posted by Pushpak at 9:10 AM
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posted by Pushpak at 11:34 AM
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posted by Pushpak at 8:45 AM
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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, a 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.
* * * *
2
The night was young when she first heard it. Her name. Softly spoken through the wafting scent of the night-queen blossoms. Brushing softly against her body, caressing her. She felt, not saw, strong hands hold her. The warmth of a man’s breath, a familiar breath, arousing her beyond imagination. Moving her body to accommodate his, she started to play out the familiar game of rati-krida, the game of love. Their movements grew urgent, their breath warmer with every kiss. His hands sought her, found her, and then drove her to the peaks of pleasure. He whispered her names, the private names they had for the most private moments. His voice was hardly audible over her heavy breath. Finally, he whispered her name again. “Kaikeyi…”
Dasaratha was alive!! Yes, he was alive. How else could he be here, in flesh and blood? Kaikeyi tried to remember where she was, in vain. No matter where she looked, her eyes met only the pitch darkness of the Night. She had concealed the lovers under her veil.
“Kaikeyi”, his whispers glided gently on her neck. “Kaikeyi !! My beloved, my queen”. His hands left her hips and moved upwards, tenderly tracing the curves of her figure. He stopped at her chin, his fingers dancing over her face. They paused, looking into each others eyes with an emotion that only lovers could. For that’s what they were – eternal lovers. He, the king of the most powerful Aryan nation and she, his warrior-queen.
“Dasa, my Lord. But …… but … how?” he put a finger to her lips, shifted slightly and lifted her by the shoulders. They sat face to face on her bed, if you could call a simple mat on a wooden charpaai, a bed for a queen. Ever since Dasaratha’s death, the queens had forsaken all pleasure. Kausalya had immersed herself into the affairs of the state; the docile Sumitra had grown more reserved and retreated into her palace completely. But at least they had each other for company. Not Kaikeyi. Kaikeyi lived alone in an obscure section of her vast, deserted palace. No serving maids would be ready to work here. Some said the palace was cursed, some refused outright. They would not serve the lady who sent their beloved prince into his first, and their king onto his last exile. Kaikeyi did not fight them, nor did she display any of her erstwhile arrogance. Resigned to her fate, she chose to live simply, without any need of servants. Kausalya had dispatched some servants to help her, but they were turned back by Kaikeyi. When Kausalya gave strict orders for them to remain, Kaikeyi let them take charge of the rest of the palace. Her section, she would tend herself.
She lived like a sadhavi, a pious forest dweller, in the midst of the wealthiest city of the Aryans. Gone were the wanton excesses of the second queen, replaced by her old love of athletics, aesthetics and erudition. Her day began with the traditional Suryanamaskars, the obeisance to the Surya, followed by martial exercises, and a simple diet of fruit and milk. The rest of the day she spent reading the Vedic texts, and often skipped lunch. Meditation in the evening was followed by a simple dinner – herbs and roots. Day by day, year by year, for the last three years, she had observed this strict regimen. The woman Dasaratha was looking upon now was not the flabby woman he had once known. Instead, he observed that the new lifestyle had turned her back into the warrior he fell in love with. Her face glowed in the meager moonlight, her lean figure a testament to her warrior-skills.
“Call it daiva, fate; or what. My life, nay, all of my lives in this celestial chakra, belong to you, belong with you. Without you, my queen, even swarga amounts to naught. Foolish we were, to think that death could separate us. How can a dark cloud be separated from the rain? How can a swan from its grace? The moon from its moonlight, the flower from the Spring? It is so, my queen, with Nature. It is so, with us.”
She blushed lightly at this praise. So, Dasa was in poetic mood today. Very well, tonight they would compose the greatest love poem ever written. She would love him with every atom in her being. She would wash away her sins by bathing in the
“Dasa”, her eyes brimmed with tears. “How will this end? How can I pay for my crimes? Tell me, my lord, how can I absolve myself of the paap? How can I bring back Rama and Bharat? How can I make peace with myself? My own son does not love me. My people hate me. There is no house in the entire land who would offer me a few drops of Gangajal were I to be on my deathbed. I am worst than an outcast…”
She buried her face in his broad shoulders. She was crying freely, her words barely audible to herself. “How could … I? I let that … that … daayan … her schemes … under my very nose? Rama … into exile… Rama …. Rama… Nirdayi … Nirdayi ….” She repeated the word for “heartless”.
Dasaratha was silent for a few moments. When he spoke, gone was the deep baritone of the king. His voice had a raspy edge to it - the sound of broken glass screeching on a steel blade. Kaikeyi shivered when he spoke. “So be it. Give me your heart, and be absolved of all your sins”.
She looked up and froze. Dasaratha sat silently, his eyes closed in fierce contemplation. He opened them slowly, and she could readily make out the greenish hue that filled his eyes like the glow of the Northern skies. Stunned beyond belief, she was tongue tied to utter even an invocation to Mahadev, the God of Destruction and War. With an eerie noise like some snakeskin being stretched across a frame, he sprouted heads. One, two, three, she counted. Ten. Deva, she gasped, what game is this? Where was her Dasa?
Gradually, all the ten heads of Dasaratha took form. Kaikeyi came out of her love-induced stupor and her keen senses instantly attuned to her environment. With her swift reflexes, she was sure she could best the-thing-in-front-of-her in battle. But strangely, she felt calm, not fear, in the presence of this demonic entity. For by now, she was sure that the person before her was not her Dasa, but a demon in Dasa’s form. If he had come to kill her, she thought, she would not give him the pleasure of an easy kill. But something about the demon told her that he had not come to murder her. Dasaratha. A voice spoke inside her mind. Dasaratha, He-who-fought-in-ten-directions-at-once. Dasaratha, she repeated to herself. Was it not natural that he possessed ten heads? Yes. Ten heads, ten directions. It made sense. This was her Dasa, in a new form, in his next birth, born as a demon due to his past karma. She observed him carefully. Apart from the ten heads, nothing seemed out of place, and yet, she knew instinctively, there was something unnatural about this Dasaratha.
The ten-headed Dasaratha opened his eyes. All twenty of them. He extended his index finger, and she recoiled with horror, seeing the shiny talon in place of a human nail. Smiling, he extended it towards her heart and repeated again.
“So be it. Kaikeyi-the-Heartless you are named, and so shall you be. Your heart shall be mine”.
With a lightning-quick movement, he plunged his talon into her chest, striking her heart and spurting blood all over her spotless white sari.
* * * *
3
Vibhishana was dying. Or at least that’s what he felt. He stood on the brink of an unfathomable darkness, a hungry bottomless pit that reached into the very bowels of the Earth. He felt the shadows move around him, stalking, biding their time, poised to swallow him at any moment. He was never comfortable in the dark, unlike his brother Ravana, or his son Meghnaad, who actually drew power from darkness. He preferred the warm touch of the Surya, the sun god. Given the choice, he would have never come down into these dreaded caves for all his life. But this was not an action of volition, rather of necessity. The last three years had been an unending turmoil, an uphill battle to maintain order amongst the various Asura species. Mandodari had ensured the survival of the rakshasas, at the cost of the destruction of Lanka. She had played her part well. Too well, he thought. If half of what he had heard had any measure of veracity to it, then Lanka had merely traded one tyrant for another, a demon king for a cool, calculating queen. All this time, he had pored over ancient manuscripts, searching for a method to rejuvenate Ravana, trying to find the barest thread to cling to. Five moons ago, he came across an ancient recipe for revival from the shakti of Brahman. The procedure was quite gory, and it needed some vital ingredients that Vibhishana was sure he would not find on Lanka. He had to make do with some local elements, and test his hypothesis. There was only one way to find out, and unpleasant as it may be, it was the only way.
The path was lit by dim oil lamps along the walls. Slowly, he made his way through the endless labyrinthine corridors of the underground chambers where Ravana’s kin were lasting out this crisis. The narrow stairwell wound its way to the bottom of the Nikhumbila Hill. An occasional gust of geyser brought foul stench of rakshasa offal and Devas-know-what.
Holy Shiva, he muttered under his breath, all this, right under your very nose!! The sheer audacity of this act made him shiver uneasily. Even during Ravana’s reign, no rakshasa had dared to desecrate the caves under the Nikhumbila Hill. He looked around warily, searching for a fleeting glimpse of a familiar landmark, if only to provide momentary orientation. Three hundred feet, he guessed. The air was thick with the raw dampness of slimy, mossy growth on the walls. Somewhere above his head, the steady trickle of water – an abhishekha to the Lord Shiva. Echoes of a distant rakshasa brawl. Stupid fools, he thought. You will be the end of yourself, before the Devas have a chance to attack. It was not a matter of how, but just a matter of when. What will you do the day Kubera comes back to stake claim on the island, Vibhishana? He knew that though he had lived his entire life as a pious Brahmin, it would be a tough card to play when bloodthirsty Devas would arrive at their doorstep. What would he rather do – beg for the mercy of the Devas, and watch his kinsmen being slaughtered, or join ranks amongst them and fight to protect his country? Despite the situation, he managed a weak smile. He was a Paulastya, first and foremost. A descendant of one of the greatest seers the world has ever seen. The Paulastyas were known for their adherence to Dharma, and steadfastness towards the clan. So be it, he sighed, repeating the words in his mind for what was possibly the thousandth time - if it was so ordained by fate then he would face any army that would come to their doorstep.
He hardly had a chance to continue his present preoccupation, when the Earth gave away from under his right foot. He scrambled to balance himself and managed to hold with one hand, the rocky wall on his left side, clinging to it by his fingernails. He heard the painful crack of a fingernail breaking as it brushed the raw, uncut rock three hundred feet below the ground. With his other hand, he managed to hold on to the floor as he hung in space for a moment, like Trishankhu, the immortal king who lay hung between heaven and earth in the northern sky. He raised himself above the abyss, inch by inch, and finally hauled his body over the edge, panting on the floor where he had walked but moments ago. That was foolish, very foolish. Another step and the Devas would have been spared the effort to kill him. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, regulating the beating of his heart, which was racing forth like a wild stallion.
After what seemed like an eternity, his heart close to its normal run, having mustered courage to face the unknown abyss, he stood up and turned around. He opened his eyes to a dark pit, extending from where he stood to as far as he could see. And probably beyond too, he guessed. A couple of steps brought him to the rim separating light and darkness. He peered over the edge to gauge the depth, but found more darkness. Om Namah Shivay, he muttered involuntarily. As if in response, the dark abyss growled with anger and a gust of searing hot wind threw him back a few feet.
Mandodari, he thought instinctively. This was some security mechanism the queen must have put in place to keep unwanted visitors away. But he could not find one reason why she would want him out of the way. He was family. He uttered a secret invocation to Pushpak, the celestial vehicle, tightened his cloak around his arms, and stepped into the dark abyss.
A gleaming disc materialized beneath his feet as he stepped into the void. Another appeared out of thin air as he extended his left foot too. Pushpak, he thought. He sent a silent gratitude to the celestial vaahana, and continued onwards. Pushpak seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go, for the discs were now appearing not in straight line as before, but curving gently into the bottom of the darkness, leading, rather than following his feet.
He was soon at the bottom of the cave. Vibhishana blinked sharply as the floor came into view. Above him, and surrounding him from all directions, were countless oil lamps, resting on similarly countless stone pillars. Each hexagonal pillar had one mashaal on every face, at different heights to optimally light the area. Vibhishana made some quick mental calculations. If his preliminary estimates were true, based on what he could see, there had to be at least a hundred thousand mashaals lighting the endless floor. Strangely, the light from the countless oil lamps never reached beyond a certain height, imprisoned by a powerful magical cage. He examined the lamp closest to him. Devas!!! This was indeed magic, for the lamp had no oil, and no wick, and yet sported the brightest flame he had ever seen. Flames danced and flickered, adding a sensuous grace to the otherwise frightening display of magic. For a moment, Vibhishana thought of the fireflies in the forests of the
Ahh, but there was no time to waste in pointless reminiscing. He had a task to perform, and he had to do it quickly before the muhurta, or the auspicious window of time elapsed. He had checked and rechecked his astronomical charts to be sure of the exact moment. He unfolded a bundle from under his cloak, and began walking towards the center of the vast cavern. On a pedestal lay his brother Ravana, imprisoned in the Brahmanic cage. His hands quivered as he opened the bundle and laid it on the floor. He made sure he had all the ingredients necessary and took out the torn and faded manuscript page.
He began chanting the mantras in the old archaic tongue of pagans before the times of the Vedas. The guttural speech was wholly unfamiliar, and he stumbled, albeit briefly in a place or two. It took him an entire ghatika to read the arcane mantras aloud, and by the end of it, he was sweating profusely. He wiped his face with his cloak, and set about to the next phase of the ritual.
He opened a vial from the assorted ingredients and poured the liquid in all the cardinal directions on the cold, blood red slab. The liquid sizzled on contact with the stone, emitting dense putrid fumes. Sarpaaya Vishahey, he muttered in high Sanskrit. Venom from the most poisonous snake. He opened a small packet of parchment and took a pinch of the ivory powder from it. His body shook as he held it, and he spilt most of the packet before sprinkling what was left in his sweaty fingers over the slab. Nru-asthi Bhushanah. Ornamented with the ashes of human bones. Vibhishana knew that the act he was committing was enough to wash away all piety he had earned in this lifetime, and seven more. He had thought about this moment for many days, nay months. It had been a guest in his several nightmares. And he had come down today, to end the nightmares, once and for all.
The last part was particularly tricky. Shatruha Raktey. The blood of the enemy. Vibhishana unwrapped a long slender object. Ravana’s spear. The same which he used when fighting Indra, the king of Devas. If Vibhishana’s hunch was correct, the blood on its head was that of Indra himself, archenemy of Ravana. Holding the spear in both of his hands, he rose above the slab. His hands were shaking violently, and sweat poured from every inch of his body. He closed his eyes to fight the stinging sweat, as he brought down the spear on the exact spot above the heart of his sleeping brother.
The impact was deafening. The spearhead smashed to bits on hitting the stone, and he felt raw lightning pass through his entire body. It threw him in the air, and he landed fifteen feet away, taking a glancing blow on his head from a nearby pillar. Vibhishana tasted the blood flowing from his nose, and the last words he heard before he blacked out seemed to come from the heart of the red stone itself. Rama, Rama, RAMA!!!
posted by Pushpak at 9:39 AM
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Night Has A Thousand Eyes
1
They started early, bathing in the last rays of a dying moon. Ratnakar led the group, with Lakshman and three others following closely. Mashaals were out of question. They wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. With only smidgen of pearly moonlight to lead them, progress was slower than what Lakshman would have expected. With some visible effort, not lost on Ratnakar, he stifled an urge to prod the group further. It had rained steadily for three days. Thankfully, it was a clear night. Lakshman glanced upwards into the dark sky. Trutiya, third night after Amaavas, the night when even the moon sleeps. They had to reach their destination before Pournima, the full moon night. They marched on, a silent procession.
They had descended the slopes of the hills two days ago. The plains of Khandesh opened up before them, sparse pockets of vegetation indicating some sign of life in an otherwise arid landscape. Each man carried light provisions - they would live off the land - and necessary weapons. Travel from the third prahar of the night to noon, and stay out of sight the rest of the time, Rama’s instructions replayed in his mind. Most Rakshashas were nocturnal hunters, and by dawn, even the heartiest of the scouts would have returned back to the camp or dug a hole in the ground to sleep. Rama had chosen the duration of their journey taking into account the rains and the light of the moon, brighter as they reached their destination and then waning as they returned, which would make it harder for the Rakshasas to spot them. Of course, it would also make it harder for their party to move swiftly. Rama, he thought. Forever - the leader. Forever - the king. Rama was the king of this band of warriors, though he wore not a crown, or demanded to be treated as one. He could see the respect and awe in their eyes when in Rama’s presence. He was their hero, their champion, and they would follow him to hell and back, if he asked them to. For that was Rama’s way, to lead from the front. Never had he asked anyone to perform a task he would not have performed himself. Never had his request been turned down.
He looked back to catch a glimpse of his weary companions. They were following him, maintaining the pace with some visible effort now, keeping a distance of five feet between themselves. Enough room to wield a sword should the time come. Basic principles of Arya warfare. Never bunch together and provide an easy target for the enemy archers. They were tired, walking for the third consecutive night. He looked ahead at the lean form of Ratnakar, walking at a constant pace. Lakshman wondered if he was tired too. Ratnakar would rather eat gobar than admit that he was tired. He smiled, now there was a proud man! At times, he felt Ratnakar would fit perfectly in his father’s court. He had all the markings of an Arya soldier, nay Captain, and certainly showed signs of some early formal education. A couple of years under Bejoo chacha and Ratnakar would emerge as a polished gem, true to his name. Maybe his father served in an army once. Ratnakar never mentioned the life before he turned into a brigand. It was a touchy subject, Lakshman guessed. Maybe someday, he sighed. Tonight, they had a destination to reach, a mission to fulfill. He glanced up into the sky again, gauging their direction with the help of constellations. Westwards, they were walking westwards.
A cool breeze swept through the forest, carrying the scent of a blooming mogra on its wings. Lakshman closed his eyes and stopped for a moment. Urmila, he thought. The scent of their wedding night. The scent of her soft skin, her sweet lips, their lovemaking… Mograi, he had fondly named her – the grove of mogra blossoms. He recalled their conversation after.
“Aryaputra”, she whispered on his chest.
“Blessed am I to be in your arms, my love. I promise thee
The fleeting nights, the waning moon, our love shall never be!”
“What is it with you women and poetry?” he smiled.
“No lofty words, no starlight skies nor the radiant moon can I conjure,
Alas, no master of words am I, but just a lowly warrior!”
Silently, he thanked the frustrating hours spent in the Gurukul, learning the intricacies of Sanskrit grammar and style. Never thought that would pay off somewhere. Bless you Milind, for your patient tutoring.
“Hmmm… where did you … What are you smiling about, my love?” she had asked.
Lakshman nearly bumped into Ratnakar.
“My prince, I asked - what are you smiling about?” Ratnakar had a quizzical expression he could barely make out in the dim light. When Lakshman shook his head, Ratnakar decided to let the matter rest.
“We are nearly there.” By now the rest of the pack had come together. “Let us make haste and reach the other bank before its sunrise.”
They started walking in their single line formation again. Lakshman noticed for the first time that the landscape had changed from the last time he had noticed. They were no longer walking on the plains. The path was steeply going up a hill. He mentally calculated the distance to the top. About five hundred feet. Another ghatika or so to go.
The cool breeze gained strength as they climbed higher, and by the time he was on the top, Lakshman could feel the goose bumps on his arms. Ratnakar was standing on the top, his right hand outstretched; clutching the staff he was leaning on. Lakshman joined him, as did others in a short while. Ratnakar swept his left hand, from North to West and beyond, and spoke a single word.
“
posted by Pushpak at 7:12 PM
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