The Princes of Ayodhya-The Ramayan Through Short Stories

The Might of a Million Men

Murali (Charioteer of the King of the Heavens, pleased to meet you) was used to many things. Being Indra's charioteer (an official job posting, when he'd been offered it) involved a variety of different duties, like driving his master's favorite apsaras to heavenly vacations in paradise, and completing lightning transactions with Bhoomi Devi. 

What Murali was decidedly not used to was playing a part in a heavenly tale that involved the Lord of the Three Universes and a very evil demon.

He was kind of nervous to meet Shri Vishnu, no, Shri Ram, in the middle of his greatest battle, but he was just a humble charioteer (of the King of the Heavens), and followed his master's orders, and that was how he ended up in his familiar cockpit, flying down towards Earth at terrible speed, faster than Pawan himself (although he wouldn't dare claim so, for fear of being blown off the universe)

The sky was a clouded gray rather than the bright blue it normally turned above the island paradise of Lanka. Vultures cawed loudly, flying away from the sight, and if Murali hadn't been a responsible driver , he would have followed their flight with curious eyes, wondering why they were escaping from the carnage instead of doing what normal vultures would. 

But if the Gods themselves couldn't come down to witness the battle, he supposed that mere vultures would be frightened out of their wings.

The thin white clouds were spiraling, pulled apart like cotton balls and tugged towards the Earth in a vortex as he flew down. His graying hair blew roughly against a stubbled face, and his eyes narrowed with concentration as he flew. 

Expertly, his calloused hands tightened around the reins, and tugged with measured force.

Murali was at his most comfortable, having driven this same chariot for thousands of years, so it was probably good that Indra hadn't commanded him to fly a helicopter down there instead. The Earth was still hazy through the condensed mist in the sky, and the battle was hidden from the eager (scared) charioteer's view. After passing the final barrier of clouds, he finally was able to see Lanka.

And what a sight it was. Among the rising dust that clouded the senses and painted the clear air brown, Maharaj Ravan was aboard his magnificent winged chariot, which hovered steadily above the Earth. 

It was gold and beautiful, of course, but nothing compared to Indra's chariot. Still, he was the picture of malicious splendor, hand positioned heroically on his thigh, head tilted back, heavy crown doing nothing to weigh down his pride. 

His twisted mustache quirked up with his confident smirk, and he whipped his black and gold angavastram around his wrist, every bit the King of Lanka. A demon who had terrorized millions.

Yet though the demon shone opulently in the middle of the muggy battlefield, he was overshadowed in every manner by the man who stood opposite to him. Even if he hadn't been there to represent the Gods, Murali would have migrated towards his side without a doubt in his mind. His brain was overwhelmed in the best way by his brilliance. 

If Ravan was like a gold statue, then this man was gold in itself, living and breathing, dynamic and lion-like in his greatness.

Could there be any doubt? This man was Trimurti personified. This man was Raghunandan, Janakivallabha, and Ramchandra, deserving of every great and infinitely long title he had been bestowed with by the Gods. This man was Ram. 

Though he wore clothes the color of the clay dust that rose incessantly from disturbed Bhoomi Devi, his dark skin was as clean as the neelkamal, and the whites of his pale blue eyes were visible through the haze. And while Ravan lounged in his chariot, so far above the ground, he seemed to tower above with both of his feet on the Earth, sweat trailing down his face, annihilating the shower of arrows.