesi was on the verge of reminding her ungrateful son that it was because of her, and the medicines she had obtained by pleading with Vishwamitra, that he was still alive. But she thought better of it. Raavan now had an independent relationship with Vishwamitra. He didn’t really need her.

  Despite his young age, Kumbhakarna had already begun to assume the role of peacemaker between his beloved mother and brother. Now, gauging the tension in the air, he spoke up. ‘Dada, you promised to show me your secret chamber!’

  Raavan looked at his younger brother with a smile. ‘But what about your gifts?’

  ‘I am not interested in the gifts!’ said Kumbhakarna. ‘I want to see your chamber. You promised!’

  The room that Kumbhakarna was so eager to see was on the topmost floor of Raavan’s mansion. Off limits to everyone else, the room remained perpetually locked, with Raavan possessing the only set of keys. Even the windows were barricaded. During his short trips to Gokarna, Raavan spent hours by himself in the secret chamber. Nobody else was allowed in. Nobody.

  But the last time he had come home, Kumbhakarna had managed to exact a promise from Raavan that he would be allowed into the chamber. There was almost nothing Raavan could refuse his not-so-little brother.

  Raavan smiled broadly as he took Kumbhakarna’s hand in his own. ‘Come, Kumbha. Let’s go.’ As he was walking away, he pointed to where he had dropped the packages. ‘Maa, your gift is somewhere in there. Take it.’

  Raavan’s secret chamber was much larger than Kumbhakarna had imagined. And darker. He coughed softly as the dust that had settled over the room in the past few months flew around, assaulting his nostrils.

  ‘Wait here, Kumbha,’ said Raavan, as he dropped the keys in a bowl placed on a side table. Torch in hand, he walked around, lighting all the other torches placed in the room. Large polished copper plates ran the length of the walls. They reflected the light of the torches, illuminating every corner of the room.

  ‘Wow…’ whispered Kumbhakarna, delighted that he was now privy to a part of his brother’s life that nobody else was, not even their mother. He turned around and closed the door, pushing the latch in.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Raavan.

  Kumbhakarna nodded, walking around in amazement, trying to soak it all in.

  A majestic Rudra Veena was propped up against a wall. Kumbhakarna had heard the celestial sound of the instrument through closed doors, each time Raavan visited. Arranged in a row along the wall were other instruments—a tabla, dhol, damru, thavil, sitar, chikara, shehnai, flute, chenda and many others. Kumbhakarna had heard his brother play all of them.

  ‘What’s that, Dada?’ asked Kumbhakarna, pointing at an instrument he had never seen before, or even read about.

  The double-stringed musical instrument was kept on a gold-plated stand. Its bow was attached to a clip on the side.

  ‘That is something I invented. I call it the Hatha.’

  ‘Hatha?’ asked Kumbhakarna. ‘What does that mean?’

  Raavan ruffled Kumbhakarna’s hair and smiled before looking away. ‘Hatha’, in old Sanskrit, meant a man stricken with despair.

  ‘I’ll tell you some other time,’ Raavan said, as the dull pain in his navel surged again.

  ‘But if you have invented it, it should be named after you, Dada!’ said Kumbhakarna.

  Raavan looked thoughtful for a moment. His brother’s suggestion was appropriate in more ways than one, considering the instrument’s plaintive sound often reminded him of his own despair. ‘Yes. You are right. I’ll call it the Raavanhatha from now on.’

  ‘Will you play it for me, Dada?’

  ‘Some other time, Kumbha. I promise.’

  Raavan had created the instrument in memory of the Kanyakumari. Playing it would only remind him of her.

  Kumbhakarna squinted at the far wall. ‘Are those paintings?’

  Raavan reached for Kumbhakarna’s hand. He wanted to lead him out of the chamber. He wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. But then, for some reason he couldn’t understand, he restrained himself. He had held on to his pain for too long, all alone. He realised that, deep in his heart, he wanted Kumbhakarna to know. He wanted to share his pain with his brother. He wanted to share his hopes.

  Tears welled up unbidden in Raavan’s eyes.

  Kumbhakarna ran towards the paintings.

  Raavan walked slowly behind him, taking the opportunity to wipe his eyes. And take a deep breath. That always helped.

  Kumbhakarna stared at the painting on the far left.

  It was that of a girl. A girl no older than eleven or twelve. A round face. Fair-skinned. High cheekbones and a sharp, small no
se. Long black hair, tied in a braid. Dark, piercing, wide-set eyes and almost creaseless eyelids. Her body was clad demurely in a long red dhoti, blouse and angvastram.

  Divine. Distant. Awe-inspiring.

  To Kumbhakarna, she looked like the Mother Goddess.

  Kumbhakarna looked at his brother. ‘Did you paint this, Dada?’

  Raavan was too choked up to speak. He nodded.

  ‘Who is she?’

  Raavan took a deep breath. ‘She is the Kan… Kan… Kanyakumari.’

  Kumbhakarna observed the painting closely. Even to his young eyes, the display of devotion, of worship and love, was obvious in every brushstroke.

  He glanced again at his brother’s sad face, then turned back to the painting. That was when he noticed the other painting, to the right of the one he had been studying.

  It was the same girl. Everything appeared to be the same. Except for the colour of her clothes. They were white.

  He turned back to his brother. ‘She looks older here.’

  Raavan nodded. ‘Yes. Exactly one year older.’

  Slowly, Kumbhakarna walked along the wall, looking at the paintings. Each subsequent one depicted the same girl, only slightly older. Her breasts filled out. Her hips got curvier. She seemed to grow a little taller.

  When he reached the tenth painting, Kumbhakarna stopped and stood quietly for a long time. It was the last in the series. The girl was now a woman. Perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years old. Her clothes were a soft violet: the most expensive dye in the world and the colour favoured by royalty. She was tall. Striking. Long hair. Full, feminine body. Uncommonly attractive.

  There was something otherworldly about her beauty. Her face. Her eyes. Her expression. She looked like a Goddess. The Mother Goddess.

  ‘Does she pose for you every year?’ asked Kumbhakarna, confused.

  Raavan pointed to the first painting, of the adolescent girl. ‘That was the last time I saw her.’

  ‘So how did you paint these?’

  ‘I see her growing older in my mind.’

  ‘Why do you paint her, Dada?’