In the dimly lit scriptorium, a hush fell over a group of scribes gathered around palm leaves and pots of ink. The head scribe, Kumaraswami, held up his quill, his gaze drifting thoughtfully as he prepared to lead the transcription of Valmiki’s Ramayana. Yet tonight’s work held an unusual burden: recent orders from the court urged the scribes to adapt the story subtly, weaving in elements that would resonate with the Chola Empire’s present-day glories.
“Kumaraswami,” said Jayan, a young, idealistic scribe, breaking the silence. “How are we supposed to shape a story as sacred as this? Rama’s journey is his alone. He isn’t the Chola Emperor.”
Kumaraswami raised an eyebrow, his voice calm but unyielding. “Remember, Jayan, stories are vessels for truth across generations. For our people to see Rama’s heroism as timeless, they must find something familiar in him. Who better than Rama to reflect Rajaraja Chola’s might, his conquests across the sea, and his vision of a just realm?”
Sarvajit, a weathered scribe known for his reverence for tradition, frowned, his face tense. “And what about the events we’re asked to insert? Rama wasn’t just a conqueror. And why should we shape Hanuman after a hero of the Chola court?” He leaned forward, his voice lowered. “They ask us to paint Hanuman as a diplomat, a cunning figure like Vallavaraiyan Vandiyadevan, the Emperor’s own brother-in-law. It’s … inappropriate.”
Kumaraswami’s lips tightened. “Hanuman’s role, as they say, could reflect Vandiyadevan’s—one who moves skillfully between courts, a hero in his own right. We simply show that he’s more than a warrior, a diplomatic ally to Ayodhya.”
Jayan’s brow furrowed, the idea unsettling. “Hanuman was driven by devotion, not politics.”
Devan, another younger scribe, added, “But Vandiyadevan is beloved because he isn’t just a warrior; he charms people, he handles delicate matters with skill. To show Hanuman like this, we give people a hero they recognize, someone with a spark of mischief, yet wise enough to win Rama’s favor.”
Sarvajit sighed. “But this isn’t merely about Hanuman, is it? There’s more.” He shot Kumaraswami a meaningful look, his voice dropping lower. “Our Emperor, Sundara Chola, did not pass his throne to his eldest son. The Emperor’s son died in … mysterious circumstances. And yet, here we are to write that Rama—though he’s the eldest—is destined to rule, with no shadow of conflict.”
Kumaraswami remained quiet for a moment, his gaze steady as he met Sarvajit’s eyes. “Dasharatha and Sundara Chola were indeed different men, with different fates for their sons. But our purpose here is to honor what the Emperor wishes for his legacy. Sundara Chola’s line must be seen as noble, and what better way than to let Rama’s story remind people of their ruler?”
The murmur of discontent from Sarvajit refused to die out. “It sounds like political propaganda. Our Sundara Chola chose peace and grandeur over straightforward legacy, while Dasharatha’s eldest was fated for greatness. We blur these lines, and it does dishonor both.”
“You young men don’t understand”, he continued taking the uneasy silence from the rest of the scribes as a sign that they could agree with him, if he convinced them or at least shamed them. “These aren’t simple embellishments. Next, we’ll have Rama speaking Tamil, and Hanuman bringing news to the court in Tanjore!” He shook his head, his face hardening. “No. I will not distort a tale of such sanctity.”
Devan leaned forward, voice hushed, as if letting out a dangerous secret. “The court believes the Chola Empire’s story is only as powerful as the vision it inspires. People must see the Emperor’s sons reflected in these princes. And what’s the harm? If Sundara Chola’s story ends differently from Dasharatha’s, it does not lessen the valor of either.”
When Sarvajit – forgetting that though he was the oldest he was not the senior most in rank – still did not seem to cede to the group, Kumaraswami’s expression turned stern, reminding everyone who had the highest rank in the room. “I’d advise caution, Sarvajit. We have seen how dissent is handled. Would you rather the Ramayana be forgotten, or live on in a form suited to our people?”
Sarvajit hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he set his quill down. He wanted to argue, to insist on the sanctity of the original verses. But the thought of his family, of being ostracized—or worse, punished—stilled his words. Reluctantly, he nodded, his gaze fixed on the table.
Despite his unease, Jayan felt himself wavering. He sensed the conflict in the room, the weight of resistance, but the practical arguments pulled at him. “If we are to shape our future with Rama’s story,” he said quietly, “then perhaps, it can be seen as one version of many. Didn’t the Ramayana itself evolve through the ages?”
Kumaraswami nodded, leaning into the hope offered by Jayan’s words. “Indeed, many chaturyugas have passed, each with their own stories, their own Ramas. Our telling is just one in the expanse of time.”
Reluctantly, Sarvajit lowered his head, his fingers trembling slightly as he took up his quill. His gaze fell on the palm leaf before him, where the verses awaited, his hand itching to write them as he’d known them for years. Yet, he forced his hand to move, to pen a version laced with the ambitions of the Chola court.
The scene painted on the leaf grew complex—Hanuman with the skill of Vallavaraiyan, Sugriva and Vali in fierce combat as chieftains of lowlands and highlands, and Rama’s conquest over realms that mirrored those the Cholas aspired to. The youngest prince, Lakshmana, scolded Sugriva for his delay, just as Chola emissaries might reprimand hesitant allies. And when Rama’s forces prepared to face the southern confederation, they entered lands akin to those across the oceans that the Cholas claimed.
As the scribes finished their work, a hushed silence hung over them, broken only by the scratching of Sarvajit’s quill as he finished the last line. He whispered under his breath, breaking the fourth wall, as if speaking directly to the reader.
“To you who may read this tale, know that it is but one telling among many. I pray that in some distant age, the true tale, untouched by kings and uncolored by their schemes, will rise once more. Perhaps one day, a poet may pen the lives of these same Cholas—an epic filled with twists, loyalties, and betrayals—and when they do, may you wonder if there, too, truth gave way to the will of rulers.”
Random Mythoscopy 