Prince of Dharma (65 page)

Lanka lay directly below. 

As it circled lower, descending by stages on the wind currents it needed to support its enormous bulk, its keen eyes flickered with disbelief. The sight before it banished even its screaming hunger. 

A war fleet was massed offshore of Lanka. 

Jatayu had spent half a thousand years scouring the air above Prithvi and had seen countless wars and battles. But never before had it seen a fleet this vast and impressive. 

There were ships reaching far out to sea, in endless anchored lines, linked closely to one another with cleverly wrought ladders, like an enormous chain stretching to the horizon and beyond. 

Jatayu estimated tens of thousands of them, perhaps hundreds of thousands—what did the humans call a hundred thousand? Ah yes, lakhs. More than lakhs, millions. It was impossible to take in the entire size of the fleet; even a bird’s yojanas-long gaze couldn’t see the end of the chains. And each ship was large enough to carry hundreds of asuras. Different-shaped ships for different species, hence the variety of sizes and structures of the vessels. 

As it flew lower, Jatayu saw something even more mindnumbing than the sheer size of the fleet. 

The ships were loaded. It could see the dark, inhuman shapes of rakshasas, Yaksas, Pisacas, Nagas, Uragas, gandharvas and every other asura species, crowded on those endless decks, all armed and armoured for battle. 

Jatayu wheeled barely a few hundred yards above the island now, hovering in the dark thundercloud-shadowed gloom of the Lankan sky, all eagerness to land forgotten. The shores of the island-kingdom were seething with hordes of asuras waiting their turn to board the remaining ships. The embarking was nearly done. The fleet was almost ready to set sail. As the wind changed, the sound of the hordes came up to the vulture, an overwhelming roaring, like a typhoon at sea. And the stench, the unbelievable, indescribable stench. 

There was no doubt about where this vast armada was headed, and Jatayu spoke the name of the place aloud, adding its own voice and foul breath to the malodorous cacophony of the largest asura army ever assembled. 

‘
Ayodhya
.’ 

Its voice was a shrill piercing cry that cut through the gloom of the stormy night. 

As if in response, at just that moment the clouds huddled above thundered and began to release their burden of rain. In an instant, the ocean was besieged by a brackish downpour that seemed almost crimson in the gaudy light of the nearly full moon. 

It was a fitting metaphor for the rain of hordes that would soon besiege Ayodhya. And the ocean of mortal blood that would be spilled by Ravana’s invasion. 

Jatayu cawed in exultation, and began a slow, victorious descent to the fortress-kingdom of its lord and master. 

The epic adventure continues!

THE RAMAYANA SERIES®

PRINCE OF DHARMA

PRINCE OF AYODHYA & SIEGE OF MITHILA

PRINCE IN EXILE

DEMONS OF CHITRAKUT & ARMIES OF HANUMAN

PRINCE AT WAR

BRIDGE OF RAMA & KING OF AYODHYA

KING OF DHARMA

VENGEANCE OF RAVANA & SONS OF SITA

only from

AKB eBOOKS

www.ashokbanker.com

SIEGE OF MITHILA

Ashok K. Banker

RAMAYANA SERIES®

Book 2

AKB eBOOKS

Invocation

Ganesa, lead well this army of words

Dedication

For Biki and Bithika Banker, 

The Gemini twins. 

One saved my life, 

The other gave me 

Two new ones. 

For Ayush Yoda Banker, 

Friend, son, Jedi Master. 

When you were born, 

I was born again. 

For Yashka Banker, 

Devi, daughter, princess. 

You made me believe in luck again, 

And, more important, in love.

Epigraph

Om Bhur Bhuvah Swah: 

Tat Savitur Varenyam 

Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi 

Dhiyo yo nah prachodayat 

Maha-mantra Gayatri 

(whispered into the ears of newborn 

infants at their naming ceremony)

INTRODUCTION

Adi-kavya: The first retelling 

Some three thousand years ago, a sage named Valmiki lived in a remote forest ashram, practising austerities with his disciples. One day, the wandering sage Narada visited the ashram and was asked by Valmiki if he knew of a perfect man. Narada said, indeed, he did know of such a person, and then told Valmiki and his disciples a story of an ideal man. 

Some days later, Valmiki happened to witness a hunter killing a kraunchya bird. The crane’s partner was left desolate, and cried inconsolably. Valmiki was overwhelmed by anger at the hunter’s action, and sorrow at the bird’s loss. He felt driven to do something rash, but controlled himself with difficulty. 

After his anger and sorrow subsided, he questioned his outburst. After so many years of practising meditation and austerities, he had still not been able to master his own emotions. Was it even possible to do so? Could any person truly become a master of his passions? For a while he despaired, but then he recalled the story Narada had told him. He thought about the implications of the story, about the choices made by the protagonist and how he had indeed shown great mastery of his own thoughts, words, deeds and feelings. Valmiki felt inspired by the recollection and was filled with a calm serenity such as he had never felt before. 

As he recollected the tale of that perfect man of whom Narada had spoken, he found himself reciting it in a particular cadence and rhythm. He realized that this rhythm or metre corresponded to the warbling cries of the kraunchya bird, as if in tribute to theloss that had inspired his recollection. At once, he resolved to compose his own version of the story, using the new form of metre, that others might hear it and be as inspired as he was. 

But Narada’s story was only a bare narration of the events, a mere plot outline as we would call it today. In order to make the story attractive and memorable to ordinary listeners, Valmiki would have to add and embellish considerably, filling in details and inventing incidents from his own imagination. He would have to dramatize the whole story in order to bring out the powerful dilemmas faced by the protagonist. 

But what right did he have to do so? After all, this was not his story. It was a tale told to him. A tale of a real man and real events. How could he make up his own version of the story? 

At this point, Valmiki was visited by Lord Brahma Himself. 

The Creator told him to set his worries aside and begin composing the work he had in mind. Here is how Valmiki quoted Brahma’s exhortation to him, in an introductory passage not unlike this one that you are reading right now: 

Recite the tale of Rama … as you heard it told by Narada. Recite the deeds of Rama that are already known as well as those that are not, his adventures … his battles … the acts of Sita, known and unknown. Whatever you do not know will become known to you. Never will your words be inappropriate. Tell Rama’s story … that it may prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist. 

Valmiki needed no further urging. He began composing his poem. 

He titled it, Rama-yana, meaning literally, The Movements (or Travels) of Rama. 

Foretelling the future 

The first thing Valmiki realized on completing his composition was that it was incomplete. What good was a story without anyone to tell it to? In the tradition of his age, a bard would normally recite his compositions himself, perhaps earning some favour or payment in coin or kind, more often rewarded only with the appreciation of his listeners. But Valmiki knew that while the form of the story was his creation, the story itself belonged to all his countrymen. He recalled Brahma’s exhortation that Rama’s story must prevail on earth for as long as the mountains and the rivers exist. 

So he taught it to his disciples, among whose number were two young boys whose mother had sought sanctuary with him years ago. Those two boys, Luv and Kusa, then travelled from place to place, reciting the Ramayana as composed by their guru. 

In time, fate brought them before the very Rama described in the poem. Rama knew at once that the poem referred to him and understood that these boys could be none other than his sons by the banished Sita. Called upon by the curious king, Valmiki himself then appeared before Rama and entreated him to take back Sita. 

Later, Rama asked Valmiki to compose an additional part to the poem, so that he himself, Rama Chandra, might know what would happen to him in future. Valmiki obeyed this extraordinary command, and this supplementary section became the Uttara Kaand of his poem.

Valmiki’s Sanskrit rendition of the tale was a brilliant work by any standards, ancient or modern. Its charm, beauty and originality can never be matched. It is a true masterpiece of world literature, the ‘adi-kavya’ which stands as the fountainhead of our great cultural record. Even today, thousands of years after its composition, it remains unsurpassed. 

And yet, when we narrate the story of the Ramayana today, it is not Valmiki’s Sanskrit shlokas that we recite. Few of us today have even read Valmiki’s immortal composition in its original. Most have not even read an abridgement. Indeed, an unabridged Ramayana itself, reproducing Valmiki’s verse without alteration or revisions, is almost impossible to find. Even the most learned of scholars, steeped in a lifetime of study of ancient Sanskrit literature, maintain that the versions of Valmiki’s poem that exist today have been revised and added to by later hands. Some believe that the first and seventh kaands, as well as a number of passages within the other kaands, were all inserted by later writers who preferred to remain anonymous.

Perhaps the earliest retelling of Valmiki’s poem is to be found in the pages of that vast ocean of stories we call the Mahabharata. When Krishna Dwaipayana-Vyasa, more popularly known today as Ved Vyasa, composed his equally legendary epic, he retold the story of the Ramayana in one passage. His retelling differs in small but significant ways.