The Princes of Ayodhya-The Ramayan Through Short Stories

The Mesmerizing Land of Forever

Messengers from the battlefield trembled. Their luck must have been awful, terrible, bitter, that Ravan's men kept on dying in front of them. They had a little congregation, all of the messengers of Ravan, quickly. Kumbhakaran was dead. This was even more terrible news than if Prahast had died, and already a few of them had died conveying that terrible news. The deaths of Ravan's messengers upon this gory new tale would surpass the ones on the battlefield. Ravan did not hold any more mercy for his own men than the enemy.

Finally, it was an elder who volunteered, his wrinkled face set firmly as he stepped forward, before walking out of the room, crooked nose held high as he walked into Ravan's court, wincing once the King's beady eyes finally rested upon him, as his mouth curved up into an evil little smile his sharp fangs visible, gleaming in the lazy afternoon light as Ravan swept up all the extra cloth gathered around his arm. "Tell me, what is the good news?" Ravan laughed, his voice booming in the high ceilings of the court.

"Kumbhakaran eliminated monkeys, eliminated them like they were pesky little flies," Even the man whose death was inching ever closer smiled at this thought and Ravan leaned in, eyes sparkling. "He was like a storm, like a cyclone, Maharaj, he created thousands of rivers, streams, and lakes. Not of water, Maharanj, but of vanar blood. He has forever meshed skulls into our Earth and has forever laid an imprint upon Mata Bhoomi."

Ravan leaned back, appeased, and was about to dismiss the messenger (forgetting to ask all about Ram and Hanuman and the forgotten lakshman in his excitement), but the elderly one had come to die that day, because why not die? It was a perfectly pleasant day (if you didn't count the fact that hundreds of thousands had died), with only a hint of soberness, and overall just the perfect day to pass away. So the elderly messenger (whom I have decided not to name to prevent attachment), continued.

"He was a cyclone. He injured all of the monkey generals. He did not leave a single one alive. He even killed a few rakshasas, for variety." Ravan smiled reminiscently. "But eventually, Ram did kill him. It was a quick death, Maharaj. Both limbs, both arms, and then the head, which flew across the skies of Lanka and now sits, impaled, upon the great spike on this palace." And then the messenger bowed.

Ravan looked up towards the ceilings of the palace in horror, but since he had a pretty strong stomach, he didn't throw up like a child having spinach. He just stared, and for a moment, the sparkling in his eyes didn't seem so happy anymore. For a moment, if the courtiers squinted, they thought they could see tears welling up in their leader's eyes. But Ravan did not cry. He did not let those pearl drops trail tracks down his cheek.

There was silence in the hall, and courtiers exchanged looks, before finally, a low growl emanated through the area. Another one, and the chairs started to rattle, before Ravan finally spoke. "For Sita, for such a beauty anywhere, anyhow, I could sacrifice a hundred Kumbhakarans to retain her." The court went silent with horror. "Too bad there aren't a hundred Kumbhakarans. There was just one."

Outside, servants were made to clean up the blood, the thick red splattered on homes and markets and streets, mixing with the dirt and causing screams to litter the otherwise peaceful air. Kumbhakaran's head still sat, right on the top spike of Ravan's palace, eyes closed as if it was a live statue of some sort, a mere decoration. Perhaps it was, a decoration, or a warning. Ravan would do anything to keep Sita, make her his. It was a warning for them all. If Kumbhakaran could cause such havoc, then what would Ravan's next step be? Sure, Ram was mighty, but Kumbhakaran had killed thousands in his army. What would the next day bring?The sun sunk on a sorrowful Lanka that day.

-----O-----

However, the vanar sena wasn't nearly as somber, because they simply did not have the time to. Where was the time to mourn among these vanars who had to heal their own, crushed by giants or impaled by overenthusiastic rakshasas or trampled over by each other? Where was the time to grieve, and truly, who was there to grieve? Often, entire families would be injured, brothers and sons and fathers mere feet away from each other.