Keechaka: You lived in
an age far removed from mine, Ravana, but I know you. Do you think you are a
personage that will be forgotten by posterity? You lived as one of the gods; as
for your death, why, thousands would vie with one another–rivals for the honour
of meeting gain death like yours.
Ravana: Yes. I was a great
king. But Sita, that incomparable woman, loved a mere man and would not look on
me, godly though I was. Sita–Sita–But, Who are you? Are you, by any freak of
Fate, a brother of mine?
K: Perhaps. I am
Keechaka, the Virata prince.
R: I have heard of you.
Draupadi was the evil star, sweeping across your vision, rained havoc on you.
Draupadi–Queen of the Pandavas.
K: Yes. She was
queenly. Born of Fire and as radiant as Fire. Her form was one huge flame, and
her eyes, the sparks leaping out of it! Her hair! Twas the cloud of smoke
trying in vain to veil her brightness. Her radiance! She was of the elements;
she was one with the elements. There is beggary in the language that tries to
describe her. To part her beauty from her and then to describe it, is to part
the perfume from the Champaka blossom. One might as easily capture the
brilliance of the blood-red ruby, or the cool, green fire of an emerald.
R: When you talk, my
thoughts leap back across the abyss of Time and take me back to the moment when
I first saw Janaki. I was clad as a mendicant. When I approached the small hut,
I was ill-prepared for such a delightful vision: so beautiful! so unreal! You
talk of the brilliance of the ruby and the sparkle of Fire when you talk of
Draupadi. But Sita was different, so different. Have you seen the golden
turrets of your pleasure-house dream in the moonlight, and so dream all night
without a stir? Can you capture the elusive, ethereal charm of it? Can you
capture the warm, soft light of pearls, glistering like dew? Have you felt the
thrill in the heart of the great earth when Vasanta heralds his approach? Have
you heard the throb in the voice of the nightingale when she sings her
impassioned songs of love? I think of all these when I think of Sita.
K: They say no woman
could resist the arms of mighty Ravana–the arms that could lift up my Lord’s
mountain-home. How then came you to be spurned by this one woman?
R: She would not love
me. I pleaded with her; I tried in a million ways to teach her love. But it was
of no avail.
K: Why would she not
listen? Urvasi spurned Pururavas. And then, in a penitent mood, went to him
with a heart filled with love.
R: She loved Rama and
not me. There was Rama, a man, with a bow and quiver full of arrows: an exiled
prince, banished from his kingdom for years together. There was I, the suzerain
of all the world, the terror of the Devas. And yet, she would not love me. That
was the tragedy.
K: It is indeed
pitiful. Was she as beautiful as she is reputed to be?
R: Shall I describe how
she looked when I first saw her? She was alone. I had lured Rama and Lakshmana
away from her. Dressed in white, she stood leaning against a tree. One fair arm
was lifted up, clinging to a bough. The other was pressed against her bosom, as
if to still the beating of her heart. It looked as though a streak of lightning
were lingering on the earth to brighten my world.
K: You are right. She
was lightning: and thunder followed in its wake. Did you know nothing of Rama?
Of the great bow of Siva? Of how Rama broke it in two and claimed the fair hand
of the Princess of Mithila?
R: There was some talk
of it. But know you not that when the heart is lost, all reason is lost? I
loved this woman. She had to be mine at any cost. Mandodari was forgotten.
Honour was the incense I heaped on this new altar of love....
I lifted her bodily. With one hand I grasped her fragrant hair, and with
my right hand I swept her off her feet. I held her in my arms and carried her
to my chariot. Poor innocent, her heart stood still for a moment in sheer
terror, and then beat wildly, trying in vain to burst its bonds. She called out
to her Karnikara flowers. What a picture! A flower appealing to a flower for
help!
K: Did not Lanka rise
up as one man when you took her there? Did Kumbhakarna approve?
R: Kumbhakarna did
not approve. It was in the council chamber. The great war had begun. Rama
had already entered Lanka with his army of Vanaras. Akshaya was gone.
Vibhishana had left me. Then, my brother Kumbhakarna spoke: “When you brought
Sita, did you think of the consequences? When you planned to abduct her, did
you call for a council? You did not think ahead. You underrated your foe because
he was a man. Death himself goaded you into action. The unforeseen has now
become inevitable. Even now, I ask of you, can you not renounce Sita?”
I was angry with him. I accused him of fear. I said he was just
Vibhishana again, all over. I spoke a hundred harsh words. But he heeded them
not. He was unmoved. He looked on me with pity and contempt in his eyes and
said: “Brother, do not be afraid. I am not Vibhishana. As for Death, I am not
afraid of Him either. I have ever been a good fighter, and do you think that I
will shirk from facing this arch-enemy? No! No! You insult me. I spoke because
I love you. And since I love you, my poor unfortunate brother, I want to warn
you that you are a doomed man, and with you, all who love you.” He went to his
death with a smile on his lips.
K: I have heard of the
great battle between Rama and Ravana.
R: Many ages have
passed since that great battle. Now I am wondering if it was worthwhile. It was
all to no purpose. I lost everything for her and I lost her too. And yet, I am
not sorry.
K: You mean, if you
were to live your life over, once again, you would commit the same mistake?
R: Yes. You see, I love
Sita. That is the pivot on which my thoughts swing. You loved Draupadi. Surely,
you know the bitter-sweet ache which men call love.
K: I know. Memory is a
very strange woman. There are so many happenings in the brief span of a man’s
lifetime. Memory does not linger with the same loving touch on all of them. The
rosary of Time slips from her fingers incessantly. Many pearls pass by
unnoticed by her: all on a sudden, a pearl lit up by a strange light catches
her eye, and her fingers caress it lovingly, loth to let it pass. Such a
lovelit moment it was, when I saw Sairandhri.
Why should it have happened? I went to the palace of my sister, the
Queen of Virata. When I returned, I entered the garden. Why? What made me
enter? A whiff of perfume, perhaps. A flower-laden branch called me, Perhaps. I
do not know. To me it was Fate.
Even now, I cannot think of that moment without a quickening of breath.
She was there,–Sairandhri. She looked on me, and all was light. She was
beautiful. And yet, I have seen many beautiful women. Charm? Grace? Dignity?
Other women have all these qualities. And yet, Sairandhri held me in thrall.
R: She spurned you, did
she not?
K: Yes.
R: And yet, you went to
the forest on that fatal night to meet her. How?
K: I saw her first in
the garden. She looked at my lovelit eyes and fled away. In vain, I went in
search of her. You must have heard how my sister chid me and sent me away….It
was the next day that she came to know how much I was suffering. I was in love
with this woman. I was pining for her, dying for her. Sudeshna heard of my
condition and was greatly alarmed. She sent Sairandhri to me, with flowers and
honey. She came. As she stood before me, her frame trembled like Life in the
presence of Death. Her hands, like aspen leaves, held the flowers quiveringly,
while her tender lips, paler than the palest Asoka sprout, faltered: “May it
please your Highness, your worthy sister has sent these gifts to you.” I tried
to hold her in my arms and she fled away.
R: Did you meet her
then, again? After this?
K: Yes. It was the next
day. I was passing through the garden, and there was Sairandhri, gathering
flowers. I tried to talk to her and, instead of hatred flashing from those twin
pools of fire, a shy smile hovered round her sweet mouth, like a bee round a
flower; and a look as of love, met my hungry eyes. Was it a vision, or a waking
dream?
R: Why! Never a cobra
caresses ere it strikes!
K: She said she loved
me. She spoke words so steeped in sweetness that they maddened me. She promised
to meet me in the mango-grove. She talked of the peacocks and the
nightingales–of the dark night and the arbour where she would wait.
R: Then?
K: When I think of that
night in the mango-grove! It was a dark night. The very stars were ashamed to
look on such a vile crime: they veiled themselves in a mantle of clouds.
Sairandhri was there. She stood, twining against a pillar. I took her hand in
mine. My hand was hot with desire, and I thought her lovely palm would melt in
mine…..But it was Bhima’s hand.
Why dwell on all that happened? It is known to all. But I can never
forget that one moment when I was shocked into realising that I was duped. All
the past events came back: vivid, clear like a landscape mirror’d in a drop of
dew.
She was a sati. She is classed with Sita. She was insulted by me.
So her husband killed me. All this is clear to me like snow on the crest of Himavan.
But what clouds the pearl is this doubt. Why should she have smiled on me?
R: You forget this. The
Pandava princes were in exile. They were in the Court of Virata, disguised.
Bhima would have been recognised if you had fought in the palace. Hence this
subterfuge.
K: I know. I know all
that. And yet–her love-making in the garden her lovelit glances that coursed
through my blood like liquid fire and set my heart aflame: her halting,
whispering words of love that sounded like the drowsy murmur of summer bees:
the lilt of her figure, the caress in her voice. Why all these? Why so much
perfection in the art of pretence? Why that smile?
R: Sairandhri was Death
incarnate. She was distilled from death. Do you not know that when she was
born, the earth was doomed? When the gods went in search of nectar, they first
met with poison. As for you, you found the nectar first, only to find it turn
into poison.
K: Poison? Nectar? I do
not understand.
R: Poor, ill-used
lover, Draupadi loved you not. She hated you. Or else, why should she
come to the mango-grove on that fatal night? She wanted to see you
die! Do you understand the depth of her hatred for you? It was deeper than even
your love. You see, you had insulted her.
K: Was it, then, such a
sin to have loved her? Sita did not lose her womanliness! She did not hate you.
And yet you insulted her as much!
R: Sita was a goddess.
She was born of Mother Earth. Patience was her heritage. But think of
Yagnaseni! She was born of Fire. She was born to kill. She spelt destruction.
How could she love you? To dare to look on her! At that moment when you looked
on her, was born the hour of your death. You said she was a flame. You spoke
the truth. She was a devouring flame. How could you escape it?
K: So! A snake’s grace
in her limbs and a snake’s venom in her heart! The tinge of a flame in her
eyes, and the dread fire itself in her heart! That was Yagnaseni!
R: Yes. That was
Yagnaseni, the daughter of Fire!