I have been reading the Vikramaditya veergatha series by Shatrugeet Nath. And it's very fascinating. Truly worth reading. All three books of the series are amazing. The fourth and the last one will be released in You can try that. And my favourite Kingkiller Chronicle by Patrick Rothfuss.
Best of all. Blood dripped weakly from the bloody, discoloured white ball. Trying to swallow air and pump oxygen through his body. Desperately trying to stay alive. Why does the soul insist on hanging on to the body until the absolute last minute? Even when death is clearly the better alternative? Raavan raised a hand for silence and his brother obeyed. His breathing grew more and more ragged. The harder he breathed, the more quickly the blood flowed out of his numerous wounds.
Let go … Finally, there was a deep convulsion. For a moment, all was still. He lay with his eyes wide open, as if in panic. Both fists clenched tight. Toes bent at an ungainly angle. Body rigid. And then, slowly, he went limp. A few moments passed before Raavan turned away from the corpse in front of him. And make them think that this is revenge for what was done to Shurpanakha. Do you want to go back to the vimaan and wait?
King Ram and Prince Lakshman are close by, they might reach soon. This is perfect. You can see her once we are back in the vimaan. They were surrounded by dense forest, with almost nothing visible beyond the tree line.
Kumbhakarna was understandably eager to leave before the princes arrived on the spot. Raavan nodded, and started walking towards the vimaan. His advance guard marched ahead, while Kumbhakarna strode alongside.
The main body of soldiers followed, bearing the stretcher that carried a bound and unconscious Sita. The rear guard brought up the end. Knowing that Ram and Lakshman were free and armed, the Lankans were on their guard. They did not want to be surprised by a hail of arrows.
Periodically, a voice sounded in the distance. Getting louder, and closer, with every repetition. When Ram was banished for fourteen years for the unauthorised use of a daivi astra, a divine weapon, during the Battle of Mithila, Dashrath had nominated Bharat to be the crown prince instead. Technically then, despite being in exile, Ram was the reigning king of Ayodhya and the emperor of the Sapt Sindhu. In absentia. Even though he had never formally been crowned king.
Treaty obligations on other kingdoms within the Sapt Sindhu would be triggered if he was hurt or killed. These kingdoms would then be forced to mobilise for war against those who had harmed their emperor.
And Raavan knew Lanka could not afford a war. Not right now. But there was no such obligation with regard to the wife of the emperor. The anguished voice was heard again. Can he rally the armies of the Sapt Sindhu? There are many who oppose Ram and his family in the Sapt Sindhu.
Also, there are no treaty obligations that refer to the eventuality of any Ayodhya royal, other than the emperor, being hurt. Those who want to stay away can choose to stay away. The brothers had reached the Pushpak Vimaan and now quickly stepped in. The soldiers followed and started taking their positions inside the craft. Raavan and Kumbhakarna were soon bracing themselves in preparation for takeoff. The doors of the vimaan closed slowly with a hydraulic hiss.
The Lankan soldiers hovered around her, fastening straps around her unconscious body. It had been a struggle to capture the brave warrior princess. Thirty days had passed since the botched encounter between Shurpanakha and the princes, and the Ayodhyan royals had eased their guard, presuming that the Lankans had lost track of them. That day, they had decided to step out and get themselves a proper meal. Sita had gone to cut banana leaves with a Malayaputra soldier called Makrant. Ram and Lakshman had gone hunting in a separate direction.
The two Lankan soldiers who had discovered Sita had managed to kill Makrant, but were, in turn, killed by Sita. She had then stolen to the devastated Malayaputra camp and picked off several Lankans from behind the tree line, using a bow and a quiverful of arrows very effectively, moving quickly from one hiding place to another. But she had not been able to get to either Raavan or Kumbhakarna, who had been sealed off behind protective flanks of Lankan soldiers.
Finally, she had been forced to come forward to save her loyal follower, Captain Jatayu. It was then that she was overpowered and rendered unconscious with a toxin, before being tied up and hauled to the vimaan. There had been six Vishnus till now, and the tribe of the Malayaputras had been founded by the sixth Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram.
Now the Malayaputras had recognised a seventh, one who would establish a new way of life in India: Sita. And Raavan had just kidnapped her. The soldiers around Sita dispersed and returned to their positions.
She lay there, safely strapped onto the stretcher, some twenty feet away from Raavan. Her angvastram was drawn over her body, and the straps were tight across her torso and legs. Her eyes were closed.
Saliva trickled out of the corner of her mouth. A large quantity of a very strong toxin had been used to render her unconscious. Raavan felt his breath stop. He sat immobile, heart paralysed.
Eyes glued to her face. Chapter 2 Fifty-six years earlier, the ashram of Guru Vishrava, close to Indraprastha, India For a four-year-old, Raavan was quite sure and steady in his movements. The celebrated rishi had married late, when he was over seventy years of age. In his long career spanning many decades, Rishi Vishrava had made a name for himself as a great scientist and spiritual guru.
In fact, he was considered to be among the greatest intellectuals of his generation. But it appeared he would not disappoint. Even at this early age, he had a fearsome intellect.
It seemed to all who met him that the child would someday surpass even the vast achievements of his illustrious father. But the universe has a way of balancing things. With the positive comes the negative. As the sun set on the far horizon, Raavan patiently tied the fragile legs of the hare he had trapped to two small wooden stumps sticking up from the ground. The creature struggled frantically as the boy pinned it down with his knee and pulled the ropes taut.
It lay there with its limbs splayed, underside and chest exposed to the sky. The little boy was satisfied. He could begin work now. Raavan had dissected another hare the previous day. Studied its muscles, ligaments and bones in detail, while it was still breathing. He had been keen to reach the beating heart. But the hare, having suffered enough already, died before he could cut through the sternal ribs.
Its heart had stopped by the time Raavan got to it. The hare was still struggling, its long ears twitching ferociously. Normally, hares are quiet animals, but this one was clearly in a state of panic. For good reason. Raavan checked the sharpness of his knife with the tip of his forefinger. It drew some blood. He sucked at his forefinger as he looked at the hare.
He smiled. The excitement he felt, the rapid beating of his heart, took away the dull ache in his navel. An ache that was perennial. He used his left hand to steady his prey.
Then he held the knife over the animal, the tip pointed at its chest. Just as he was about to make the incision, he sensed a presence near him. He looked up. The Kanyakumari. In many parts of India, there was a tradition of venerating the Kanyakumari, literally the Virgin Goddess. It was believed that the Mother Goddess resided, temporarily, within the bodies of certain chosen young girls.
These girls were worshipped as living Goddesses. People came to them for advice and prophecies—they counted even kings and queens among their followers—until they reached puberty, at which time, it was believed, the Goddess moved into the body of another pre-pubescent girl.
There were many Kanyakumari temples in India. This particular Kanyakumari who stood in front of Raavan was from Vaidyanath, in eastern India. The holy cave, buried under snow for most of the year, housed a great lingam made of ice. It was believed that this cave was where the first Mahadev had unveiled the secrets of life and creation.
The rishi had welcomed her visit as a blessed opportunity to speak to the Goddess and expand his understanding of the spiritual world.
Despite his best efforts, however, the Kanyakumari had kept to herself and spent little time with him or the many inhabitants of his ashram.
But that had only added to the natural magnetism and aura of the living Goddess. Even Raavan, usually preoccupied in his own world, had stared at her every chance he got, fascinated. He looked up at her now, transfixed, knife poised in mid-air. The Kanyakumari stood in front of him, her expression tranquil. Nor was there any sign of sorrow or pity in her eyes. There was nothing. No expression at all. She just stood there, as if she were an idol made of stone—distant yet aweinspiring. A girl no older than eight or nine.
Wheat-complexioned, with high cheekbones and a small, sharp nose. Long black hair tied in a braid. Black eyes, wide-set, with almost creaseless eyelids. Dressed in a red dhoti, blouse and angvastram.
She had the look of the mountain people from the Himalayas. Raavan instinctively checked the cummerbund tied around his waist, on top of his dhoti. It was in place, covering his navel.
His secret was safe. Then he remembered the hideous pockmarks on his face, the legacy of the pox he had suffered as a baby. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt self-conscious about his appearance.
He shook his head to get the thought out of his mind. His eyes were fixed on the Goddess. The Kanyakumari stepped forward without a word, her expression unchanged.
She bent down and picked up the knife. With quick, efficient movements, she cut the restraints on the wretched hare. She then picked it up and gently kissed it on the head. The hare was quiet in her hands, its panic forgotten. The voiceless animal seemed to know that it was safe again. Then the mask came back on. She put the hare down and the animal bounded away. The Kanyakumari looked again at Raavan and returned the knife to him. Her face remained impassive.
Without saying a word, she turned and walked away. Raavan had slipped out of the house as soon as his mother, Kaikesi, fell asleep. He moved quickly towards his destination. He was seven years old now. He had started his training in the martial arts as well, and was already showing great promise. His favourites were the stringed instruments, especially the magnificent Rudra Veena.
It was only a few months since he had started learning to play the veena, but he was already in love with it. The instrument was considered to be among the most difficult to play. He had been told that to master it required years of practice—each time he heard this, he drove himself harder, for how could Raavan be any less than the best?
Though it was only a friendly competition, Raavan had no desire to lose. He thought again of the first time he had beheld the instrument of his choice. He had felt a deep reverence as he touched the rounded teak-wood fingerboard fixed on two large resonators: they were made of dried and hollowed out gourds, he had been told. On both ends of the tubular body were woodcarvings of peacocks, known to be the favourite birds of Lord Rudra. Twenty-two straight wooden frets were fixed to the fingerboard with wax and there were three separate bridges.
This most dramatic of instruments had eight strings—four main and three drone strings on one side of the player and one drone string on the other. All the strings were wound around the eight friction pegs on the tuning head. During that first lesson, Raavan had watched as the older students sat on the floor and settled the veena with one gourd over the shoulder.
Some of them rested it on their left knee. That was when he had realised that the instrument was customised for the person who handled it; there was no question of onesize-fits-all. Anyone who has observed the structure of the Rudra Veena knows that it is an extremely complex instrument to understand, let alone play.
Wire plectrums worn on the index and middle fingers of the right hand are used to pluck the main strings, while the drone strings are played with the nail of the little finger.
The strings have to be manipulated with the left hand from beneath the horizontal neck, made more difficult by the fact that the right hand ends up blocking the drone string on the side. But what truly separates the Rudra Veena from other stringed instruments is the dramatically higher quality of resonance, which is due to the two large gourds attached to its ends. The frequency and strength of the resonance have a significant impact on the tonal quality and the music.
Damage the gourds. Damage the resonance. Damage the music. Raavan quietly slipped into the small hut where he knew the musical instruments were kept. Musicians were known to worship their instruments every night and morning. It seemed Dagar was no different. Puja flowers and burnt incense sticks lay at the base of his Rudra Veena. Raavan sniggered to himself. He worked quickly, without a sound. First, he slipped the cloth cover off the instrument. Then he unscrewed the gourd on the left and felt its insides.
Polished and smooth. He took out a metallic wrench from the pouch tied to his waist and used it to begin scratching the insides of the gourd. Dagar would not be immediately able to make out that the resonance was not right, not even while tuning his instrument the next day. He would realise it only when playing the raga during the competition. By which time, it would be too late. Raavan kept glancing towards the door as he worked.
But there was no time to worry about that. He focused his energies on the task at hand. The morning of the competition dawned clear and blue-skied. It had been a good three years since her previous visit. This time, she was on her way to Takshasheela, the famed university-town in north-west India, along with her entourage.
With the Kanyakumari as a witness, the two musicians began playing. But Vishrava knew his son well. He dragged Raavan to their frugal hut immediately after the competition. How can I allow any subterfuge in her presence? Raavan will understand. He has been lying since the time of my birth. This is all your fault. I am suffering due to your karma. Your bad karma has infected his navel! And his mind! Talk to me. He slapped the boy hard on his cheek.
The seven-year-old went flying across the room. Kaikesi shrieked and ran to shield her son. Vishrava looked at the boy lying on the ground. Proof that he was a Naga. All across India, people believed that birth deformities were the consequence of a cursed soul, of bad karma carrying over from the previous birth. And such blighted people were called Nagas. Vishrava spoke with barely disguised disgust. Because everyone knows I am better than you in every way. Get lost!
The ever-present ache in his navel intensified. Growing in ferocity. His cheek still burned, though the tears had long dried up. He was staring at the ground, a magnifying glass in his hand. With great care, he focused the rays of the sun into a powerful band of light, burning the little ants that scurried about. He was breathing hard, raw anger still pulsating in every vein. His navel throbbed, the centre of constant pain. The fragrance reached him first.
He felt his breath catch. He turned his head and saw her. His body froze, the magnifying glass still in his hand. Burnt and shrivelled ants lay near his feet. No sign of disgust. Nor anger. His mouth was suddenly dry. The long-held breath escaped in a sigh. The Kanyakumari smiled slightly. An ethereal smile. The smile of a living Goddess. She pointed towards the ashram, where the music competition had taken place in the morning.
But no words came out. His mind was blank. Unable to construct even simple thoughts and words. His heart had picked up pace. He noticed that the ache in his navel had magically disappeared.
For a few moments. She turned and walked away. It was past sunset. Raavan had come to see Dagar, bringing with him the holy lotus garland he had won earlier in the day.
The older contestant had responded graciously. Dagar, like most others present at the event, had suspected that something was not right with his instrument. He had examined the veena after the competition and quickly identified the problem. Raavan was a child, after all. Raavan did not say anything. He stood with his head bowed. Thinking of the Kanyakumari. She was to leave the next morning.
July 23, at pm. Shradha says:. October 30, at pm. March 14, at am. Arpitha says:. May 13, at pm. Harish Dharavath says:. May 22, at am. Laxman Dhotre says:. June 2, at am. Sat Patel says:. June 4, at am. June 10, at am. Arnab says:.
June 16, at pm. Sharath Sudhakar says:. June 18, at pm. June 19, at pm. Bishow Thapa says:. June 20, at pm. July 1, at pm. Raavan Orphan Of Aryavarta Pdf the greatness that he thinks is his right.
Pdf - Free Download Writing a book is one of the toughest creative job. System Needs: Windows 7. RAM of 1 GB. AMD64 processor. Mirror files: Summary. Ravana the orphan of aryavarta pdf free download. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published.
0コメント