The Ramayana (77 page)

So these were not the heads of the sinister cone. It was not to be that Rama would sever ten heads and victory would be his. For the first time doubt gripped the prince. With each fresh head that sprouted on the Rakshasa's neck, he seemed rejuvenated; after the second head was struck off, he fought as if he had just come into battle. The shafts from his bow were a virile stream between the chariots. Ravana's face, his hands, and his skin were unwrinkled and young again.

Still wrapped in a pall of dread, the sun began to sink into the western sea. Twilight fell. Now the chariots were luminous, their horses glowed, and the warriors were illumined by the light of their arrows. Once more, Rama struck off Ravana's head. Again, the Rakshasa sprouted a fiendish one in its place and fought on, chortling in mirth.

Matali turned to Rama and cried, “This is Ravana you are fighting, and it is the new moon tonight. As night grows, his strength will be ten times what it is now. If you do not kill him quickly, Rama, you yourself will die.”

Rama looked at Matali with a silent question in his eyes. The sarathy said, “Only the brahmastra.”

Rama saw Agastya's austere face before his eyes again, and the rishi seemed to smile, endorsing what Matali said. Rama invoked the astra that Brahma had once created for the king of the Devas.

He murmured its hermetic mantra, and that ultimate weapon, which could extinguish a world, appeared before him brilliant as an aurora in the twilight. Vayu was its wings, Agni its head; Akasa was its shaft and it was as heavy as golden Meru.

With a prayer, Rama stretched out his hands to receive the astra. At once it lay as a golden arrow in his palms. He set it to his bowstring, and the sky shook as if its end had come: all the elements feared that astra. But Rama did not pause now; the shaft was as heavy as time in his hands. He clenched his teeth and, though his heart pounded out of control, he drew his bowstring to his ear in a fluid blur. With Sita's face before his eyes, Rama shot the brahmastra at Ravana.

A crack of thunder rent the air, and for a moment wrenched the earth out of her orbit. Briefly it was day again, as if the sun had leaped back into the sky after setting in the sea. But the other sun, the legendary ayudha, blazed into Ravana's chest. With the Demon's terrible scream, as it struck him, night fell on the world.

The brahmastra tore open Ravana's armor with fire. It ripped through his chest in an eruption of blood. Then it blew his heart to shreds. It bored on, through him, flashed down into the earth and pierced deep into her. It flamed on down, through rock and lava, to the core of the world, and the earth's molten heart could not contain that weapon. It rose again, through all the layers of the earth, and flew back into the sky and Rama's quiver. There it grew still.

The two charioteers brought their chariots down to the ground. In one Rama stood triumphant, and in the other Ravana lay dying. Blood gushed from the wound in his chest, but his body still shone like a piece of star. Not once did Ravana cry out as life ebbed from him through the gaping wound. But as he died, his eyes gazed with strange longing at the Blue One, standing so calm in Indra's chariot: Rama, so merciful in victory.

Visravas's son, Pulastya's grandson, the great-grandson of Brahma himself, he who had been sovereign of the three worlds for longer than the Devas cared to remember, great, great Ravana lay dying from Rama's arrow and from fate. As his burning eyes misted over, the rakshasas and vanaras, who had gathered around him in a hush, saw his lips move. Repeatedly they tried to form a single word, a name: the name of her who had become his death. Her perfect face filled the Rakshasa's last moment. Then his lips did not move any more; his torn chest did not heave. Life had left Ravana.

Even in death, his body glowed for hours, like a dark flame on Lanka.

 

40. The fallen king

Like the sun that falls on the earth at the end of the ages, Ravana lay on the field of battle. For a moment the rakshasas stood petrified to see him. Then, roaring in terror, they fled back into Lanka. The vanaras' jubilation echoed across the hillside. Unearthly music broke out in the sky, as Deva and gandharva, kinnara and apsara, exulted. A rain of heaven's flowers fell on Rama and his army of the jungle, and its fragrance was borne on the wind across island and sea. Quickly, that fragrance spread through the world, like joyful news. Mountain and river, forest and bird, plant, animal and knowing sage rejoiced.

The moon rose over the earth and bathed the momentous battlefield in silver. Rama stood radiant among his vanaras: he had fulfilled the mission of his life, the reason he was born. He had done the impossible. Sugriva, Vibheeshana, and Lakshmana gathered around him. Slowly they walked to where Ravana lay, his chest bloody where the brahmastra had torn him open, but his dark face finally at peace. Even in death, the Rakshasa was absolutely majestic. When Vibheeshana saw his brother lying there, as if asleep in the moonlight, he began to cry.

Rama laid a hand on Vibheeshana's arm. He said compassionately, “He was fearless to the last. Not even at the very end, when all his sons, brothers, and commanders were dead, did he try to bargain for his life. Kings like him are never mourned, not since the beginning.”

Vibheeshana said wistfully, “No one could face Ravana; Indra and his host could not stand his valor. But against you he was broken like a wave against a shore. Yes, his life was a full one; he tasted all the pleasures of the earth, to surfeit. He was generous to a fault. Such gifts he gave away when he was pleased: jewels the size of a man's fist, gold in caskets.

“And he was more than merely a great king. He was a master of the Vedas, more learned than most brahmanas. But at last, fate wanted to bring him down, because he was unfeeling and cruel as well. He became selfish and arrogant, and time hunted him.

“With your leave, Rama, I will offer my brother's spirit tarpana.”

Rama said, “With death enmity ends; now Ravana is as much my kinsman as yours. By all means, offer him tarpana.”

Then, the news having reached them, the women of Ravana's harem streamed onto the field. They came wailing, their hair loose. Crying his name in a piteous lament, they came for a last look at their lord. These were women whom not even the sun had seen; now they poured out from the palace and the city, demented with grief.

Like a great tree uprooted, Ravana lay under the moon. Like creepers that cling to such a tree even when it has fallen, his women clung to him. Their cries echoed through the grim field. Some fell at his feet and kissed them; some stroked his riven chest with shaking fingers. Others fell in a swoon when they saw him like that, his blood spreading in a stain under him. One fair rakshasi took his head onto her lap.

As if to herself she whispered, “This was Ravana whom Indra could not face. This was our king from whom Yama fled.”

Another took up her litany, but louder now: “This was Ravana who vanquished the king of yakshas in battle, and took Kubera's vimana and his nine treasures for himself.”

Another said, for the dead must be extolled, “Not the rishis of Devaloka, not the gandharvas dared face him.”

Another beautiful one: “The Devas couldn't face him. But look where he lies, killed by a mortal man.”

“If only he had listened to those who wished him well.”

“Sita was the death of him.”

“And of all the rakshasas. But Ravana would not listen to anyone.”

“It was fate. His time had come.”

“It was decided long ago that he would die at the hands of a man. Fate deluded him even then, or he would have asked for Brahma's boon against men as well.”

“It was fate that the greatest king of all, the bravest, the most tender and generous one, should lie dead today, his breast torn open by a fearful weapon.”

And they sobbed inconsolably.

 

41. Mandodari

Suddenly, a hush fell on those women. They arose from the king's body and stood aside. Last of all, Ravana's queen, Mandodari, came to mourn her husband. She had not yet shed any tears. She came only now because the messenger who had gone to her had found her at prayer. When he gave her the news, she received it calmly, as if she already knew Ravana was dead.

Now for a long moment she stood staring at her husband. Slowly, she sank down to the ground beside him. Her body shook with grief like an ocean storm. She began to speak to Ravana as if he were alive and lying on his bed in the harem. She spoke quietly, not as if death separated them with its abyss.

Mandodari said, “How did this happen, my lord? That a mere man has killed you, Ravana, whom Indra could not contain. As I prayed for you today, I saw you in my mind as I have always imagined you at war: your eyes full of fire, your roars shaking the sky, your hands reaching for arrow after arrow to bury in your enemies' hearts. Instead, here you are, lying in this sleep you will never wake from.”

She stroked his lofty brow, his face touched with a peaceful smile, now that all his conflict was over. She said, “Ravana, this silence does not suit you. I see you with your chest torn open and the great heart in it stilled. I see you before my eyes, but I cannot believe what I see. It will take me a long time; perhaps I shall never believe it; possibly I am dreaming.

“Ah, my lord, I warned you when I heard how Khara had died. I told you this Rama is not just a man. But you scoffed at my fear; you thought I was jealous and said I had lost my reason. I was jealous of her, yes, but it was not I who had lost my reason. Precious Ravana, it was you: that you could deceive yourself that a kshatriya who could kill fourteen thousand rakshasas by himself was just another man. Look at the price you have paid. Oh, look at the wound in your chest. Who will heal this wound?

“No, Rama is not just a man. He is someone else come as a man to kill you. But we were warned. When Khara, Dushana, and Trisiras were killed, we were warned. When Hanuman flew into Lanka, where the wind hardly comes, we were warned. When the monkey set our city on fire, we were warned. Would a hero like Hanuman serve anyone who was not immeasurably greater than himself? Ravana, there were those in your own sabha who told you that Rama is Vishnu born as a man, just to kill you.

“But you would not listen. He is the Paramatman, the Ancient and Eternal One, who has no beginning or end. His army of the jungle are all spawn of the Devas. They are the Devas themselves come down as monkeys to finish you. But if I told you this while you lived, you would have said I was fanciful and envious.

“Ravana, it is not a man who has killed you. How could a man ever kill you? Narayana has taken your life back to himself. Once you were a master of yourself. You sat in a tapasya such as the world had never seen, and Siva and Brahma blessed you with great boons. But when your evil time came, and all of ours, your own mind turned against you. When a king isn't a master of himself any more, how will he rule his kingdom?”

Her voice was a whisper. “You should have worshipped Sita. She is as pure as life itself, as sacred. Instead, you lusted after her. You should have sought her blessing, but you wanted her for your bed.”

Deeply, deeply, the lovely Mandodari sighed. “Your antapura was always full of the most beautiful women of all the noble races. Look at me, my husband; in what way am I less beautiful than Sita? In what way am I less well born? But fate deluded you, and Sita came into your life as your death. No man can turn his death away, and you could not resist her.

“But now Sita will go back to Rama and they will be united again. While I  … Oh, Ravana, how will I live in this cruel world without you? How will I bear the sorrow that tears my heart just as Rama's astra tore yours? Answer me, my lord, answer me!”

She sighed again, “No, you will not. You lie here, with all the glory drained from your fierce face. Your eyes, which blazed like suns, are shut forever; never again will I have the look of love from them you once used to turn on me. Or your smile of so much humor and majesty. Ah, look at the dust that already covers your face in its heartless film.”

Mandodari trembled under the moon, as if a great cold was in her bones. Softly, she went on, her eyes never leaving Ravana's face. “How arrogant I was; I thought no one could ever kill you. My father is Mayaa, Lord of the Danavas, my husband was Ravana of the rakshasas, and my son was Indrajit, who hauled the king of the Devas through the streets of Lanka. Great was my pride, great my security. Now, in a few savage days, I have lost both my husband and my son. Look at you; I cannot even hold you in my arms for the arrows that pierce your body. Ravana, is this really happening, or is it a dream from which we will both awaken?

“When Indrajit died, death called me in my heart. But how could I kill myself when you were still alive? But you did not feel the same love for me. Or you would not lie here like this, not speaking or stirring. Did I offend you that you have chosen to punish me so bitterly? Oh, this is the curse of the thousands of women whose husbands you killed.

“When I think of how you abducted Sita, that was not like you at all. You behaved like a coward and a thief, luring Rama away and then stealing her from him: you, who have never been afraid of anyone. It was your death come for you and we did not see it. Look at you, husband, lying there as if it is the earth you love and her arms you would rather sleep in than mine.”

Only now tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her face. Grief overwhelmed her; without another word, Mandodari fell unconscious across Ravana's corpse. The other women came forward to revive her.

Then Rama came there, and said to Vibheeshana, “Before his body begins to decay, let him be carried into the city and prepared for the last rites. Let the women be persuaded to return to their antapura.”

Vibheeshana coaxed Mandodari and the others back into Lanka. They went, crying aloud, with a hundred last glances at their fallen king, heartbroken because they knew they would never see his face again.