for us rakshasas. The humidity and heat would make all those early
risers seek the shade. We would dwell by wells and hover around the tamarind trees
that were laden with teeth-sharpening sour fruit. The night was our time for
entertainment and revelry. On one such night we heard news about a dim and distant
place far north from ours, where a swayamvara was being held. Our customs were
different. Quite often, we rakshasa females had to seek the male, and that gave us
freedom. I, born of a royal rakshasa clan, always had the first choice. But I was
curious to delve into the world of humans. And I knew that at a swayamvara there
would be many men. More likely, young men who were not yet aware of how we rakshasas
operated and the spells we could cast on them.
‘So I arrived in Mithila,
where this great assembly of princes from kingdoms far and near was to take place. I
don’t get impressed easily, because I am particular about my comforts.
Some call it indulgence, luxury, whatever! But I have a high standard that must be
maintained. And in Mithila I was impressed. It’s a pity the bedsteads
weren’t covered with gold and precious jewels, but at least it had brocade
awnings and there were many late-night distractions. I normally like to visit
gambling dens—that’s where men are most vulnerable—and
brothels are the best place to get the real gossip about the politics of the state.
That’s where you will find the police and the politicians divulging state
secrets as they pour state money into their leisure, which they call
“privileges”.
‘In Mithila, the brothels
seemed filled with courtiers and soldiers of the visiting princes. The princes were
in their guesthouses getting ready for the great contest the next day.
“How absurd!” I thought. Here’s the time for the best
stag night, because who knows how marriage can turn out, and all these young princes
were wasting time praying and hoping that they be the chosen one. What was
so
special about the bride-to-be?
‘I was having fun shifting my
shape from a water carrier to a vegetable seller to the sugar cane juice supplier to
a fish wife to a well-paid prostitute to the madam of a brothel so I could hear a
range of news, add my little mischief, get people quarrelling and have fun watching
them try to get out of those muddles. During my role as the madam, just as I was
tucking a bag of coins into my bodice, there was a hue and cry in the street over a
grand procession. It was my beloved brother Ravana arriving in the dead of the
night. He was being carried on a grand palanquin; his chariot was too wide to fit
the roads of Mithila. He always brought his own apartments, servants and courtiers
and lived royally wherever he went. When he had settled down, I decided to go and
dine with him, and so I did in a flash.
‘“You’re
not serious about entering the ‘competition’, are you?
You’ll beat them black and blue, turn them inside out and leave them
hollow! Why waste that energy? Surely you’re above all these humans? Why
not grab the prize and fly away?” I asked my brother frankly.
‘He was sitting cross-legged,
holding his right big toe with his left hand. For a moment his body seemed still.
“This is a prize I want to win. It is boring not to have a challenge. I
want this prize to be won over by me.” That was all he said before he
entered his inner apartments to take rest before the swayamvara.
‘I couldn’t
understand what had come over him. It certainly wasn’t because the prize
was a woman. My sister-in-law Mandodari was no less. She had all the rakshasa
dignity of staging a fight with artifice and accomplishment that the opponent would
whimper away, begging her forgiveness. She was a great queen, but sometimes she was
under the cloud of that curse that humans tend to have—self-reflection.
She always felt torn and twisted when what the human
risers seek the shade. We would dwell by wells and hover around the tamarind trees
that were laden with teeth-sharpening sour fruit. The night was our time for
entertainment and revelry. On one such night we heard news about a dim and distant
place far north from ours, where a swayamvara was being held. Our customs were
different. Quite often, we rakshasa females had to seek the male, and that gave us
freedom. I, born of a royal rakshasa clan, always had the first choice. But I was
curious to delve into the world of humans. And I knew that at a swayamvara there
would be many men. More likely, young men who were not yet aware of how we rakshasas
operated and the spells we could cast on them.
‘So I arrived in Mithila,
where this great assembly of princes from kingdoms far and near was to take place. I
don’t get impressed easily, because I am particular about my comforts.
Some call it indulgence, luxury, whatever! But I have a high standard that must be
maintained. And in Mithila I was impressed. It’s a pity the bedsteads
weren’t covered with gold and precious jewels, but at least it had brocade
awnings and there were many late-night distractions. I normally like to visit
gambling dens—that’s where men are most vulnerable—and
brothels are the best place to get the real gossip about the politics of the state.
That’s where you will find the police and the politicians divulging state
secrets as they pour state money into their leisure, which they call
“privileges”.
‘In Mithila, the brothels
seemed filled with courtiers and soldiers of the visiting princes. The princes were
in their guesthouses getting ready for the great contest the next day.
“How absurd!” I thought. Here’s the time for the best
stag night, because who knows how marriage can turn out, and all these young princes
were wasting time praying and hoping that they be the chosen one. What was
so
special about the bride-to-be?
‘I was having fun shifting my
shape from a water carrier to a vegetable seller to the sugar cane juice supplier to
a fish wife to a well-paid prostitute to the madam of a brothel so I could hear a
range of news, add my little mischief, get people quarrelling and have fun watching
them try to get out of those muddles. During my role as the madam, just as I was
tucking a bag of coins into my bodice, there was a hue and cry in the street over a
grand procession. It was my beloved brother Ravana arriving in the dead of the
night. He was being carried on a grand palanquin; his chariot was too wide to fit
the roads of Mithila. He always brought his own apartments, servants and courtiers
and lived royally wherever he went. When he had settled down, I decided to go and
dine with him, and so I did in a flash.
‘“You’re
not serious about entering the ‘competition’, are you?
You’ll beat them black and blue, turn them inside out and leave them
hollow! Why waste that energy? Surely you’re above all these humans? Why
not grab the prize and fly away?” I asked my brother frankly.
‘He was sitting cross-legged,
holding his right big toe with his left hand. For a moment his body seemed still.
“This is a prize I want to win. It is boring not to have a challenge. I
want this prize to be won over by me.” That was all he said before he
entered his inner apartments to take rest before the swayamvara.
‘I couldn’t
understand what had come over him. It certainly wasn’t because the prize
was a woman. My sister-in-law Mandodari was no less. She had all the rakshasa
dignity of staging a fight with artifice and accomplishment that the opponent would
whimper away, begging her forgiveness. She was a great queen, but sometimes she was
under the cloud of that curse that humans tend to have—self-reflection.
She always felt torn and twisted when what the human
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