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Don’t blame me.”
Rama looked over his shoulder, searching for affirmation from Father.
“Don’t look at your father,” the blood-drinker snapped, his chains protesting as he struggled against them. “He knows nothing.”
The boy turned his attention back to the blood-drinker, who said, “You are a sweet boy.
Those were sweet words you said to me. You see more than others do. You knew I longed to hear that I’m not just a rotten blood-drinker, doomed to this hellhole because I was born with the thirst for blood. That’s what the rest of your people say. That blood-drinkers are less than animals. Evil. Ignorant. You are the ones who are ignorant. Short-lived.
Know-it-all-humans.”
Rama was not surprised by the hate he heard in the blood-drinker’s voice. He had been imprisoned for centuries.
“If I was a prisoner,” Rama said, “I would probably hate my captors too.”
“You think you know, little prince. You know nothing. You count my time here in human years and pity me. By my reckoning, however, I’ve barely been missed by my kindred. Hardly a day and a night have passed.”
Again Rama turned his eyes on Father. This was all new information to him.
“Your father acts like a big king,” Marichi said. “But he’s at the mercy of my master. You are too. You live because my master allows you to live. Never forget that.”
“Tell me,” Rama said. “Who is your master?”
Having been silent for so many years, the blood-drinker let his words pour out of him. In this, he was no different than a human being. This pleased the boy, and he listened.
“One dark night, many thousands of years ago,” the blood-drinker said, relishing Rama’s raptness, “when saints and blood-drinkers roamed the Earth, a great and powerful being was born. On that somber, moonless night, blood poured from the heavens, and carnivo-rous animals paced left and right. Fierce winds rocked the planet, and meteors fell violently 257
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from the heavens and scarred the ground. The seas smashed against rocks and sucked down unfortunate ships and seafarers. The clouds rumbled and the winds wailed loudly.”
Lakshmana grew still, and outside the cell, Bharata and Shatrugna leaned against the bars, straining to hear.
“In a small cottage high up in the Himalaya mountain, a woman was wailing, sweating to bring forth her powerful infant with his ten screaming heads and twenty flailing arms.
His mother is one of us, a blood-drinker, as you call us. But his father is a sage and a god.
My master was born with this double nature. With parental optimism, they named him Dashamukha, ‘Ten Heads.’ But only they call him that. Even his siblings call him Ravana if they must use a name. The terror of his birth night was only a small portent of what Ravana’s life would bring. The omens indicated the birth of someone truly influential. Nature’s unnatural phenomenon was sent by the gods as a warning, a protest against Ravana’s birth.”
Ravana’s imprisoned devotee paused to regard the boy in front of him, making sure Rama was intent on his words. Satisfied by Rama’s steady gaze, he continued. “When the ten-headed infant grew in size and power, the omens surrounding his birth proved true. His actions showed no trace of conscience. He killed on mere whim, drank blood, and laughed at the pain of others. Indra, lord of heaven, tried to stop him, sending forth lightning to strike him down. To everyone’s shock, my master’s roar stalled the lightning in midair. The gods were forced to bring the sun out from behind the ominous clouds they had conjured. Such was the extent of the power my master had amassed. Not even Indra could match the violence of Ravana’s abilities. Since that day, the sun cannot shine, the winds will not blow, and the day will not turn into night without Ravana’s consent. Do you understand, little prince?”
Rama nodded seriously. One of the guards coughed, and Lakshmana fidgeted.
“Tell me more about him,” Rama requested. “Your master. How did you become his servant?”
“No one is completely evil. My master is no exception. I am no exception, I hope. Like most beings in this universe, Ravana wages a constant battle between his higher conscience and his lower urges. His blood is intimately tied to the gods. Kuvera, wealth keeper of the gods, is Ravana’s brother. Ravana himself is vastly learned, but blood and destruction give him the greatest pleasure. Soon he became known as the most vicious of our kind, attracting a following of his own kind. I became one of his people early on. From an early age, Ravana resolved to become the most powerful being alive. I wanted to play on the winning side. And I did for many, many years.”
“How did Ravana become so strong?”
The blood-drinker smiled knowingly. “He started like you. As a curious boy.”
Rama frowned.
Lakshmana said, “Let’s go, Rama,” and tugged at his brother’s arm, but Rama sat transfixed.
Marichi spoke only to Rama. “Ravana’s power comes from Brahma, the creator of all things. While praying to Brahma, he abstained from all food. Diligently controlling his mind, he fasted for a thousand years. At the end of a millennium, he slashed off one of his 258
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ten heads and offered it to Brahma. In this way, Ravana cut off each of his heads as millenniums passed, without achieving his goal. Only after ten thousand years, when he prepared to cut off his last head—thus giving up his life—Brahma appeared. The creator cannot ignore a soul’s petitioning forever. Brahma restored Ravana’s nine heads and granted his request: to become invincible.
“Moreover, the pain Ravana had inflicted on himself inured him forever to the pain of battle wounds. The patience and endurance that he developed during his years of penance make him a more formidable enemy. He can tolerate any discomfort if it serves his purpose.
“Ravana fears no one. Nothing can stop him, not even Yama, the lord of death. He acts like he is above all the laws of nature and he is all but immortal. When Ravana asked for immortality, Brahma argued that he could not give what he himself did not possess. Ravana circumvented this by requesting immunity from the gods, beasts, demons, and all supernatural creatures. No one can kill Ravana.”
“Gods, beasts, demons, and all supernatural creatures,” the boy repeated. His eyes left the blood-drinker’s face for the first time. He was thinking. His eyes returned to the blood-drinker and he said, “That means I could kill him.”
The blood-drinker laughed so loudly that Lakshmana jumped in his seat. “Sh-sh-sh!” he commanded, though he was only eight and the drinker in front of them was thousands of years older.
The blood-drinker quieted down, his chains still rattling. Rama smiled a little, joining the blood-drinker’s mirth.
When the blood-drinker was still again, Rama said, “I mean that any human being could kill Ravana. Your master didn’t ask for immunity from humans.”
The blood-drinker leaned forward. “Does a lion need protection from a frog?”
When the boy didn’t reply, he continued. “Humans have never been a threat to any blood-drinker. If I wasn’t chained down and weakened by constant exposure to sunlight, I could kill half of Ayodhya in a heartbeat. I’m nobody compared to my master.”
“But why hasn’t your master tried to rescue you?” Rama asked. “You are so loyal to him.”
“Who says he will not come?” the blood-drinker challenged, raising his voice. For the first time, he glared at the boy. “It may seem to you that I have been here an eternity. But 259
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in my eyes, it has barely been the blink of an eye! He will come for me!” And suddenly the blood-drinker lunged at the boy, biting wildly in the air.
The guards rushed into the cell. Lakshmana had his arms around Rama, pulling him back. The prisoner’s teeth were tearing at the air, clattering as ferociously as his chains.
Rama disengaged from Lakshmana’s arms, staying where he was, his face barely an inch from the enraged blood-drinker.
“I’m not afraid,” Rama said, waving away the guards with a firm hand.
“Rama,” Dasharatha warned.
The blood-drinker was crazed, all civility gone. He snapped at Rama’s face, salivating, dangerous for the first time. His red eyes rolled in their sockets.
Rama grabbed the blood-drinker’s beard with both hands. “Be still.”
Whether Rama’s command or his strength did it, the blood-drinker stilled, returning to his former self, again almost human, though panting and fangs glinting.
The boy and the blood-drinker glared at each other. Slowly Rama let go of his beard.
“Leave me with your pestering questions,” the blood-drinker said. “Call on me the next time you want to know who truly rules the entire universe.”
Not knowing what would set off the blood-drinker’s temperament, Rama stood up. He folded his palms at his chest and then turned away.
“Why did you do that?” Lakshmana whispered, following Rama out. “He is our prisoner.
A blood-drinker. You shouldn’t offer him respect!”
“He sits in there day and night, every minute of the day,” Rama said to his brother.
“Imagine that, Lakshmana. I couldn’t do that.”
As the guards let them out and locked up, Bharata and Shatrugna wanted to know what the blood-drinker had said. Rama was silent as they walked out of the prison, unresponsive to his curious brothers.
“You know how he is,” Lakshmana reminded them, shrugging his shoulders and speaking for Rama. “He needs to think.”
Bharata sighed. “Tell him to think quickly.”
“Tell him yourself. He can hear you,” Shatrugna said.
“Exactly!” his twin agreed.
“Boys!” Their father’s voice brought them back to the prison grounds. “This way. Time to return home.”
Bharata quickly caught Father’s hand before anyone else could. The princes clambered onto the chariot after their father. As the chariot picked up speed, they held on to each other, and pretend-stumbled, exaggerating the movements of the chariot. Rama, who was still thinking, didn’t play the game with them.
As they arrived back at the palace, Dasharatha turned to his sons before he let them free for the rest of the evening. “I don’t want you to be afraid. We keep a constant vigil in the city. That prisoner you saw is the only blood-drinker in Ayodhya, and he will not escape. Not as long as I live. Before I let you go, tell me, why is the blood-drinker our most dangerous enemy?”
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Again, they got one guess each.
“Because they drink human blood,” Bharata said.
“Because they are evil,” Lakshmana and Shatrugna said, both at once.
“All those reasons are right,” Rama said, breaking his silence.
“That answer doesn’t count,” Shatrugna cut in, before Lakshmana could.
“But the real reason,” Rama said, “is because they are in the shadow. We don’t see them, so we think they don’t exist. We think we are safe.”
“Rama said he will kill Ravana,” Lakshmana informed their father. “That’s when the fangs started laughing.”
Dasharatha looked with astonished eyes at Rama. “You really said that?”
Rama nodded, but looked down. He hadn’t really meant that he planned to kill Ravana.
He hadn’t even known the ten-headed blood-drinker king was real until this day.
“That’s what King Anaranya said, you know,” Dasharatha said. “Covered in layers of dust and blood and struggling through his last few breaths, Anaranya, that brave fighter, cursed Ravana, calling him an arrogant fool. ‘A man of my own blood will end your life, as you have ended mine.’ Those were his last words, recorded in our history.”
“I didn’t mean me, Father,” Rama said. “I meant that any human could kill Ravana. He never asked for protection against humans.”
“That wasn’t very smart,” Lakshmana scoffed.
“No, it wasn’t,” Rama agreed.
“Don’t worry, son, I never expected you to go out and kill Ravana. Few earthly beings have seen him with their own eyes. That he exists out there somewhere is a cause for great concern. We are never fully safe. But I will tell you this. Despite his power, Ravana is not immune to the curse of a righteous man. Anaranya’s curse will prove true one day. Or so Vasishta tells me. Other powerful curses also weaken Ravana. The king of blood-drinkers knows, somewhere in the recesses of his underdeveloped conscience, that there will be a day of retribution.”
“A day of retribution,” Rama repeated, musing. “I wonder who will win when that day comes.”
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chapter 29
The Pretender Strikes
ama did not dwell on it, but he knew that his father’s eyes followed him, even R when all the brothers were present. This did not always please his third mother, Kaikeyi. Rama had understood how important Kaikeyi’s pleasure was to Father, so he continued to subdue his abilities so his brothers could shine. This made his own mother sad, and Rama always focused on her exclusively if she was present.
It was all a bit confusing. Understanding more made Rama understand less. Even larger concepts were challenging. Father said Ravana, the ten-headed king, was the most dangerous enemy, and yet the princes had never seen a blood-drinker save for Marichi, the imprisoned one. In the months after meeting Marichi, Rama would find excuses to visit the golden altars, to make sure that the central fire was burning strong there. It always did. Ravana did not even figure in Rama’s dreams. But other enemies did.
Since the Summit of Fifty Kings when he was seven, Rama had a recurring dream of Kashi standing over a magnificent bow, a giant bow unlike any bow Rama had ever seen. In the dream, Rama knew it was Shiva’s bow, and Kashi would grin and put his hands on it. Everyone around them would smile, but Rama would run forward to stop him. Rama ran and ran, never arriving. Kashi sprouted many heads and laughed loudly at Rama. A sweet voice sang a terribly sad song as Kashi claimed
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the bow, pointing the first arrow at Rama, who was unarmed and defenseless. That’s when Rama always woke up.
Evening, before the sun set, was the best time in Ayodhya. That’s when Rama and his brothers would finish their schooling for the day. Often they would gather in Rama’s chamber, which had a view of the city.
When the darkness of night veiled the great city, Rama felt the change in Ayodhya’s consciousness and his own. The blood-drinkers in the stories always came out at night and grew strong at nightfall, and it was their mood that dominated this time.
Rama’s limbs were comfortably exhausted from the day’s training. The twins were leaning across Rama’s balcony, looking at the city’s last burst of energy for the day. Bharata had not yet arrived.
“You are getting much better at handling your bow,” Rama said to Shatrugna.
“What he means to say,” Lakshmana said with a smirk, “is that you are almost as good as I am.”
The twins were constantly competing and finding ways to excel each other.
“Oh,” Rama said, and turned to Lakshmana with mock shock. “I thought you were Shatrugna. I actually meant to compliment you, Lakshmana. I got mixed up.”
Lakshmana grimaced. “If Father said that, I might have believed it.”
“What Rama means to say,” Shatrugna said, “is that you should not be proud when you are better than others.” Shatrugna punched Lakshmana lightly on the arm.
Lakshmana made another grimace, this time directly at his twin. “Where is Bharata?”
“How should I know?”
“You always know where he is.”
“That’s true,” Rama chimed in.
“Vasishta called him, actually,” Shatrugna confessed.
“See! You did know,” Lakshmana teased.
“Vasishta?” Rama asked. “What did he want?”
The great preceptor had never sought them out after their school hours.
“I wasn’t paying attention. He wanted to speak to Bharata alone. He kind of shooed me away, which was strange. But it was something about the prison.”
“Why would Vasishta ask Bharata about the prison?” Rama was really puzzled now.
“That’s what Bharata wondered as they walked away together. I think they went to speak with Father.”
“That makes sense,” Rama concluded. He moved away from the balcony and started strapping his bow and sword on. He wasn’t required to wear weapons, like Father was, but he was ten now, and it felt right.
“Where are you going?” Lakshmana demanded.
The twins surrounded Rama, watching him don his bow and quiver.
“I want to find Father. I have a strange feeling about what you told me.”
Lakshmana’s expression turned serious. “Father says to trust those feelings when you get them.”
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“Yes,” Rama agreed. “Are you coming with me?”
As the three boys walked out of Rama’s rooms, their guards closed in on them, following their steps. Dusk had started setting in. Rama felt an unusual alarm in his body; it was true what Lakshmana said. Father had instructed them to listen to those instincts.
Something wasn’t right this evening. To Rama’s relief, they spotted Vasishta coming out of Father’s apartment.
“What has happened?” Rama asked, looking eagerly at their teacher. “Shatrugna says you were asking about the prison?”
When he bowed to touch Vasishta’s feet, as he always did, the old sage flinched and almost moved his feet away. Rama hesitated and looked up at the preceptor at the same moment as his hand made contact with the old man’s feet.
A shocking electric current ran up through Rama’s fingers, yet more alarming was the meeting of their eyes. Vasishta was furious! Rama had never seen him so mad. His eyes were unrecognizable. Rama felt he was looking at another person entirely. Shocked, the boy snatched his hand away, and Vasishta hurried off without a word.
“What was wrong with him?” Lakshmana asked, looking at Vasishta’s disappearing figure.
