Warriors Of Dandaka - Praambha- Published

Richard Marcus

3 April 2007, 02:50
Editor“s note: We are privileged to be given permission by Pushpak Karniak to reproduce his wonderful story “Warriors Of Dandaka”. Each week we will print another chapter of those he has already published and then as he produces new ones we will publish them as well. Thank you Puskpak and to everyone else enjoy

Welcome to “Warriors of Dandaka”, a fan fiction, devoted to the Ramayana Series by amcha bhai Ashok Banker. WoD will attempt to fill the void of 13 years between “Demons of Chitrakut” and “Armies of Hanuman”, books 3 and 4 of the series respectively.

I pray to Ganesha, my ishta devata, and to all other manifestations of the One, to grace me the strength and courage to carry this mountain on my shoulders, much like our beloved Hanuman.

Jai Shri Ram. Jai Hind


Caves of Steel

1

Rama.

The man on the hill turned his back to the sun. He relaxed visibly as the sweat on his neck and back cooled his dark skin. He had been watching the western horizon for what seemed an eternity. He had seen nothing. Just like yesterday, and the day before. Everyday, for the past whole cycle of the moon, had he come here when the sun began its descent. Everyday, he had left empty handed. No news, he thought. His heart did not know if it was for better or worse. He hoped it was for the former. He had sent some of his men — and women — to the west and the south, to locate a new safe spot. Their current dwelling was in the danger of being noticed by the enemy scouts soon. He had himself narrowly avoided a couple of them in the past week. It was only a matter of time before their hideout was found, and they would have to relocate to a new one, again. So had it been for the last three years. So would it be till this war would last. Engrossed in these thoughts, he failed to notice the looming cliff face of dark basalt come right in front of his path. He walked straight into it.

There, along the lines of vertical rock rising above him, he found the most subtle foothold; carved especially to fit only human feet. His practiced limbs caught on to the strategically placed footholds, and he began to climb with the grace of a lithe dancer. But the grace was wholly deceptive. One false step, and he would fall to an instant death, about forty feet below, or worse — if the fall did not kill him, but instead only broke his spine — to a permanently incapacitated future, a living vegetable. The glossy basalt had been coated with organic wax and shellac extracted from the gum trees nearby, making it extra slippery to climb without the proper footholds. Good work, Ratnakar, he thought to himself. The Asura army would never be able to climb these cliffs. It was Ratnakar’s genius that had chosen this hideout. Rama had added the extra measures of precaution though Lakshman had assured that they were quite unnecessary.

Within moments he was at the face of a natural cavern. The mouth gave way to a narrow passage about the size of an average human, lined with bats on every inch of the ceiling. A few brave and angry bats swooped upon him as he made his way into the pitch darkness, disturbing their slumber. Soon they would venture out to hunt. He shuddered slightly as he thought of the other nocturnal predators that his band of fighters were avoiding right now. No lights for the passage, he recalled his instructions. Always blind your enemy with darkness and fear. The narrow passage and the bats provided an ideal cover from their enemies. No Asura worth his salt would consider walking fearlessly into this passage. This was the warrior’s entrance, not for the underage and women – though Sita always used it in defiance of his orders. He smiled, but brushed his thoughts away. The bats were the least of the dangers that awaited an intruder here.

He stopped after he had counted thirty- three steps, precise as always. His hands spread out half a length from his body. He closed his eyes, sensing his surroundings rather than seeing – he could see nothing anyways. He rotated his hands till they were about shoulder high, and found the clefts in the wall. He hoisted himself till he was at least three feet over where he had stood moments ago. His bare feet gripped the line cut through the rock and he walked, nay, skid forward, keeping his hands and feet on the lines. A gust of warm air shot up from below. He knew what lay below, but he kept his eyes closed. After moving about a hundred steps, he jumped – and landed ten feet below the floor of the passage.

He walked on for another score and twenty steps till he reached the first mashaal, torchlight made of rags dipped in oil and bound on a thick wooden stick. Lifting the one he had brought from inside a few hours ago, he made his way into the belly of the mountain.

After navigating a seemingly endless labyrinth of passages and false doors, booby traps and bottomless pits like the one at the entrance, he finally reached the edge of an underground cliff. He swept the mashaal four times left, and then three times right, signaling into the dark. Within moments, somebody lowered a rope ladder, made of the sturdy coir of the palms from the west. He extinguished the mashaal in a nearby puddle and climbed up to the makeshift watch tower – the first line of human defense. Three men, he could barely see their faces. One lent him a hand to pull him up through the last two feet, and he recognized the familiar vice-like grip.

“Dhananjaya”, he smiled at the guard who picked him up effortlessly.

“Well met, my lord”, replied the guard, who stood an entire man and a half over Rama.
The rest of the guard was made of two boys who hardly looked a year over fifteen. Their expectant eyes scanned his face, seeking out information about their loved ones. Fathers, brothers or worse, mothers. When Rama did not speak, he saw the light in their eyes wane with disappointment. He squeezed the shoulder of the guard nearest to him, patting it lightly. The boy gave him a half-hearted smile, and Rama smiled back.

The watchtower was not a tower at all. Instead, it was the southernmost tip of a vast underground plateau, the ceiling of which was at least five hundred feet high. This was where they had been hiding for the last three months, from Aashaadh, the month that brought the heavy rains. They had been forced to leave the treetops and seek refuge in the underground caves after the continuous onslaught of torrential rains had swept away more than half of their tree dwellings and nearly wiped out the rest. Now they were scattered in the caves along the plateau, foraging the nearby forests for food once a week. No meat, his orders had been explicit. A pile of bones and carcasses, and any Asura could guess where that came from. Roots and herbs were less likely to attract attention, and served as a more healthy diet in the monsoon. The last thing he wanted to add to their already long list of troubles was an epidemic.

Rama made his way across the camp, avoiding the inquisitive glances of the ones who waited to hear for any news about the party which had gone west. His own abode was at the back, a small hole along the northern wall. He removed his dhanush-baan and sword with a sweep of his right hand as he bent to wash his feet before entering the cave. He wiped the sweat off his body with his ang-vastra, flinching as the raw cloth met a gash on his left arm, a recent adornment from a battle.

Someone brought him water to drink. He accepted it graciously, relishing the metallic tang of the mineral rich water of nearby underground river. Thirst slaked, he turned his thoughts to the more important issues at hand. Where was Sita? She had chosen to watch the south, with Somashrava. They should have returned a prahar ago. It was most unusual for them to be late. What could have held them back?

A cry rose from the far end of the cave, as if an answer to his questions. It was carried from post to post. He could barely make out what was being passed around at first, but as the voices grew stronger, he could make out a phrase – “vaapas aa gaye”. They are back. This could only mean one thing – Lakshman and Ratnakar had returned with their parties.

He climbed down to meet them, smiling broadly. But by now, the enthusiastic cries of fore had turned into confused murmurs. Sita and Somashrava were leading the band he had sent to the west. She was safe and hearty, he was happy to note. But why was she not smiling? Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet. She was staring straight into him.

Somashrava was also not his usual self. The normally active kshatriya was uncharacteristically solemn. His eyes followed the group and his smile slowly turned into puzzlement, and finally into shock. Following them was Ratnakar, carrying the limp, inert body of Lakshman.

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