The hills at the western end of Mumbadevi, where Walkeshwar was, were tall enough to be seen from across the straits, during the day. In fact, the hills had once been visible at night as well. For that’s where the main palaces, temples, and structures of the old city were. And they had always been well lit.
But Jatayu couldn’t see a thing there. No torchlights. No lamp towers. No sign of habitation.
Walkeshwar remained abandoned. It remained in ruin.
Jatayu shivered as he remembered those terrible days. The time when he had been a young soldier. When Raavan’s hordes had come … He remembered only too well. For he had been one of the horde.
Lord Parshu Ram, forgive me … Forgive me for my sins …
‘Captain,’ said one of the Malayaputra soldiers. ‘Should we cross now or …’
Jatayu turned around. ‘No. We’ll cross in the morning. We’ll rest here for the night.’
Jatayu tossed and turned as he tried to sleep. Memories that he had buried deep within himself were bursting through to his consciousness. Nightmares from his long-hidden past.
Memories of when he was younger. Many, many years ago.
Raavan used our own people to conquer us.
Jatayu sat up. He could see the islands across the creek.
When he had been a teenager, Jatayu had carried the pain, the anger, of being ill-treated as a Naga. As someone who was deformed. But Nagas weren’t the only ones ill-treated. Many communities had complaints against the rigid, supercilious, and chauvinistic elite of the Sapt Sindhu. And Raavan had seemed like a rebel-hero, a saviour of sorts to many of them. He took on the powers-that-be. And, the disenchanted flocked to him. Fought for him. Killed for him.
And, were used by him.
Jatayu had, at that time, enjoyed the feeling of vengeance. Of hitting out at the hated, self-absorbed elite. Until the time that his unit had been ordered to join an AhiRaavan.
Raavan’s forces were divided into two groups. One group commanded the land territories, with commanders called MahiRaavans in charge. And the other group commanded the seas and the ports, with commanders called AhiRaavans in control.
It was with one such AhiRaavan called Prahast that Jatayu had been ordered to come to Mumbadevi and its seven islands.
These seven islands were peopled by the Devendrar community at the time, led by a kindly man called Indran. Mumbadevi and the other six islands were an entrepot, with goods stored for import and export with minimal custom duties. The liberal Devendrars provided supplies and refuge to any seafarer, without favour or discrimination. They treated everyone with kindness. They believed it was their sacred duty to do so. One such seafarer, who had been provided refuge for some time, was Jatayu, when he was very young. He remembered that kindness well. It was a rare place in India, where Jatayu had not been treated like the plague. He had been welcomed like a normal person. The shock of the compassion had been so overwhelming that he had cried himself to sleep that first night in Mumbadevi, unable to handle the flood of emotions.
And many years later, he had returned, as part of an army sent to conquer that very same Mumbadevi Island.
Raavan’s strategic reasons were obvious. He wanted absolute control over all the sea trade in the Indian Ocean; the hub of global trade. Whoever dominated this Ocean, dominated the entire world. And only with absolute control could Raavan enforce his usurious customs duties. He had conquered or managed to gain control over most of the major ports across the Indian subcontinent and the coasts of Arabia, Africa, and South-east Asia. Those ports followed his rules.
But Mumbadevi stubbornly refused to charge high custom or turn away any sailor who sought refuge there. Its inhabitants believed this service was their duty. Their dharma. Raavan had to gain control over this important harbour on the sea route between the Indus-Saraswati coasts and Lanka.
AhiRaavan Prahast had been sent to negotiate a solution. And, if needed, force a solution. The Lankan Army had been waiting, camped in their ships, anchored at the Mumbadevi harbour, off its eastern coast. For a week. Nothing had happened. Finally, they had been ordered to march to Walkeshwar, the western part of Mumbadevi, where the palace and a temple dedicated to Lord Rudra had been built, right next to a natural-spring-filled lake.
Jatayu, being a junior soldier, was at the back of the line.
He knew the Devendrars couldn’t fight. They were a peaceful community of seafarers, engineers, doctors, philosophers, and storytellers. There were very few warriors among them. Jatayu hoped desperately that a compromise had been reached.
The scene he saw at the main town square, outside of the palace, baffled him.
It was completely deserted. Not a soul in sight. All the shops were open. Goods displayed. But nobody to tend to, or even secure them.
At the centre of the square was a massive pile of corkwood, with some mixture of holy sandalwood. It was held in place by a metallic mesh. All drenched in fresh ghee. It had clearly been built recently. Perhaps, the previous night itself.
It was like a very large unlit cremation pyre. Humongous. Massive enough to potentially accommodate hundreds of bodies.
It had a walkway leading up to its top.
Prahast had come in expecting a ceremonial surrender, as he had demanded, and then the peaceful expulsion of the Devendrars. This was unexpected. He immediately made his troops fall into battle formations.
Sanskrit chants were emanating from behind the palace walls. Accompanied by the clanging of sacred bells and the beating of drums. It took some time for the Lankans to discern the words of the chants.
They were from the Garuda Purana. Hymns usually sung during a death ceremony.
What were the Devendrars thinking? Their palace walls were not tough enough to withstand an assault. They did not have enough soldiers to take on the five-thousand-strong Lankan Army.
Suddenly, smoke began to plume out of the palace compound. Thick, acrid smoke. The wooden palace had been set on fire.
And then, the gates were flung open.
Prahast’s order was loud and clear. ‘Draw! And hold!’
All the Lankans immediately drew their weapons. Holding their line. In military discipline. Expecting an attack …
Indran, the king of the Devendrars, led his people out of the palace. All of them. His entire family. The priests, traders, workmen, intellectuals, doctors, artists. Men, women, children. All his citizens.
All the Devendrars.
They all wore saffron robes. The colour of fire, of Lord Agni. The colour of the final journey.
Every single face was a picture of calm.
They were still chanting.
Every Devendrar carried gold coins and jewellery. Each one carried a fortune. And each one carried a small bottle.
Indran walked up the pathway to the stand that overhung the massive pile of wood. He nodded at his people.
They flung their gold coins and jewellery at the Lankan soldiers.
Indran’s voice carried loud and clear. ‘You can take all our money! You can take our lives! But you cannot force us to act against our dharma!’