PRINCE IN EXILE (52 page)

He touched the exterior wall of the shrine. The stone was cool and granular, only slightly weathered by the elements over the millennia. Ravana himself had carved this shrine from a single great granite boulder. Even the boulder had not been in this place: he had rolled it all the way from its original home, several miles away. Merely bringing the stone here and carving it out painstakingly had taken one hundred and five years, more than an entire mortal lifetime. And even back then, Ravana was not without power; he had only to command it, and his followers would have toiled night and day to roll the boulder up the slope. But he had accomplished that arduous task himself; then, once the boulder was on the highest point on Lanka, he had proceeded to carve the shrine with his own hands, working with such reverence and application that the finished structure vied with any monolithic mandir in the world. The fact that it stood here, solid and majestic despite the passage of time, was testament to the demonlord’s dedication. That was one thing Vibhisena had always admired about his rakshasa brother: whatever Ravana did, he did with such utter devotion, even the devas watched and wondered. 

Vibhisena removed his sandals and climbed five steps up to the threshold of the temple. Five steps led down again, into a rectangular pool placed precisely beneath an identically sized gap in the roof of the temple. Rain water collected here and remained a long while in Lanka’s humid climate. Vibhisena waded through the ankle-deep water, his feet washed without any effort on his part, then stepped up on to the temple floor, cleansed and purified by this simple yet ingenious architectural design. The granite floor was surprisingly warm underfoot, perhaps because of the coldness of the water. The approach to the deity was purposely oblique, encouraging the worshipper to walk around the little palanquin-shaped carving that housed the statue. He performed a full circuit—a parikrama of sorts— and found himself facing towards the north-eastern end of the shrine, the most propitious place for the deity to be housed. Rows of slender pillars, their heads carved to resemble the heads of various beasts, for Shiva was also Pashupati, Lord of Beasts, marked his progress down the last stretch. The palanquin, exquisitely carved from the floor of the rock, blossomed before him like a creation of nature herself. His eyes filled with spontaneous tears.
What art, what devotion, what love you poured into the making of this temple, my brother. Where did all that love, that devotion go? What happened to that Ravana? 

He approached the central pandal, lowering himself to his knees, and prostrated himself full-length, touching his forehead to the floor. Then he rose and went forward, close enough for the sacred act of gazing reverentially upon the face of the deity himself: darshan. The stone idol was as simple and basic as could be. Another significant difference between the ancient ways of worship and the more modern, emerging trends. In those days it was not considered seemly to carve a humanlike effigy, as some cults now preferred. To cast the devas in the image of their worshippers was not only foolish and needless, it bordered on sacrilege. Vibhisena himself abjured the methods of some believers, who even went to the extent of clothing their deities in little doll-like garments, adding jewellery and accessories. That was against the spirit of darshan itself, he felt. To have a rough image carved of stone, suitably placed and ritually propitiated, that was what the Vedic rites prescribed. Perhaps some day, when the rites and prayers were all collected and bound together in one comprehensive manuscript, it would be possible for all followers of Brahman to stick to the letter of the laws of dharma, neither exceeding the prescribed methodology of rituals nor avoiding the more arduous parts. But who would undertake such a great and difficult task? It would take a great seer to collate the scriptures of Vedic learning and write them down in one complete book. Or two books, or even four … 

Until then, true believers like himself would hold those rituals in their heads and follow them to the letter, knowing that in the perfect practice of ritual the soul found the freedom to soar free of the cage of flesh and bone, to explore the mighty infinity of Brahman. 

He would have lost himself in prayer and contemplation for hours then, completely detached from his physical self, feeling neither hunger nor thirst, not any other bodily need. Achieving a oneness with Brahman that only the most pious achieved, and that too rarely. A rakshasa he might be by birth, but by vocation he was no less than a Brahmin. After all, he was of the line of Pulastya, one of the first Brahmins, they who first spread the knowledge and practice of Brahmanical worship. 

But a voice cut into his worship at the very outset, before he could immerse himself so completely in the ocean of Brahmanic contemplation that to emerge would itself take a long while and considerable effort. The voice spoke with just the right intonation and inflection required to hold him back, like a hand placed gently but urgently on his shoulder. 

‘Vibhisena.’ 

FIVE 

Vibhisena opened his eyes, seeing only the effulgent vision of Shiva atop Mount Kailasa with which his darshans always began. Lord Shiva, with his matted locks piled high on his head, the king of serpents Takshak wound round his neck like a living garland, tiger furs wrapped around his waist, seated cross-legged in yoganidra, the sacred transcendental contemplation of Brahman, upon only a thin worn fur-mat on the ice-encrusted peak. Distant snowy peaks were visible in the backdrop, and somewhere, not far from here, Vibhisena could even sense the Lord’s wife Parvati and their sons Ganesha and Kartikeya, as well as Shiva’s vehicle of choice, the bull Nandi, borrowed from its original master Yamaraj. So intense and vivid was the darshan he was blessed with. 

Then his vision cleared and he saw again the simple black-stone Shiva-lingam carving, its sloped head anointed with red-ochre stripes like the forehead of any Brahmin would be, nestled in a pestle-shaped open-ended circle. He smelled the unmistakable fragrance of devil’s orchid blossoms, the trademark of only one woman he knew … his sister-in-law, Ravana’s wife. 

‘Mandodhari?’ 

He turned and saw her standing by the pillar that had concealed her from his view when he had approached the deity. So great had been his desire for darshan that he had failed to allow the meaning of that fragrant odour to penetrate, but now that he was aware of it, it pervaded his senses, filling his olfactory channels with the same pervasive authority with which Mandodhari filled any chamber she entered. 

She took a step forward, then another, stepping into the light, the silver payals on her feet tinkling melodiously. She was clad in the same manner as always, except for one notable difference: her sari was white with a simple blue border. Had that touch of blue been absent, her garb would have been indicative of the status of widowhood. He did not think that her choice of sari was accidental. Few things were not carefully thought out by Ravana’s wife. 

The almost-white sari was tied at the bottom rather than left loose, its top draped tightly around her womanly form. Her beautiful long, lustrous hair was wound tightly into a braid that dangled by her knees. The devil’s orchid flowers whose scent pervaded the temple were embedded in her hair, at the top and by the ears. 

She came forward like an apsara entering Indra’s court, filled with the beauty of night and darkness and all that was most alluring about the rakshasa race. Mandodhari was considered the most beautiful rakshasi ever to have lived; how else would she have caught the ever-roving eye of Ravana? Yet she possessed that certain quality of beauty that was attractive not only in a sexual way but in a complete, holistic sense. She was a perfect mother; a wonderful daughter; a fine sister; a great queen. Her sense of dharma showed in the way she instantly bent to touch her brother-in-law’s feet, as tradition demanded when approaching an elder in sanctified surroundings. 

He bent and caught her arms, raising her up before she could prostrate herself. 

‘Brother … ‘ she began, her voice filled with sorrow and fear. The emotion revealed by that single word shook him. It was not often one saw Mandodhari brought to the point of either emotion. 

‘Nay, wife of my brother. Do not let yourself be overwhelmed. I know it seems like the end of the world, but it is only a beginning, a new beginning.’ 

She looked up at him, her beautiful dark eyes large and searching in her face. ‘But Lanka is burning.’ 

‘It will be rebuilt.’ 

‘But the asuras, our people, are at war with one another. They seek to wipe each other out.’ 

‘Even war must have an end. The greater the violence, the greater the calm that follows.’ 

She shook her head, unable to find consolation in his wisdom. ‘My husband … I saw him when you landed. Saw how he sat in the flying vehicle. I came here when you took him away to the volcano, to pray for his full recovery. But when I saw how he sat, lifeless and mindless, I could not even go to him. Instead, I waited here, like a coward, unable to face the corpse of my own beloved.’ 

‘He is not dead, Mandodhari. Only drained by the effort of escaping the Brahman stone cage. Together, you and I, we can revive him, help him recover to his former strength and vigour.’ He gestured at the stone temple. ‘Here, where he first gained his powers, we will help him regain them. His patron deity will preside and guide us. We will revive Ravana.’ 

She looked up at him, wiping the tears from her eyes. He saw a spark of hope light in her face. ‘You believe this is possible?’ 

‘I believe it is inevitable. It is our dharma, yours to save your husband, mine to save Lanka.’ 

She nodded, her face regaining its strength and determination. He saw Mandodhari, the terrified wife and hapless mother, transforming back into the woman he had come to know and love and respect, Mandodhari the wife of the greatest asura lord, wife of Ravana, mother of champions. 

‘Then it shall be done,’ she said. ‘Come, lead me to my husband. Let us bring him within these sacred walls. Let us begin by asking He Who Wields The Dumroo to play his drum for my lord and master, to bring back the strength to his limbs.’ 

Vibhisena nodded, pleased at her quick recovery. Mandodhari had always seemed so strong and immutable, he had felt a twinge of terror at the thought of her breaking down before his eyes. ‘And the rest of the family? Your father, my nephews, our loyal retainers?’ 

She gestured downwards. ‘They are safe and well. There is a secret passageway that leads from the black fortress directly into the heart of Nikumbhila. There are caves there. We have moved into that habitation until such time as the civil violence ends.’ 

He nodded, recalling the ancient passageway. It had been designed for precisely such a time, in the highly unlikely event that Lanka was overrun by war or disaster, that the royal family might be able to make their way safely to their patron shrine. This was the first time it had ever been used in all these millennia. That itself bespoke the rarity and magnitude of the current crisis. 

As they walked back to the temple entrance, he wondered aloud: ‘I don’t understand though … those explosions? Why would the asura races try to destroy the whole city? Rioting and fighting I can understand … they have a great many old scores to settle. But to undermine the kingdom itself? Which faction would take such an extreme step?’ 

She replied easily, almost nonchalantly, as they exited the dim, gloamy light of the temple and emerged into the gaudy daylight outside. The enormous cloud far south marked the aftermath of the very explosions he had just spoken of, vying with the effusion of the volcano’s eruption in density and toxicity. 

‘The explosions were done at my bidding.’ 

He stopped short, staring at her. She paused, turning. 

‘You, Mandodhari?’ 

Her profile was a classical portrait against the backdrop of grey sky. The billowing cloud visible in the far background only added to the allure and mystique of her exotic features. Her slanted pupils, not wholly like an animal’s yet quite unlike any human’s eyes, nictitated sideways as she gazed into the distance, replying, 

‘Yes, brother-of-my-husband. I ordered them set off.’ 

He felt his knees buckle beneath his weight. A temple pillar provided support for his arm. ‘But why? Why would you devastate our own kingdom, decimate our own people?’ 

She replied calmly with the same demureness with which she had bowed to touch his feet. ‘The riots were uncontrollable. Despite my best efforts, the warring factions would not cease and desist. They thought that with Ravana gone, the strongest force would rule Lanka … and share my bed. I thought of all the options, waking Kumbhakarna, sending my sons forth to quell the rebellion, calling up more asuras from the netherworlds … but in the end, this was the only viable option.’ 

He gestured at the distant cloud. ‘This? Total annihilation? How could this be an option?’ 

She shrugged. ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures. I did what had to be done.’ 

He was at a loss for words. Not only because it shocked him to know that it was she who had ordered the destruction of Lanka, but because of the calm, steadfast way she admitted to having done so. He began to look at her in a new light. Perhaps he had not understood Mandodhari after all. Perhaps the quiet, docile facade he always saw was nothing more than a mask for the blood-thirsty rakshasi that lay beneath. He shook his head. He could not believe it. After all, was she not the island’s next most diligent adherent of dharma? Next only to himself? No, there had to be some more rational explanation for her act.