Raavan (A Preview): Orphan of Aryavarta by Tripathi Amish

Author:Tripathi, Amish [Tripathi, Amish]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: westland publications ltd
Published: 2017-09-18T00:00:00+00:00

The battle had been short and sharp. There had been no Lankan casualties. All the Malayaputras, save Captain Jatayu and three of his men, were dead or critically injured.

But Ram, Lakshman, and Sita were missing.

Kumbhakarna was organising the effort to find the three.

Raavan was letting him manage it all. The Lankan king was, instead, staring at a Malayaputra soldier, lying prone on the ground, flat on his back. Still alive. But barely so. Breathing rapidly towards his death.

Thick blood was pooling sluggishly under and around the soldier’s body. Soaking into the wet mud and discolouring the green grass. Many of the vastus muscles, on the front of the thigh, had been cut through deep. Almost down to the bone. Blood was spurting out in torrents through the severed arteries. Some of the hacked muscle tissue had fallen out of the body.

Raavan stared. As always, fascinated by a body slowly dying.

He could hear Kumbhakarna.

‘Jatayu is a traitor. He was one of us before he defected to the Malayaputras. I don’t care what you do to him. Get the information, Captain Khara.’

‘Yes, Lord Kumbhakarna,’ said Khara, saluting and marching off.

Raavan’s attention went back to the Malayaputra. Blood was pouring out from the abdomen as well. It was a small incision, at least on the surface. But Raavan could make out that the wound had gone deep. Perhaps the kidneys, liver, stomach, all had been cut through. Blood was bursting out in torrents. He could see the body shivering in pain.

Kumbhakarna’s words pierced his consciousness again.

‘I want seven teams. Two people in each. Spread out. They couldn’t have gone far. If you find those three, do not engage. One of the team members must come back and report. The other will continue to track them.’

Raavan’s attention went back to the Malayaputra. His left eye had been gouged out. Perhaps by a Lankan soldier wearing hidden tiger claws on his hand. The partially severed eyeball hung out of the socket; white, with the red lines of veins and arteries criss-crossing its surface. But blood was discolouring the entire globular structure slowly. The optic nerve was still attached, hanging out of the body as it refused to let go of the eyeball. This area was not leaking blood at the same pace as the other wounds. It was more of a dribble.

The Malayaputra’s mouth was still open, chest heaving rapidly. Desperately pumping oxygen into the body. Desperately trying to stay alive.

Why does the soul insist on hanging on to the body till the absolute last minute? Even when death is clearly the better alternative?

‘ Dada ,’ said Kumbhakarna.

Raavan raised his hand for silence. Kumbhakarna obeyed.

The king of Lanka continued to stare at the Malayaputra.

His breathing was getting more and more ragged. And the harder he breathed, the more quickly the blood flowed out of his numerous wounds.

Let it go. . .

Finally, there was a deep convulsion, his mouth hung open. The last breath escaped in a gush. And the Malayaputra lay still. Eyes wide in panic.

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