Authors: Vayu Naidu
‘It was vast. A huge gong was
struck and the waves of sound reverberated through the city. First the conch shell,
a symbol of the presence of Vishnu, who inhabits sound and space, was blown.
Everyone—princes, entourages, courtiers and invited commoners of
Mithila—was hushed. Then the liveried trumpeters announced the powerful
ministers into Mithila’s court, then the brahmins, the sages, and finally
King Janaka.
‘Another gong sounded with
several chimes, and a gold-embossed screen that looked like a wall parted in two.
When it had slid open, a golden chariot covered with a sapphire-blue velvet drape
emerged. The chariot moved on wheels guided by eight hundred footmen. It had been
timed perfectly—swift enough not to bore the spectators and steady enough
so that everyone marvelled at the feat of sliding a long chariot into the even
larger Assembly Hall. Another flourish of string and percussion instruments, and
trapeze artists flew in from their perches at the corners of the ceiling. With bows
like Kama’s, they shot hooked arrows at the edges of the drapes and pulled
it up in unison in a fly-past dance. Everyone’s mouth popped open, gasping
at this synchronized act. Thunderous applause greeted the sight of the drape being
carried away to reveal Shiva’s giant iron bow.
‘It seemed as if this was the
moment everyone had been waiting for. The princes had not been allowed to even look
at this monster of an object as they prepared themselves. Even I was staggered. I
had shape-shifted into one of the dancers so I could have a good view of the eager
princes. How unfortunate that they were all set on the same object for their prize!
The bow was no ordinary bow. I quickly estimated its weight, scale and size. But it
was more than that. With my exquisite fine-tuning barometer I could gauge a sound
emitting from it that carried vibrations. Part of the preparations, I thought, must
be to block its sound emissions. They just made your brain whirr. But here were
these princes, each twirling his moustache or stroking his sideburns studded with
gems. As the princes flexed their muscles and slapped their bare thighs, getting
ready for their turn, the look in each man’s eye, his show of power and
his open sexual desire sent waves of excitement through my being. You could smell
the sweat mixed with fear and courage, the fleeting scent of testosterone underneath
the perfumed oils of jasmine, sandalwood, rose and musk.
‘I remember the whirring from
the bow became bearable to my ears when Vishwamitra strode in. I was watching
everything but hadn’t paid much attention to his adjutants. But now, as
all the princes stood in their regalia, in walked these two youths dressed like
forest folk. Had it not been for their radiance and royal bearing, they would have
been smothered with ash and mistaken for ascetics. I suppose you could say that they
attracted attention because they weren’t really dressed for the
occasion.
‘It was time for the
championships to begin. Four hundred and ninety-eight princes had decided to
compete. It seemed an odd number. But, among them, Ravana had registered for two
places as his entourage was twice as big as any other prince’s, and he
wanted to have two attempts at winning Sita as his prize. The great sages, who can
see beyond the realm of the physical body, often drew him in their scrolls as having
ten resplendent heads and twenty arms. He was very accomplished but his complexity
and ego got the better of him, time after time.
‘Vishwamitra stood on the
sidelines with his two adjutants. Following the fanfare, the first prince was
announced. Heralding him, his court singer chanted melodically, and rather
pompously, about the ancestors of the prince and how worthy he was. The prince
proceeded to climb five steps up to a platform where the entire gathering could see
him. For the people in the city streets, a poet from the court stood on a stone
above a secret passage that filtered the sound of what he recited. These proceedings
were heard by the town crier at the end of the secret passage; facing the street
directly, he reported the spectacle to the whole city and its visitors.
‘As the princes came
forward—some with braided hair, others with topiaried sideburns; some with
waxed whiskers embroidered with precious gems, others with bejewelled
tattoos—each one wanted the chronicles to record that in his youth he had
attempted to win Sita by trying to lift that impossible bow. Having had the chance,
not only did they return to the arms of their masseurs, collapsing like tents in a
thunderstorm, but with broken backs and hearts.
‘Ravana went forward. He, who
had killed the serpent that had frightened the gods, now had his turn. The teeth of
many princes chattered and their bones rattled; the earth trembled and juddered with
each step that Ravana took towards the platform. Vishwamitra sighed. Ravana twirled
his moustache. He was the only contestant in the swayamvara who was competing
wearing his crown and his jewels. He stood with his left foot on a lower level as
his right foot stepped higher. It was the stance of an indefatigable wrestler. He
slapped his right thigh—
smack!
It resounded in
the Assembly Hall like a thunderclap. He bent down to touch the bow. It felt like
running water, so light through his fingers. When he tried to get a grip, it felt
like the weight of the universe was pulling him into the ground. His masseurs tried
to deceitfully web his feet to the ground so he would not slip, but Ravana snarled
with viciousness and vowed to break their legs.
‘Each contestant was given a
specific time for his attempt at lifting the bow. Ravana had been distracted by his
masseurs. Second attempt. He stretched his arms into the air and lunged to pick up
the bow. The blood rushed to his head, and, as he let out the grunt and wail of
weightlifters when he seized the bow, the channel of water that measured the time
gong chimed loudly, setting off prisms of light so that the contestant had to stop.
Phew! Ravana seemed almost relieved this ordeal was over. He would not, indeed he
could not, lift that bow. Majestically, sneering at the timekeepers, he covered the
wounds of his broken heart with a scornful smile that indicated the challenge was
not sophisticated enough for the likes of him.
‘He strode out of the Assembly
Hall with what everyone else read as contempt. There was an uneasy silence. This was
followed by the final, or the “499th”, contestant. He was a wiry
fellow with a dismissive manner that could reduce anything to nothing with his
cynicism. When he saw that Ravana was defeated by the task, he knew what his fate
would be. He would never be able to lift Shiva’s bow in this lifetime or
any other. He had never accepted humiliation; he had mingled well among the princes
at the swayamvara, and decided to adopt a new tactic.
‘“Friends!” he proclaimed to the thousands in the
Assembly Hall as well as outside. “This contest is a hoax!”
There was a chorus of gasps followed by muttering. Janaka in his wisdom remained
seated. Had he stood up, the guards would have taken it as a signal that the
security of the kingdom was under threat. Janaka, advised by his ministers and
sages, wanted to hear the claims of this contestant. “You hear me?
We
, all of you and I, have been cheated. We have been
seduced by the glamorous hospitality of Mithila. Our senses have been dulled. What
has really happened is that we have been tricked into believing that any one of us
could actually lift Shiva’s bow. King Janaka does not wish to marry away
his daughter Sita, so he has made us look like fools, while he will gain the status
of King of Kings and retain his daughter!”
‘A storm of mutterings, gasps
and grunts filled the Assembly Hall. Those who were horrified gasped and grunted at
these accusations; they were mostly the courtiers of Mithila and its neighbouring
allies. But there were mutterings of agreement from some of the demoralized princes
and their entourages who were relieved that someone had the courage to say what they
were too cowardly to express. The word “cheated” was a great
release of frustration and there was a chorus of approval. The wiry prince gained
confidence. He had supporters. He realized it was only a matter of language that
would turn the tide of popularity in his favour. So he cried, “How do we
know, my brothers and friends, those of you who believe what I say and those of you
who cannot peel the scales from your eyes, how do you know that at this very moment
the gateways to your kingdoms are safe from the rampaging armies of Mithila? Can we
guarantee that our mothers, sisters, daughters and the women of our subjects are not
being raped and slaughtered in their sleep while we are being held hostage with this
hospitality?”
‘Janaka stood up with a
start—which I could tell was because of a twinge in the right calf muscle
caused by an old injury—and this of course signalled a contradictory
message. The wiry prince was quick and with clenched fists he raised his arm and
cried “WAR!” There were hundreds of fists rising in the Assembly
Hall, the rings on their fingers glinting like torches that would spread a forest
fire, and the cry was unanimous: “WARRRRRRRRRRRR!” In one
nanosecond, the tide of celebration and festivity had turned into hostility that
could lead to destruction.
‘I was delighted at the effect
Ravana’s presence had on this assembly. How dull and boring it would have
been if everything had gone the way everyone hoped it would. Hope! So sentimental
and human. But, amidst all this, I could hear the thoughts stirring within
Vishwamitra. “That’s all an atom of thought takes to
explode—a nanosecond,” thought Vishwamitra as he witnessed the
scene. “How human reaction can swing from one mode of behaviour to
another, and how one dominant person can seize the moment and change the tide of
human history for better or for worse. I must do something now.”
‘Vishwamitra was tall and,
even though he stood on the sidelines, he was visible from all corners of the
Assembly Hall. He was quick as a flash. In that one split second, when all eyes and
voices were focusing on “war” in the direction in which Janaka
stood, Vishwamitra too raised his arm, but his palm was open, facing the angry
crowds.
‘It was customary that when
the archbishop of sages such as Vishwamitra made a gesture, everyone took notice and
the sheer authority of his presence reduced the shouting to mumbling. There was a
hush. Rama was summoned. Vishwamitra signalled all this by his eyes. No words were
spoken. Rama was very young, with hardly any hair on his chest. He had no entourage
of court singers or masseurs to give him moral or physical support. He had little
idea that this contest led to a prize that entailed a lifelong commitment. He looked
upon it more as a specific mission his guru had entrusted him with, and knew that he
must focus on the task at hand. Everyone was mesmerized by his litheness. But they
were convinced that they were going to witness an act of gross misjudgement and
decided to hold Vishwamitra responsible for a brave and beautiful warrior ending up
dead as a dung beetle.
‘Rama bent down and touched
the base of the bow with his head. Silence. He lifted it with both hands. Deeper
silence. Then, standing the bow on its side, his fingertips slid down the length of
the bowstring and up again. The incredible and subtle power of his fingertips made
the bow of Shiva crack in two! It was unbelievable. The musicians instantly
expressed joy: their instruments began to play of their own accord. The dancers
spun. The courtiers forgot their puffy manners and began a rhythmic clapping that
crescendoed into an ovation.
‘At that moment Sita came
spiralling down a jasmine-and-marigold-bedecked sandalwood stairway in short and
quick steps accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting. She had heard the snap of the bow
like a thunderbolt and was curious, so she lifted her head and looked over at Rama.
“That’s him! He’s the one who threw the ball that had
fallen from my balcony back to me from the street below. The man who stole my
heart!” she exclaimed to herself. She was now trembling with relief that
he was the bridegroom. This man whose name was on everyone’s
lips—“Rama!” She willingly inscribed it in her heart,
that very name—Rama, whispered with every breath, whether waking or
asleep. It shook the very earth beneath her feet. Or was it just thunder rumbling to
bring a burst of rain to shower blessings on this marriage?
‘I caught up with Ravana later
that evening. He sat in his royal apartments on the outskirts of Mithila. I could
see the flames from the torchlit streets and the liveried elephants glistening in
the distance. Ravana was drinking and for the first time I saw my brother feeling
defeated. I was disgusted. How could he bring himself to this lowly human condition?
I prodded him.
‘“Anna! What an
amazing effect you had on that assembly! They are all such complacent brats thinking
the world will go on with everyone falling in line! But there you were, letting them
know war was close at hand. A timely trick—creating suspicion. It really
turned the tide.”
‘“Yes, and
Vishwamitra turned the tide too, didn’t he?” replied my brother
sarcastically.
‘“Don’t
you think it was all staged? Calling that young chap, Rama?” I had to
switch to double deceit as I really thought Rama was yes, inexperienced, but had a
spark, a gorgeousness I so desired to possess, or at least to corrupt. He was
strong, silent and charming. I dared not show Ravana that this man was worth my
attention. Who knows what he would have done. “Hardly any hair on his
chest and he is led to the bow. I think Vishwamitra set him up and said a few
mantras and those vibrations lifted the bow. Anna, you have met Shiva, you know that
bow like your favourite catapult that we used to play with as children to bring
vultures down like mere sparrows!”
‘Ravana threw his goblet of
wine at the servant rakshasa; it struck him on his head and he started to bleed.
Ravana roared. He stood and screamed, kicking the table that landed in a great crash
that made everything shake. Even my toes grew talons to dig into the floor to steady
myself. Then he sat and, his voice going all soft, said,