PRINCE IN EXILE (94 page)

She gave it some thought, taking her time. It would do him good to be kept waiting. Besides, what did a few more minutes matter after thirteen years? Finally, it was the cavern itself that provided her with inspiration. Glancing up, she recalled that above this epic, awe-inspiring, subterranean chamber was the hill Nikumbhila, long revered by the Pulastya clan. And the temple atop the hill’s crest was that of … 

Shiva
, she mindspoke. 

What about Him
? 

Swear an oath by your Lord Shiva
,
the only deva you truly respect and fear
.
Swear in Shiva
’
s name that after I do this
…
favour
…
for you
,
you will extend the protection of your asura shakti to me for as long as you live
,
and will allow none to harm me by any means
.
And also that you yourself will not harm me nor treat me ill by word or deed
,
whatever the provocation
. 

You give me a mountain to swallow at one gulp
.
Be careful
,
Cousin dearest
.
I might just decide to strike you down here and now with the same asura shakti you speak of
. 

She laughed again, causing a flurry of suspicious curiosity among her observers. She knew that Mandodhari must be burning with angry impatience to know what they were saying, frustrated at her loss of control and knowledge. Supanakha enjoyed that.
Go ahead then
,
strike me down
.
Kill me
,
and destroy your last chance for revival
.
Do I look like I fear death 

anymore
?
Figure out who stands the most to lose and gain from this bargain
. 

His answer came with barely concealed resentment.
Very well
,
damn you
.
I swear by my Lord Shiva that I will do as you have asked
.
Are you satisfied now
? 

She grinned.
For now that will do
. 

Well
? 

Well what
? 

If we
’
re done playing
,
can we get on with it
? 

She smiled. Then, with an enthusiasm she hadn’t felt moments earlier, she rose up on her hindlegs, slashed open her own vein, and let the blood drip on the lips of the prostrate Ravana. 

FIVE
 

The stone shuddered beneath Mandodhari’s feet, almost throwing her off balance. She caught hold of the nearest object, her older son’s shoulder. Indrajit’s massive arm was thrice the width of her hand, and she had to use both hands to clutch his sweaty, muscled flesh. He held her wrist in a surprisingly gentle grip, patting her reassuringly. With typical sibling competitiveness, Akshay Kumar caught her arm and braced her. Between her sons, she was as secure as could be in that open shelterless place. The entire platform on which they stood shivered and shook. The tremors seemed milder at first than the earlier quake, but instead of starting at the peak and then fading away as that one had, this one went on building up. She held on with all her strength as the shaking grew to the point where everything within her field of vision was a quivering blur. She had to struggle to focus her eyes but managed it with an effort. 

At the altar, Ravana’s rakshasi cousin—damn her soul—was brushing her wrist against his lips, forcing in droplets of her own blood. Mandodhari thought bitterly that the female looked so emaciated, it was a wonder she had any blood left to shed. And what was so special about that creature’s blood anyway? Why was only Supanakha necessary to revive Ravana? She had never been particularly close to him. Mandodhari had always taken her to be just one of the many relatives that Ravana used, and abused, to get his dirty work done. Like his uncle Kala-Nemi, whom he had sent off on that ridiculous mission to infiltrate Ayodhya. Supanakha hadn’t even been important enough to merit that mission, so she had been dispatched to merely observe and report back. A lowly spy. Why then was she now so vital? It didn’t make sense and Mandodhari couldn’t brook anything that didn’t fit neatly into place in the orderly pigeonholed rows of her mind. She would learn the reason one way or another. 

The tremors grew in intensity until even stocky Indrajit and agile Akshay Kumar were hard-pressed to keep their balance. Powdery dust from the ceiling of the chamber, nine miles above, had begun to drift down around them like an unseasonal snowfall. At this rate, it would not be long before fragments of rock, or even entire slabs and boulders began to rain down upon them. She had no desire to die out here while watching Supanakha complete the resurrection of Ravana. The noise was deafening, reminding her of the last time Kumbhakaran had awoken unexpectedly and jumped up and down in his chambers, demanding to be fed. That was some forty-odd years ago, but Kumbhakaran was nine miles tall and four miles wide at the shoulders, and his jumping was enough to test the solidity of the entire island’s foundations. This quake was turning out to be almost as intense. 

‘To the Pushpak!’ she yelled to her sons. At her mental command, the celestial chariot descended from its hovering position and extruded a stairway with railings for them to climb. The moment she stepped onto the stairway, the world grew still and steady once more. The Pushpak was immune to the unleashing of power that shook the whole of Lanka. 

She gained the passenger platform of the vehicle and turned to look down. From this vantage point, she could gaze directly down at her prone husband. Ravana still lay with his eyes closed, all ten pairs, but she could see something issuing forth from his nostrils. It looked like a wisp of blue smoke, snaking tendrils that oozed and wavered. As Supanakha continued to feed drops of blood from her exposed veins into her cousin’s many mouths, the emission grew. It poured forth as if from some alien fire, rising up into the air to form a little cloud. 

The shuddering increased, tiny pebbles now starting to fall around the Pushpak. Mandodhari shot a glance upwards, wary of that miles-high ceiling. Were any part of that rocky roof to actually fall, she would not want to be anywhere below it. Even though she knew that the Pushpak would protect its occupants from any such mishap, she did not relish the prospect of knowing what it felt like to have a mountain fall upon her head. 

Despite the preternatural stillness of the viman, she gripped the railing tightly as she sensed rather than felt the tremors increase to a fever-pitch. Surely now the whole mountain must fall—and who knew what was happening in the city itself? As an honourable wife, she could not curse her husband without betraying her vows, so she cursed Supanakha instead. Damn that cat-clan rakshasi! For thirteen years, Lanka had been a peaceful island, even its gigantic volcano slumbering quietly. Why did she have to come here and stir things up again? Now all Mandodhari’s elaborately laid plans were laid to dust, like the patina of dirt that was coating the once-gleaming redstone platform and altar below. 

A change in the scene below snapped her attention back to the here and now. Supanakha had finished feeding Ravana her own blood and had stepped back, crouching on all fours again, too weak to stay upright. The world continued to shudder and quake, the green-tinted sorcerous light from the cavern walls rendered hazy by the dust falling steadily now. The entire chamber seemed to be cloaked in powdery green mist, making it hard to see clearly. And below, the blue tendrils of smoke issuing from Ravana’s twenty nostrils had increased to thick gouts. It was as if a furnace blazed within the asura lord’s body, and Supanakha’s ritualistic blood-feeding had released the smoke pent-up within. 

Mandodhari watched with growing amazement as the smoke began to emerge from Ravana’s ears, lips and even the edges of his eyes. Through the thick haze she saw a pair of eyes opening slowly, the heavy lids rising. As they opened fully, she raised a hand before her face, to shield herself from the brilliant blue light that blazed forth from Ravana’s eyes. Gasping at the blinding intensity of the light, she took a step back—in the nick of time. A bar of blue light, issuing from a pair of her husband’s eyes, shot upwards, past the Pushpak, up, up, to the top of the cavern. Craning her neck, Mandodhari saw it reaching the very top of the ceiling, illuminating a path through the filmy dust and greenish asura light as sharp as a blade. The width of the bar increased steadily, and even without looking down again, she knew that Ravana was opening his other pairs of eyes. Finally, when it had expanded to the width of her arms flung out wide, it stopped growing. All ten pairs of Ravana’s eyes were open now. 

The blue light grew in intensity, burning through the air before her with a scorching fierceness she would never have believed possible. It made a piercing sound, like a serrated blade sawing through rakshasa bone. It was a sound that sent a chill through her own bones. She dared not reach out and put so much as a finger into the path of that bar of light, because she suspected that any contact with that supernatural emission would not be without consequences. In fact, she thought it likely that the bar of light was not being stopped by the ceiling of the cavern nine miles above, but was passing through the tens of yards of solid rock, travelling the height of the upper cavern, the habitat, and passing upwards until it reached the top of the hill Nikumbhila and ended at—the temple of Shiva. Yes! And the blue light itself, she understood then, was the light of Brahman itself, the force from which all things were created. The brahmastra unleashed by the mortal Rama at Mithila had been a wave of pure Brahman itself, of such intensity that it vapourised every asura it touched, decimating the entire invading army. Ravana had not been destroyed by its shakti because of his own potent boons from the devas. Yet he had been overwhelmed by its power, imbibing so much of it at that instant that it had rendered him comatose. Vibhisena’s rituals in the volcano had unlocked him from the cage of Brahman in which he had been embedded, but the Brahman shakti within the cells and organs of his body had remained, warring with his asura nature and sustaining his deathlike condition. And now, Supanakha’s blood, for some unfathomable reason, was releasing that Brahman shakti from Ravana’s body. What Mandodhari was witnessing now was that enormous cache of Brahman being released in one momentous outpouring … and being Brahman, it was naturally enough drawn to the nearest sanctified site, which happened to be the Shiva shrine on top of the hill. 

With a scream that penetrated even the Pushpak’s notionally invulnerable defences, the bar of Brahman light intensified until even the farthest extremities of the cavern were illuminated in a blinding blaze. Mandodhari, like her sons and brother-in-law beside her, was reduced to cowering on the floor of the Pushpak, trying to shield her eyes and her ears at the same time, to shut out the tortuous wail that accompanied the release of the shakti. To think that so much shakti could be contained within a single physical form! Even through the agony of her senses, she wondered what would have happened if Ravana had accepted the Brahman shakti willingly rather than fight it, if he had turned to the side of the blue? He would have become a sage no less powerful than the Seven. A wielder of the swords of artha, karma and dharma, the forces of truth, deed and duty. But because he was Ravana, that could never be. And so he had to be freed of this immense power like a sick man being leeched of tainted blood. 

The sound and light and shudders reached a crescendo that even Mandodhari’s stubborn strength could not withstand. She blacked out momentarily. 

When she opened her eyes again, all was still, dark and silent. Only the soft glow of the Pushpak illuminated the deck of the vehicle. Even the asura lights of the cavern had been extinguished. The quaking had ceased. The blue light of Brahman was gone. 

Around her, Akshay Kumar was helping his uncle Vibhisena to his feet, while Indrajit staggered cursing to his feet. Mandodhari rose with the help of the Pushpak’s railing and steeled herself before venturing to glance over the side of the viman. 

The altar and platform below were shrouded in pitch darkness. She could see neither Ravana, nor Supanakha. In the immense vastness of the subterranean cavern, the only light was the muted glow of the Pushpak’s life-light, like a single firefly floating in a great forest. 

Before she could command the Pushpak to cast a brighter light upon the ground below, a voice boomed up out of the darkness. 

‘No need, my good wife. If it’s light you need, then … let there be light!’ 

And in the snap of a finger, the entire cavern came alive once more with the greenish glow of asura sorcery. 

Below her, standing on the altar where he had lain in suspended animation for thirteen years, stood Ravana.