So the Malayaputras have handled the king of Lanka. He won’t be coming. Good.
The court crier banged his staff against the large bell at the entrance of the hall, signalling a call for silence.
Vishwamitra cleared his throat and spoke loudly. The superb acoustics of the Hall of Dharma carried his voice clearly to all those present. ‘Welcome to this august gathering called by the wisest and most spiritual of rulers in India, King Janak.’
Janak smiled genially.
Vishwamitra continued. ‘The princess of Mithila, Sita, has decided to make this a gupt swayamvar. She will not join us in the hall. The great kings and princes will, on her bidding, compete —’
The Maharishi was interrupted by the ear-splitting sounds of numerous conch shells; surprising, for conch shells were usually melodious and pleasant. Everyone turned to the source of the sound: the entrance of the great hall. Fifteen tall, muscular warriors strode into the room holding black flags, with the image of the head of a roaring lion emerging from a profusion of fiery flames. The warriors marched with splendid discipline.
Behind them were two formidable men. One was a giant, even taller than Lakshman. He was corpulent but muscular, with a massive potbelly that jiggled with every step. His whole body was unusually hirsute — he looked more like a giant bear than human. Most troubling for all those present, were the strange outgrowths on his ears and shoulders. He was a Naga. He was also Raavan’s younger brother, Kumbhakarna.
Walking proudly beside him was Raavan, his head held high. He moved with a minor stoop; perhaps a sign of advancing age. Despite the stoop, Raavan’s great height and rippling musculature were obvious. The muscles may have sagged a bit and the skin may have wrinkled, but the strength that remained in them was palpable. His battle-worn, swarthy skin was pockmarked, probably by a childhood disease. A thick beard, with an equal sprinkling of black and white hair, valiantly attempted to cover his ugly marks while a handlebar moustache set off his menacing features. He was wearing a violet-coloured dhoti and angvastram; only the most expensive colour-dye in the world. His headgear was intimidating, with two threatening six-inch-long horns reaching out from the top on either side.
Fifteen more warriors followed the two men.
Raavan’s entourage moved to the centre and halted next to the bow of Lord Rudra. The lead bodyguard made a loud announcement. ‘The king of kings, the emperor of emperors, the ruler of the three worlds, the beloved of the Gods, Lord Raavan!’
Raavan turned to a minor king who sat closest to the Pinaka. He made a soft grunting sound and flicked his head to the right, a casual gesture which clearly communicated what he expected. The king immediately rose and scurried away, coming to a standstill behind another competitor. Raavan walked to the chair, but did not sit. He placed his right foot on the seat and rested his hand on his knee. His bodyguards, including the giant bear-like Kumbhakarna, fell in line behind him.
Raavan finally cast a casual glance at Vishwamitra. ‘Continue, great Malayaputra.’
Vishwamitra, the chief of the Malayaputras, was furious. He had never been treated so disrespectfully. ‘Raavan …’ he growled.
Raavan stared at Vishwamitra with lazy arrogance.
The Maharishi managed to rein in his temper; he had an important task at hand. He would deal with Raavan later. ‘Princess Sita has decreed the sequence in which the great kings and princes will compete.’
Raavan began to walk towards the Pinaka while Vishwamitra was still speaking. The chief of the Malayaputras completed his announcement just as Raavan was about to reach for the bow. ‘The first man to compete is not you, Raavan. It is Ram, the prince of Ayodhya.’
Raavan’s hand stopped a few inches from the bow. He looked at Vishwamitra, and then turned around to see who had responded to the sage. He saw a young man, dressed in the simple white clothes of a hermit. Behind him stood another young, though gigantic, man, next to whom was Arishtanemi.
Raavan glared first at Arishtanemi, and then at Ram. If looks could kill, Raavan would have certainly felled a few today. He turned towards Vishwamitra, Janak, and Kushadhwaj, his fingers wrapped around the macabre finger-bones pendant that hung around his neck. His body was shaking in utter fury. He growled in a loud and booming voice, ‘I have been insulted! Why was I invited at all if you planned to make unskilled boys compete ahead of me?!’
Janak looked at Kushadhwaj before turning to Raavan and interjecting weakly, ‘These are the rules of the swayamvar, Great King of Lanka …’
A voice that sounded more like the rumble of thunder was finally heard. The voice of Kumbhakarna. ‘Enough of this nonsense!’ He turned towards Raavan, his elder brother. ‘Dada, let’s go.’
Raavan suddenly bent and picked up the Pinaka. Before anyone could react, he had strung it and nocked an arrow on the string. Everyone sat paralysed as he pointed the arrow directly at Vishwamitra.
Vishwamitra stood up, threw his angvastram aside, and banged his chest with his closed fist. ‘Shoot, Raavan!’ The sage’s voice resounded in the great hall. ‘Come on! Shoot, if you have the guts!’
The crowd gasped collectively. In horror.
Sita was shocked beyond words. Guruji!
Raavan released the arrow. It slammed into the statue of Mithi behind Vishwamitra, breaking off the nose of the ancient king, the founder of Mithila. An unimaginable insult.
Sita was livid. How dare he?
‘Raavan!’ growled Sita, as she got up and whirled around, simultaneously reaching for her sword. She was stopped by her Mithilan maids, who held her back from rushing towards the stairs.
‘No, Lady Sita!’
‘Raavan is a monster …’
‘You will die …’
‘Look, he’s leaving …’ said another maid.
Sita rushed back to the latticed window. She saw Raavan throw the bow, the holy Pinaka, on the table and begin to walk towards the door. He was followed by his guards. In all this commotion, Kumbhakarna quickly stepped up to the table, unstrung the Pinaka, and reverentially brought it to his head. Holding it with both hands. Almost like he was apologising to the bow. Placing the Pinaka back on the table, he turned around and briskly walked out of the hall. Behind Raavan.
As the last of the Lankans exited, the people within the hall turned in unison from the doorway to those seated at the other end of the room: Vishwamitra, Janak and Kushadhwaj.
Vishwamitra spoke as if nothing had happened. ‘Let the competition begin.’
The people in the room sat still, as if they had turned to stone. En masse. Vishwamitra spoke once again, louder this time. ‘Let the competition begin. Prince Ram, please step up.’
Ram rose from his chair and walked up to the Pinaka. He bowed with reverence and folded his hands together into a Namaste. Sita thought she saw his lips move in a chant. But she couldn’t be sure from the distance.