Beneath the vast canopy of the banyan tree, Ratnakar stood with a grin, his friends crowding around him. They had watched him recast history as he saw fit, now catching a glimpse of the grandiose story he envisioned.
“So, let me get this right,” said Arjun, chuckling. “Rama’s campaign across the Dakshina Desha will be portrayed as an ‘exile’?”
Ratnakar’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Precisely! Instead of the prince on a military conquest, I’ll paint Rama as the noble prince, banished from Ayodhya by his stepmother’s whim.”
Vidur crossed his arms, grinning. “And what of the realpolitik? You’re erasing an entire campaign of strategy and conquest!”
Ratnakar laughed, a spark of irony in his gaze. “They won’t want a campaign. They’ll want a tale of honor and sacrifice. So, instead of Kaikeyi maneuvering for the regency, she’ll be the one demanding exile for her stepson. I’ll add a conniving advisor. Maybe I will name her Chapala, that fleet-footed belle in the next village. No, I will call her Manthara. She will be old, ugly and slow, unlike my sweetheart who is young, lovely and oh so fast. And, Kaikeyi won’t be seen as a mere strategist, but a mother swayed by a ‘whispering’ servant.”
The friends snickered, shaking their heads at the transformation. “A forest exile instead of a campaign,” Gopal mused. “And the people of Dakshina Desha will forget they were brought under Ayodhya’s rule. And become devotees of the god-king.”
Ratnakar nodded. “Yes! And when Rama’s battles with Ravana’s coalition are retold, they won’t be mere territorial disputes. Ravana will be painted as the very embodiment of evil. A demon-king with ten heads, each representing his coalition. And the victor Rama would be a perfect human, as close to divine as humanly possible, for contrast. His descendants who rule now will love to be scions of a god amongst men, a Maryada Purushottam. Maybe they will ensure that he is elevated to an avatara.”
“And Bhanukarna?” Vidur asked. “How will you represent him? Will you include the unkind jibes on him for “sleeping at his post”, as he realised late that the Kosalan army circumvented his defences and reached the unaware southern kingdoms. He did rally to help his allies, but reaching tired after a long forced march, he and his army – with the fearsome elephants – were defeated, though they fought bravely.”
“He will be called Kumbhakarna, as if he not his war elephants had ears the shape of fans. He will be a towering monster who slumbers until needed for battle,” Ratnakar replied with a grin. “Instead of his dereliction in guarding the borders, he’ll be a mythological giant who wakes only to fight.”
Arjun shook his head in amazement. “And Meenakshi, who pressed the confederation’s borders up to Madhya Desha? How will you change her?”
Ratnakar’s face lit up. “She’ll be Surpanakha, the clawed temptress. A wild, monstrous woman who pursued Rama and was ‘tamed’ and may be maimed. Yes, the princes will cut her nose. It’s simple yet powerful. I haven’t planned everything out but I will make her a memorable character.”
The friends laughed again, marveling at the audacity. “What of Luv and Kush?” Gopal asked with a smirk. “Your own life story is of a low-born poet with a wild background, but you’ll make them forest-born princes?”
“Oh, of course,” Ratnakar said, laughing along. “Instead of palace-born heirs, they’ll be the sons of Rama, born in a forest camp during exile, hidden from Ayodhya’s palace. I, or rather ‘Valmiki,’ will become their caretaker and guru in the wilderness. A poetic twist—forest-born princes, raised away from power and politics.”
Vidur slapped his knee, shaking his head. “A dacoit turned Maharishi, the sage Valmiki! The irony runs deep, doesn’t it? But the princes were born some time after the conquest. How will you solve that part? Would they be born when Rama exiles his own wife who is pregnant? Maybe because people cast aspersions on her character and the paternity of her would be child?”
Arjun, ever eager to contribute to gossip jumped in, “Maybe because Rama’s wife was kidnapped by Ravana during the exile. That’s why he fought and defeated the ten-headed demon. Eh, Ratnakar?”
Ratnakar shrugged, a self-aware smile spreading across his face. “Irony has a way of finding its place. They’ll remember me as ‘Valmiki,’ a sage of epic poetry. Few will care that I was Ratnakar, the part-time bandit, before becoming a poet who sang of kings and battles. But I won’t write that tale you spun Arjun. Someone else may, and put my name to it.”
The friends fell silent, each realizing that Ratnakar’s vision was bolder than they’d imagined. Gopal muttered, almost to himself, “And who knows, maybe the bards will sing this epic until it’s more than just a story. It might be recited as… scripture.”
Ratnakar paused, his smile fading slightly as he gazed at the anthill nearby. “Perhaps. But as long as they believe it, the tale will live, carrying my name along with it. Maybe as Maharishi Valmiki or as Dasyu Ratnakar. Maybe both! It is better to be misremembered rather than be forgotten.”
Random Mythoscopy 