trying my patience now, Kubaer!’ growled Dashrath as he ignored Raavan and focused his attention on the chief trader. ‘You are irritating the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu!’
‘But My Lord…’
‘Look, if you do not continue to pay our rightful commissions, believe me you will all be dead by this time tomorrow. I will first defeat your miserable army, then travel all the way to that cursed island of yours and burn your city to the ground.’
‘But there are problems with our ships and labour costs have—’
‘I don’t care about your problems!’ shouted Dashrath, his legendary temper at boiling point now.
‘You will, after tomorrow,’ said Raavan softly.
Dashrath swung sharply towards Raavan, riled that Kubaer’s deputy had had the audacity to interrupt the conversation. ‘How dare you speak out of—’
‘How dare you , Dashrath?’ asked Raavan, an octave higher this time.
Dashrath, Ashwapati and Mrigasya sat in stunned silence, shocked that the mere head of a protection force had had the temerity to address the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu by his name.
‘How dare you imagine that you can even come close to defeating an army that I lead?’ asked Raavan with an eerie sense of calm.
Dashrath stood up angrily and his chair went flying back with a loud clutter. He thrust his finger in Raavan’s direction. ‘I’ll be looking for you on the battlefield tomorrow, you upstart!’
Slowly and menacingly, Raavan rose from his chair, all the while his closed right fist covering a pendant that hung from a gold chain around his neck. As Raavan’s fist unclenched, Dashrath was horrified by what he saw. The pendant was actually the bones of two human fingers — the phalanges of which were carefully fastened with gold links. Clenching this macabre souvenir again, Raavan appeared to derive enormous power from it.
Dashrath stared in disbelief. He had heard of demons that drank blood and wine from the skulls of their enemies and even kept their body parts as trophies. But here was a warrior who wore the relics of his enemy! Who is this monster?
‘I assure you, I’ll be waiting,’ said Raavan, with a hint of wry humour lacing his voice, as he watched Dashrath gape at him with horror. ‘I look forward to drinking your blood.’
Raavan turned around and strode out of the tent. Kubaer hurriedly wobbled out behind him, followed by the Lankan bodyguards.
Dashrath’s anger bubbled over. ‘Tomorrow we annihilate these scum. But no one will touch that man,’ he growled pointing towards the retreating figure of Raavan. ‘He will be killed by me! Only me!’
Dashrath was bristling with fury even as the day drew to a close. ‘I will personally chop up his body and throw it to the dogs!’ he shouted.
Kaikeyi sat impassively as her seething husband paced up and down the royal tent of the Ayodhya camp. She always accompanied him on his military campaigns.
‘How dare he speak to me like that?’
Kaikeyi scrutinised Dashrath languidly. He was tall, dark and handsome, the quintessential Kshatriya. A well-manicured moustache only added to his attractiveness. Though muscular and strong, age had begun to take its toll on his well-built physique. Stray streaks of white in his hair were accompanied by a faint hint of a sag in the muscles. Even the Somras, the mysterious anti-ageing drink reserved for the royals by their sages, had not been able to adequately counter a lifetime of ceaseless warring and hard drinking.
‘I am the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu!’ shouted Dashrath, striking his chest with unconcealed rage. ‘How dare he?’
Even though alone with her husband, Kaikeyi maintained the demure demeanour normally reserved for her public interactions with him. She had never seen him so angry.
‘My love,’ said Kaikeyi, ‘save the anger for tomorrow. Have your dinner. You will need your strength for the battle that lies ahead.’
‘Does that outcaste mercenary even have a clue as to who he has challenged?
‘But My Lord…’
‘Look, if you do not continue to pay our rightful commissions, believe me you will all be dead by this time tomorrow. I will first defeat your miserable army, then travel all the way to that cursed island of yours and burn your city to the ground.’
‘But there are problems with our ships and labour costs have—’
‘I don’t care about your problems!’ shouted Dashrath, his legendary temper at boiling point now.
‘You will, after tomorrow,’ said Raavan softly.
Dashrath swung sharply towards Raavan, riled that Kubaer’s deputy had had the audacity to interrupt the conversation. ‘How dare you speak out of—’
‘How dare you , Dashrath?’ asked Raavan, an octave higher this time.
Dashrath, Ashwapati and Mrigasya sat in stunned silence, shocked that the mere head of a protection force had had the temerity to address the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu by his name.
‘How dare you imagine that you can even come close to defeating an army that I lead?’ asked Raavan with an eerie sense of calm.
Dashrath stood up angrily and his chair went flying back with a loud clutter. He thrust his finger in Raavan’s direction. ‘I’ll be looking for you on the battlefield tomorrow, you upstart!’
Slowly and menacingly, Raavan rose from his chair, all the while his closed right fist covering a pendant that hung from a gold chain around his neck. As Raavan’s fist unclenched, Dashrath was horrified by what he saw. The pendant was actually the bones of two human fingers — the phalanges of which were carefully fastened with gold links. Clenching this macabre souvenir again, Raavan appeared to derive enormous power from it.
Dashrath stared in disbelief. He had heard of demons that drank blood and wine from the skulls of their enemies and even kept their body parts as trophies. But here was a warrior who wore the relics of his enemy! Who is this monster?
‘I assure you, I’ll be waiting,’ said Raavan, with a hint of wry humour lacing his voice, as he watched Dashrath gape at him with horror. ‘I look forward to drinking your blood.’
Raavan turned around and strode out of the tent. Kubaer hurriedly wobbled out behind him, followed by the Lankan bodyguards.
Dashrath’s anger bubbled over. ‘Tomorrow we annihilate these scum. But no one will touch that man,’ he growled pointing towards the retreating figure of Raavan. ‘He will be killed by me! Only me!’
Dashrath was bristling with fury even as the day drew to a close. ‘I will personally chop up his body and throw it to the dogs!’ he shouted.
Kaikeyi sat impassively as her seething husband paced up and down the royal tent of the Ayodhya camp. She always accompanied him on his military campaigns.
‘How dare he speak to me like that?’
Kaikeyi scrutinised Dashrath languidly. He was tall, dark and handsome, the quintessential Kshatriya. A well-manicured moustache only added to his attractiveness. Though muscular and strong, age had begun to take its toll on his well-built physique. Stray streaks of white in his hair were accompanied by a faint hint of a sag in the muscles. Even the Somras, the mysterious anti-ageing drink reserved for the royals by their sages, had not been able to adequately counter a lifetime of ceaseless warring and hard drinking.
‘I am the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu!’ shouted Dashrath, striking his chest with unconcealed rage. ‘How dare he?’
Even though alone with her husband, Kaikeyi maintained the demure demeanour normally reserved for her public interactions with him. She had never seen him so angry.
‘My love,’ said Kaikeyi, ‘save the anger for tomorrow. Have your dinner. You will need your strength for the battle that lies ahead.’
‘Does that outcaste mercenary even have a clue as to who he has challenged?
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