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Vishvamitra had their full attention. The brothers shared his fascination with weapons and warfare.
“My dear Rama, you passed the first test with excellence. You are a worthy recipi-ent of this knowledge. Raise your palm and sip the holy water of the Ganga. Then I will begin the transmission of my knowledge to you. These missiles acknowledge only one master.”
“But that means you won’t have access to them!” Rama exclaimed.
“My dear boy, I’m not a warrior anymore. I’ve kept this weapon lore to myself
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far too long. It’s time to pass it on. And I give you full permission to share what you deem appropriate with your brother.”
Without delay, Vishvamitra took water from his vessel and poured it through his palm, onto Rama’s hand.
The students sat in front of the sage, listening attentively.
“First, I will help you invoke Bala and Atibala,” Vishvamitra said. “Bala will protect your body from fatigue and Atibala will heal your wounds.”
As Vishvamitra taught Rama the mantra, Bala and Atibala appeared, two sisters holding hands. Their bodies were ethereal, more energy than matter, and constantly shifting.
“We will protect you when you call us,” they promised Rama, momentarily surrounding him like a glowing shield and then vanishing completely from sight.
Rama absorbed the fact that his first weapon was in actuality a shield.
In this way, Rama had to memorize each weapon’s mantra. When he spoke the mantra aloud, even in a whisper, the presiding deity of each weapon appeared before him and acknowledged him as its new master. Rama was astounded to see the power of sound, when a softly spoken mantra invoked Brahma, the creator. Rama could not even see him at first, the light of Brahma’s body was so immense to his human eyes.
Even as Brahma’s form became distinct, he intercepted Rama’s obeisance by asking,
“What is your command, Master?”
“When I think of you, appear in my hand,” Rama instructed, prompted by Vishvamitra. His mentor seemed unmoved by the appearance of divine beings that Rama had only before imagined.
After Brahma left, Rama invoked Agni, the fire god; Vayu, the wind god; and Surya, the sun god. In this way, Rama mastered the entire range of earthly and celestial weapons.
Coming into his possession through a true master, Rama’s arsenal of weapons had grown to dizzying heights. The most astounding thing was that each weapon was actually a person.
Rama’s mind was full of the mantras and the visions he had just seen.
His three favorites were the sister shields; Manu’s weapon, which actively pursued a moving target; and the Chakra, a discus that would take any form he wished.
The three continued their journey through greener forests and arrived at Vishvamitra’s hermitage, where all was ready for the fire sacrifice. Vishvamitra had told the brothers its purpose was enlightenment. The other hermits came out to greet Vishvamitra and the youths. The ascetics present were minimally clad in loincloths alone. The austere life they led was evident by the absence of fat on their bodies. Rama had never beheld such skeletal human bodies, yet they were formidable, with their piercing, intelligent eyes.
After brief introductions and instructions, the sacrifice began. Rama and Lakshmana took their bows out, stringing them carefully. Bow and arrow in hand, they began to circle the area, two panthers on the prowl. Vishvamitra’s lips were now sealed in a vow of silence.
He sat in the middle of the arena, in front of the fire pit, pouring clarified butter into the fire, the yellow liquid feeding the flames. He stared into the fire as the sages around him chanted the mantras in sonorous tones.
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Nothing interfered with the sacrifice that day or the next. Six days passed, with no sign of disturbance. The sacrifice was blazing gloriously, and mantras poured out along with ladle upon ladle of ghee. Rama and Lakshmana remained on constant alert, but the sky was clouded only by smoke from the fire pit. The blood-drinkers were out of sight. Every muscle in Rama’s body was tightly coiled, anticipating a battle that never came.
On the sixth day, the sacrifice was drawing to a close. It was then that the devious blood-drinkers made their calculated move. Cackling laughter and shrieks louder than thunder filled the sky. Blood and foul-smelling substances began to pour from the firma-ment. The only sign the sages showed of acknowledging that they were under attack was to chant louder.
“Lakshmana!” Rama called out, placing his first arrow against the bow.
Quick as thought, Rama invoked Manu’s missile, aiming it at the foul substances raining from the clouds. The missile cleared the sky. When the downpour failed to disrupt the sacrifice, two blood-drinkers appeared, hovering like ghastly red comets.
Rama stood still, never taking his eyes off them. One of the drinkers looked familiar.
They bared their fangs and dropped down toward Vishvamitra with great speed, their flaming red hair whirling through the air. Vishvamitra did not move an inch from his calm conduct of the fire ritual. Neither of the attackers spared Rama a glance, taking him for a mere boy.
“It’s Marichi!” Rama hissed through clenched teeth. “Ayodhya’s escaped prisoner!”
The former prisoner had not aged a day since Rama last saw him. In a flash, Rama was ten years old again, promising seven dead Ayodhyan children that he would avenge their deaths. Looking at the other blood-drinker, Rama recognized him too. He had the same wild eyes. So this was Marichi’s accomplice, by all appearances his brother.
Rage twisted Marichi’s face. “Look Subahu, it’s the little prince from Ayodhya.”
The demon brothers turned into birdlike creatures with fangs and red eyes.
“Invoke Agni, the fire god!” Rama called to Lakshmana, as he invoked Bala and Atibala, the sister shields.
Rama invoked the Chakra, which could take any form he wished. He sent it flying as a winged demon, the same form Marichi and Subahu had taken. The blood-drinkers were pursued by a creature just like them.
Lakshmana let loose his arrow, and sparks of fire shot from its tip. The blast set Subahu’s wings on fire, and the blood-drinker resumed his original form, cursing loudly.
Rama wasted no time; he turned the Chakra into its original form of a discus and hurled it at the pretender’s chest. With burning wings, and the discus sawing him in half, Subahu fell to the ground. Lakshmana’s arrows showered on him relentlessly.
Marichi howled and flew through the sky like lightning. Rama followed his movements, an arrow drawn to his ear. Marichi was not a ray of light, as his name implied; he only usurped it, the way he drank blood, leaving no life behind.
Rama aimed at Marichi’s heart. But the blood-drinker was very fast. Rama’s arrow disappeared into a cloud, leaving Marichi unharmed. Baring his large fangs in mock salute, 309
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Marichi was gone. Rama waited and watched, eyes focused on the sky. Subahu’s soul left his body, and Rama recalled the Chakra from the corpse.
Rama felt a prickle in his neck and turned around just in time. Marichi rushed toward him, claws lifted. When their eyes met, Marichi froze for just a moment. His claws sunk into Rama’s skin, pulling out large chunks of flesh. Bala and Atibala grew effulgent around Rama, who was instantly healed. Rama could have lunged forward and grabbed Marichi’s long beard; the two were so close. Instead, Rama’s arrow struck Marichi with explosive force, blasting him up and away, like a rag doll in the wind. He would not survive the impact of it, no matter where he landed. Rama felt his surge of anger pursue Marichi and disappear with him.
The air filled once again with sacred hymns. Vishvamitra’s sacrifice continued unabated.
On the seventh night, the fire accepted their bid for enlightenment. It accepted the last ladle of ghee and then died down instantly. The fire, which had roared for seven days and seven nights, let out one final crackle and then swallowed itself and was gone.
Rama noticed the sensation that something was pulled from him and drawn into the fire, to disappear with it. Lakshmana felt it too, for he took an involuntary step forward, his chest expanding, an invisible force tugging at him. The sages and Vishvamitra, who were chanting loud mantras, were sucked toward the fire, forced to lean forward, their crossed legs holding them to the ground. Whatever the fire was doing was so powerful the mortal frame could not resist it. Rama saw eyes rolling back in their sockets, limbs twitching, and faces contorting. Many sages were shaking from head to toe, as if what the fire demanded was too much.
“Rama,” Lakshmana pleaded, like he was in pain.
Rama put his hand on Lakshmana’s shoulder, and his brother relaxed.
Vishvamitra alone was undaunted. He broke his silence and chanted loudly, his hair and beard wild like the last flames of the fire. Rama felt totally free.
“Look,” Lakshmana whispered.
The ascetics collectively raised their arms to the sky, and Rama and Lakshmana looked on as the spirit forms separated from the mortal bodies. It was like seeing an assembly that had suddenly doubled in size, only the new half was glowing so fiercely that it was difficult to see anything at all.
The fire hummed one last time and turned to embers. The sages were released from the fire’s demand, and their spirits returned to their bodies. The sacrifice was complete.
Vishvamitra sat frozen, the wooden ladle hovering in the air and dripping with ghee.
There no longer was a fire to offer the golden liquid to. Lakshmana’s breath returned to normal. Rama kept his hand where it was. He could feel that Lakshmana needed that touch to remain standing. His brother was deeply shaken, and so was the entire assembly.
The silence was so vibrant that it was hardly a silence at all. They had been purified, for each and every one there was now glowing, just as their spirits had been. And now Rama could see, beyond a doubt, that the sacrifice had been successful.
He dropped his hand from Lakshmana’s shoulder, full of awe. He was surrounded by 311
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enlightened beings. The assembled ascetics had been powerful enough to withstand the final cleanse of their mortal existence and still remain embodied. This was no ordinary feat.
It was exceptional.
Just as Rama began to kneel in reverence to them, the assembly turned their eyes on him.
Rama froze. Only his gaze moved across the gathering. They looked at Rama as if he was the strangest or most wonderful thing they had ever seen, as if they had not seen him at all these past seven days. Even Vishvamitra’s eyes glowed with intense adoration. Rama could not understand it or what happened next.
Vishvamitra’s eyes filled with tears, and he prostrated himself on the ground in Rama’s direction. He was the first, but every other ascetic followed suit. Lakshmana, who had regained his composure, looked as puzzled as Rama. The brothers glanced at each other but had the sense not to move, not to disrupt this moment when the sages paid homage to them.
Many of the sages were crying audibly and murmuring words of praise. They remained flat on the ground.
This continued so long that Lakshmana began to shuffle his feet. Even Vishvamitra’s face was resting against the ground. He was as overcome as the others, so Rama was left to draw his own conclusions.
He pulled Lakshmana to his side and said, “They must be overcome with gratitude, that’s all. We protected the sacrifice. They have been trying to complete it for the past seven years. They are enlightened beings now, Lakshmana.”
Lakshmana nodded at first, but then whispered back, “But somehow I don’t really feel like they are bowing to me.”
Vishvamitra’s voice rose above the murmurs. “I knew it! I knew it!” he cried.
Still, no one lifted their head from the ground, one hundred enlightened heads pointing directly at Rama.
Lakshmana turned and looked into Rama’s eyes. “What did you feel?”
The sensation had been so subtle, Rama couldn’t articulate it at once.
“Do you know what I felt?” Lakshmana asked. “I felt like my connection to you was pulled away from me, my reliance on you. The fire was ripping it from my body, telling me I didn’t need it.” He clutched his chest, as if the memory was too painful still. “But I do! I felt like I was dying, Rama.” He patted his chest nervously. Then he gestured toward the prostrated sages. “I think they died too, in a manner of speaking.”
“And you think they are bowing to me because of that?” Rama asked.
Lakshmana made big eyes and shrugged.
Just then Vishvamitra lifted his head from the ground and looked up at Rama. For a split second, Rama was enveloped by such an immense feeling of being worshipped that he had to close his eyes. The next moment, Vishvamitra was on his feet and congratulating the brothers on their victory. When Rama opened his eyes, Vishvamitra had resumed being the one he had been, their mentor. Rama quietly sighed in relief. Now he knew what was expected of him. He listened attentively to Vishvamitra’s words.
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“You were astounding,” Vishvamitra said. “You allowed us to complete our sacrifice.
We,” his hand swept across the assembly of sages, “are so grateful.”
As if on cue, they all began to make their way to their feet. Now Rama was no longer the target of their attention. They hardly looked at him, but Rama still felt that they were focused on him, aware of every action he took, so he stood still, allowing Vishvamitra and Lakshmana to carry the conversation. As they did, the sense of a normal day settled on them. Lakshmana described in some detail how they had kept the blood-drinkers at bay.
“Well done!” Vishvamitra said again. He embraced both of them. “Finally my sacrifice, seven years in the making, has come to completion because of your unrelenting skills as warriors. Tataka’s vile sons have met a fitting end.”
Rama and Lakshmana nodded at each other. It had not been easy to remain vigilant for seven days on end.
“Wait,” Rama suddenly said, looking up at the sky. “Marichi is still alive.”
Vishvamitra’s eyes grew clouded. “You blasted him with such force, Rama, he was flung eight hundred miles away.”
Rama peered into the sky too, wondering if he could shoot another arrow eight hundred miles away.
“He is drowning now,” Vishvamitra said. “He fell into the middle of the ocean. Your work here is done. It is time I returned you to your father.”
“Has it really been less than ten days since we left?” Lakshmana asked. “It feels like much longer!”
“Missing your home and your family? I’m sure King Dasharatha misses you.”
“As long as I’m with Rama . . .” Lakshmana began.
“I miss Father,” Rama said. Just thinking of his father made an achy feeling appear in his heart.
“Let us return then,” Vishvamitra said. “But first these bodies of ours need some rewards.”
Gratefully, the princes sat down, stretched their limbs, and accepted the fresh fruits they were offered. After such a long fast, the light meal was perfect.
“Sleep now,” their mentor said. “In the morning we will return to your home.”
Rama thought he would fall into a dreamless sleep, and he did for a time. But then his old dream came to him, only it was more vivid and lifelike than before. Kashi looked exactly like a blood-drinker with ten heads; he plucked up Shiva’s bow as if it was a toy. Rama was hit by arrow after arrow as a woman cried into her hands, singing a heartbreaking song amid sobs.
Rama woke up. It was still dark all around them. Lakshmana snored lightly on the ground next to him. Until sunrise, Rama lay awake, thinking about what he loved the most and how he would feel if it was lost.
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chapter 35
A Woman of Stone
hen the sun rose, the princes left the ashram with Vishvamitra without Weven an informal farewell. In Ayodhya a decision to go anywhere entailed lengthy arrangements and extended formalities. Yet Rama did not have to turn around to know that the ascetics behind them had bowed to the ground again.
Rama’s chivalrous heart longed to walk among the sages and exchange words, and perhaps discern the reason for their behavior toward him.
Observing Vishvamitra’s purposeful forward-moving steps, Rama could see how superfluous some of the palace’s formalities were. It was rather efficient and appropriate to simply move on now that their work was done.
Rama adjusted his quiver and bow against his shoulder, his only possessions at present. Soon after, Rama turned his attention to their route; they were not returning the way they had come. Perhaps there were many ways to reach the same destination.
Vishvamitra took them through a lush mango grove, where they stopped to eat mangoes. They continued on a path that only Vishvamitra could see, passing by wild ponds teeming with waterfowl and a forest so thick they could see nothing but leaves and flowers. The princes’ legs and arms were scratched by prickly vines, and they had to stop several times to dislodge thorns from their feet.
After a day’s journey, Vishvamitra led them onto a path and pointed out the
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flags peeking out above the trees, which signaled the city of Mithila. Rama and Lakshmana knew this was the capital city of the province of Videha, and King Janaka’s city. It was the home of Shiva’s bow and the princess who would never marry. Rama felt a strong pulsation in his heart. He wanted to enter the city and discover its wonders.
“It so happens that tomorrow is the second contest for Sita’s hand,” Vishvamitra told them. “King Janaka invited every eligible king or prince to participate. Your father may have told you?”
The princes shook their heads, and Vishvamitra laughed. “Mayhap he wanted to spare you. It’s widely known that no man can lift Shiva’s bow. The bruised ego of a warrior is something to be aware of, as I certainly know.”
