PRINCE IN EXILE (65 page)

Rama’s eyes were like daggers of fire. ‘Foolish she-devil. Nothing you do can make me marry you. Do you not understand that yet? I was ready to let you leave unharmed, because I had some sympathy for your emotions, and because of my desire to abjure violence. But if you harm a hair on Sita’s head, I will visit such violence upon you as you never dreamed possible.’ 

‘You lie!’ she screamed. ‘You love me! It is only this mortal wench that keeps you from admitting it. Let me kill her and we will be man and wife. Please, Rama. It is the only way!’ 

Before Rama could respond or act, a figure leapt into the clearing, directly behind Supanakha. Lakshman, brandishing his sword, struck her with his fist in the back of her neck, at the tender spot just beneath her skull. Startled, the she-demon released her grip on Sita, and spun around with the ferocity of a predator to face her new assailant. 

Rama leaped forward, catching Sita with his left arm before she fell. She lurched in his grasp, coughing and choking. He moved her to one side, out of harm’s way, lowering her to the ground, setting her head back against the trunk of a peepal. She coughed violently, spitting up fragments of bluish-black stuff. It was the black lotus weed that the demoness had fed her - she must have not swallowed it all. She spat it up, retching drily. Her eyes were red and struggling to focus, but she was awake and aware, he saw. He thanked the devas silently. 

‘Wait here, my love,’ he said, then kissed her quickly and turned back to the fray. 

Lakshman had the creature backed up against the trunk of a mahua. Supanakha snarled, baring her fangs and claws, but Lakshman’s sword moved in a blur, hissing through the air to her left and right, fencing her in. 

‘What do you think, she-demon?’ he said. ‘Would I make you a good husband? Will you marry me now that my brother has spurned you?’ 

Supanakha roared with anger and pain. 

‘Lakshman,’ Rama said quietly. ‘Do not taunt and play with her.’ 

‘What else would you have me do, bhai? Turn my back on her as you did? Have her leap upon Sita once more, this time to end her life?’ 

Rama was astonished. ‘Lakshman, what are you—’ 

‘I saw you spare this creature’s life, Rama. And I saw how she repaid your trust and mercy. Have you not learned from all our encounters with asuras that they are never to be trusted or spared? We must treat them the way they treat us, with no mercy or quarter.’ 

‘Then they will continue to treat us the same,’ Rama said. ‘And the circle of violence will spin round and round, unbreakable as the serpent Vasuki, swallowing its own tail for all infinity. No, Lakshman, I understand your anger. It is directed at the demoness for daring to enter our peaceful lives and wreak havoc. But heed my words now. The only way to end this violence is by ending violence itself! Do you hear me? End it, Lakshman. Put aside your sword and let her leave peacefully.’ 

Lakshman did not turn to look at Rama, for that would have meant taking his eyes off Supanakha. But his astonishment was obvious from the way he replied. ‘Let her leave? Put aside my sword? Rama, are you in your right mind? She will tear me apart! She will kill us all if we let our guard down. You saw how she acted when you turned your back on her and put down your sword.’ 

‘Supanakha,’ Rama said. ‘I give you one more chance. If your purpose truly is to gain my love, then heed me well.’ 

To Lakshman’s surprise, the demoness stopped snarling and listened silently to Rama’s words, her head cocked to one side. But her eyes remained fixed on Lakshman, boring into him like twin arrows. 

‘Harming Sita or my brother will not win you my love. It will only earn you my hatred. As of this moment, I feel sympathy for you. If you attack any of us again, that sympathy will turn to distrust. I will make my brother put down his sword in a moment. I give you leave to walk away unharmed. Do you agree to end this feud here and now and leave peacefully?’ 

Supanakha’s eyes remained on Lakshman even as she replied. ‘I do not like it, but I will do it, because you have willed it so. 

And because I still have faith that some day you will learn to love me, Rama. For that reason alone I shall go from here. But one day we will be united. That much I believe.’ 

Rama sighed. ‘Go quickly and in peace. Lakshman, put down your sword and step aside. Give her room to leave.’ 

Lakshman stared at the asura, and she stared back. ‘Rama, you cannot believe anything this beast says. She will promise anything to break free. Even if she walks away now, outnumbered and outmatched as she is she will not let the matter end here. She will return. You heard what she said. She still believes you will marry her some day. She will return when you and I are not close by, and assassinate Sita, as she sought to do today. Let us kill her right now, and end this menace once and for all.’ 

‘No!’ Rama strode forward. ‘Lakshman, do as I say! Release her at once. As your brother, I command you.’ 

Lakshman’s body was stiff with anger. But he backed away slowly, lowering his sword. ‘As you say, Rama.’ 

Supanakha, pressed back against the tree and forced to stand on her hind legs until now, dropped to all fours again. She licked her chops roughly, twitching her tail as she turned away, her muscles tensing as she prepared to run. She turned her head to look at Rama one last time. 

‘I will return,’ she purred softly. ‘And you will be mine, Rama. Even if I have to bring fourteen thousand of my rakshasa brothers to make you agree, you will be my husband. I swear it by the name of Shiva.’ 

Lakshman’s head snapped up. ‘You see? I told you, Rama! Treacherous demon!’ 

His sword flicked out, moving in a blur. It slashed once, then twisted and slashed a second time, then a third. With each slash it sliced off a part of Supanakha’s flesh. The first cut took her nose, leaving a spurting, gaping hole in the centre of her face. The second sliced off her left ear, the third took her right ear. She howled in pain and humiliation, leaping back. Lakshman’s fourth slash sliced the empty air where she had stood a moment ago. She screamed once, then leapt backwards, upending herself head over heels. A flash of her pale-furred belly, and then she had vanished into the shadows of the woods. 

‘Lakshman!’ Rama shouted, running forward. He caught his brother’s arm and turned it, taking hold of his sword. ‘I told you, no violence! 

‘That’s why I did not kill her, bhai,’ Lakshman said calmly. 

Rama stared in the direction that Supanakha had disappeared. Moments later, the sound of another anguished wail rose from ahead. It was at least a hundred yards away, and receding. He shook his head in frustration. 

‘You should not have done that, Lakshman,’ he said sadly. ‘You should not have.’ 

Then he turned and walked away from his brother, dropping his sword by his feet as he went. 

Lakshman stood alone, staring into the woods, listening to the echoes of Supanakha’s howls until they grew too faint to hear. After he could hear no more, he bent to retrieve his sword, and turned to follow his brother and sister-in-law back home. 

EIGHTEEN 

Jatayu peered through the early-morning mists over Panchvati, seeking out its destination. Time was when it could have spotted the hill of Chitrakut beside the Godavari river from a mile high. Now, even flying a mere four or five hundred yards above the ground, it was struggling to make out the terrain below. It dropped lower, searching grimly. If it had read the signs correctly, there was not much time left. It must find its destination swiftly or its mission would be pointless. It peered blurrily through the morning haze, flying lower and lower. Caution, it warned itself, any lower and it might lose these high currents. It was a chore getting airborne these days, and flying too low could mean a forced landing in low terrain. There were rksas in these parts, and the bear races and Jatayu had never been very good friends. There was a time when Jatayu had hunted bears, relishing them the way a mortal might relish sweet savouries. Bears had a way of remembering such things. It had a feeling that if it were to come down in bear territory in its present bedraggled state, it would soon become a savoury itself. Even as withered and haggard as it was, it would still provide nourishment enough for a dozen bears for a few nights. 

It scanned the rolling terrain with increasing frustration, cursing the circumstances that had left it so crippled and infirm. Its vision, like its strength, had never been the same since those last days in Lanka. When the island-kingdom had burned in a series of shocking explosions, Jatayu had been caught wholly unawares, singed and burned badly. It had lost much of its feathers, and a fair bit of flesh as well. It would never soar the high skies as it once had, looking down on even the highest condors and eagles with a proud, disdainful eye. But most of all, it had lost its greatest talent: sight. Where once it could spy a pregnant female cobra curled around her nest from two miles high, it was now having difficulty finding a hill and a river from five hundred yards! It was almost wholly blind in one eye, and the other was only slightly less damaged. It was lucky if it could find itself a calf or a lamb or two these days. 

The curve of the rising sun crested the distant mountains, sending rays of light sweeping across the hazy forest-carpeted land. Jatayu looked up involuntarily, and a glittering refraction caught its one good eye. Water. A lake perhaps. No, a river. 

A river! It changed course slowly, painfully. The muscles that worked its finer wing movements were injured too, scorched in the explosions. It flew eastwards, squinting against the effulgence of the rising sun. It struggled to rise a little higher, just enough to put it out of the direct rays of the sun. It took a great deal more work than it once had. To think that just six months earlier it could fly from Lanka to Ayodhya and back in mere days. Ah, to be that Jatayu once more. 

A hundred yards higher, then another fifty, then fifty more … Yes! Now it could see the hill beside the river. That must be it. No wonder it had not found it sooner. It had been scouring much too far to the south-west. 

Foolish Jatayu. Foolish, withered, blind Jatayu. To think that you were once the king of vultures. Second only to the great Garuda, lord of all birdkind. And Ravana promised you not long ago that if you did as he bade you, helped his invasion of the mortal realm succeed, then you would be lord. Above even mighty Garuda. And now look at you, your flocks lost, your master reduced to a mindless palsy, your aerie atop the black fortress burned in the destruction of Lanka, yourself only a hollow shade of your former self. Alas, poor Jatayu. What is left that you can do? What great victories can you achieve now? 

Perhaps none. But it could still do something of note. However small or minor that act might be, it could still attempt at least to redeem itself. To pay the penance for its past mistakes. Earn a small copper coin to place on the empty side of the scales of karma, to balance against the formidable tonne-weight of its past sins and crimes. 

It set its man-like jaw and changed course grimly, heading for the hill named Chitrakut, and the hut atop that hill. 

*** 

Sita had not spoken a word since the day of Supanakha’s attack. Rama did not press her. He had been largely silent as well, speaking neither to her nor to Lakshman. He was no longer angry with Lakshman. He knew that his brother had done what he thought was right at the time; the devas knew that Rama himself had desired nothing more than to raise his sword and cut that she-devil down where she stood. But regardless of how they felt, the fact remained: they had transgressed. Sage Anasuya’s warning had been crystal clear - do not draw first blood. They had done so. And now they could only wait silently to see what the consequences might be. He did not think they would be benign, but he still prayed daily. 

They were returning from their morning rituals, by the path that Lakshman had made. He had finished it the day of the attack, Rama recalled. Since then, Lakshman had undertaken no new hobby or chore. They had all gone about their daily business, doing what must be done but not much more. There had been no laughter, no easy chatter. It was as if a cloud had come to rest over Chitrakut hill, a dark, brooding cloud that muffled all old emotions and stifled all new ones. Their halfhearted attempts at conversation were still-born, their faces sombre. Even the deer and rabbits that Sita had taken to feeding daily in the field behind their hut seemed to sense the change, staring fitfully at them, perhaps surprised by their silence, perhaps reading their hearts. 

The rising sun was just starting to peek over the horizon as they reached the top of the hill. Another few yards and the hut was in view. It was a beautiful morning, with nary a cloud yet in sight. Any day now, the rains must come; it was past their time already. But not today. Surely not today. The sky was the blue of a northman’s eyes, clear and speckless. The wind was still cool, if humid, a blessed relief from the steaming heat of the summer afternoons. The newly cut grass underfoot was soft and pleasantly prickly, like a thick pelt rug. 

A shadow fell across them. 

Rama ignored it at first, continuing to walk towards the hut. Then he remembered: no clouds. 

And even if there was one overhead, the shadow moved too swiftly to be a cloud in this gentle breeze. 

He stopped and looked up. 

‘Lakshman,’ he snapped. 

‘I see it, bhai.’ Lakshman’s voice was subdued but alert.