This book surveys the Jewish Law of testimony as presented in the Talmud and its boundaries on loyalty in non-Jewish courts. Get Bharmal vs Raavan Books now! The Clown of White Fields is a collection of 7 stories set in various parts of the world, and a common thread of mysticism unites them. They are stories about children and people from small places who have a secret each. The enchanted world they live in, they are possessed by. This book is a look inside Raavan's heart. This is the story of how his anger and ego resulted in his and his country's destruction.
Whenever we face any conflict, we have the option of solving it in. Download or read online Link written by Anonim, published by Unknown which was released on Get Link Books now! Home Raavan. Enemy of Aryavarta. Enemy of Aryavarta by Amish Tripathi. Raavayana by Swati Garg. Next Generation Adaptation by Allen H. Myth and the Mind by Indrani Deb. Balas,Raghvendra Kumar,Rajshree Srivastava.
Ramayana the Hymns of Himalaya by Akhilesh Gumashta. Boundaries of Loyalty by Saul J. Bharmal vs Raavan by Rajat Kalia. The nine-year-old shivered. The pain at the centre of his body returned. His navel throbbed in fear. He folded his hands together in prayer and began chanting the Maha Mrityunjay mantra. The great chant of the Conqueror of Death. Dedicated to the Mahadev, the God of Gods.
Lord Rudra. As he repeated it, over and over again, he felt the fear disappear. Leaving his muscles relaxed. His heartbeat slower. The pain in his navel quietened once again. He looked into the darkness with renewed confidence.
Who will fight me? Come on! Lord Rudra is with me. Strangely, his navel began hurting again. He began chanting even more fervently. Suddenly, a loud scream resounded through the night. Raavan sprang up and ran towards the hut. Raavan flung the door open and rushed into the hut. It was dark inside. Only a few lamps threw shadows across the floor. His mother was still on the bed. Struggling to get up.
Tears pouring down her cheeks. The midwife was holding the baby. Rather, she was dangling it by one leg. It was a boy. Raavan noticed that the baby was quite large for a new-born. The midwife froze as she felt the blade against her abdomen. I am saving your mother! I am saving you! The strange lumps made his ears look like pots. There were outgrowths on his shoulders too, like two tiny extra arms.
The new-born was unusually hirsute. And he was howling. Raavan pressed the sword against her skin, puncturing it. He has to die. He is cursed. He is deformed. He is a Naga. She wondered if she could survive a stab wound if a physician attended to her immediately. I have practised on animals. Even human bodies. No doctor will be able to save you. She had her orders, and she was expected to follow them.
She knew he was good with a blade. Everyone knew. Raavan pushed closer. She had seen it before, this bloodlust. On the faces of warriors. People who killed. Sometimes, simply because they enjoyed it. And then she noticed.
His navel was visible, and the ugly outgrowth. Proof that he, too, was a Naga. The shocked woman stood rooted to the spot. She could hear people gathering outside. They would support her. They knew what they had to do. There was no reason for her to die. Raavan could hear the angry voices outside. People screaming about order.
The door of the hut was closed. But there was no lock on it. Anyone could barge in at any moment. He tried to control his breathing, his body tense. He gripped his sword tightly. Ready to kill anyone who entered. He looked back at his baby brother. Suckling at her breast contentedly. Unaware of the danger they were in. His alert eyes were glued to the door, ready to attack anyone who dared to try and harm his loved ones.
Suddenly, the door swung open and Mareech rushed in. His sword was drawn. Blood dripped from its edge. Kaikesi moaned in fear and hugged her baby to her chest. Raavan stepped in front of Mareech. Brandishing his sword. His voice surprisingly calm. I am your brother! Why would I kill you? Without wasting any more time, Mareech yanked a cloth bag off a hook on the wall. And threw it towards Raavan. Pack whatever you need for your brother and mother. Raavan snapped back to reality. He pushed his sword back into its scabbard and picked up the bag, rushing to obey his uncle.
Mareech turned to Kaikesi. We have to leave! Raavan had the cloth bag slung over his shoulder. The residents of the ashram were gathered in front of the hut. Angry faces, torches in their hands. Three bodies lay on the ground. Mareech himself stood in front of his sister and her children, brandishing his sword at the crowd. Good at social boycotts. Good at verbal violence. Good at mob violence as well. But unequipped to handle a trained warrior. Slowly, he edged towards the stables, sword aloft.
His eyes still on the crowd. Quickly, he helped his sister mount a horse. Raavan was soon seated on another. In a flash, Mareech opened the gates wide and vaulted on to his own horse. And they galloped out of the ashram. The group had been riding for hours. The sun was already up, and rising higher and higher. It was almost noon by the time they sat down to rest. But better safe than sorry, he had said, each time Kaikesi begged him to slow down. They were in the Gangetic plains, where the thick alluvial soil and low, rocky terrain made it easy for someone to track them.
They had changed directions often. Riding through streams. Moving through flooded fields. Doing all that was necessary to avoid being hunted down. The three horses were safely tethered and Kaikesi was resting against a tree, suckling her infant. Mareech had left Raavan on guard while he went foraging for food. He was soon back with two rabbits. In the bag over his shoulder were some roots and berries. They cooked and ate the food quickly. Our family is there.
They will protect us. Mareech looked at Raavan, noticing he had not touched his food. Do you want to protect your mother and brother? Then, you need to be strong. And for that, you have to eat. Raavan looked at his mother, then turned back to his food and started eating.
We are the family of their guru. How dare they! Or are you in denial? They were following instructions! He left before learning of my pregnancy. He suspected this might happen, so he left instructions.
Those people were simply carrying out orders. We had heard about it in Kannauj. Why do you think I came to stay with you at the ashram? His sister remained silent. Still shaking her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. You may as well know the truth. His fists clenched tight. He knew the answer already.
But he wanted to hear it. Anger and grief clouded his mind. The two short extra limbs at the top of his shoulders moved slightly in his sleep. The rest of his body was motionless. Raavan bent and picked up his infant brother. He cradled him in his arms, his eyes radiating love. Nobody will hurt you. Not as long as I am alive. They were camped in a clearing in the jungle for the night, the horses tied in a circle around the camp. It was the third day of the waxing moon.
With the dense jungle cover and the night-time fog, visibility was reduced to barely a few feet. So Mareech set about lighting a small fire. Not just for heat, but also for safety. He sat hunched over a flat wooden board that had a notch cut into its surface. The fireboard. In his hands he held a long slender piece of wood, which spun when he rubbed his palms together. Patiently, he got the wooden spindle into the notch. Waiting for the glowing black dust, like smouldering coal, to collect.
It was a primitive and time-consuming method, but their only option in the jungle. The baby, only a few days old, had a name now: Kumbhakarna—the one with potshaped ears. It was Raavan who had suggested it and Kaikesi and Mareech had instantly agreed.
Mareech looked at Raavan, who sat close to him. Were his eyes closed? He was about to scold Raavan and order him to help with the fire, when the boy brought down his knife in a flash. There was a loud screech. Mareech stared at him, stunned. It was too dark for him to be certain, but it appeared his nephew had just pinned down a hare with his knife. Very few people could shoot arrows unguided by vision. Even fewer could throw knives based on sound alone. But to stab a fast-moving animal like a hare, based only on sound, was unheard of.
Mareech looked at Raavan in awe, his mouth slightly open. Then he turned his attention back to where the smouldering dust had started collecting on the fireboard. Quickly, he slid the dust onto the small pile of tinder he had collected. Then he blew on it gently, till the tinder caught fire. One by one, he transferred the flame to the logs he had arranged beside the burning tinder. Soon there was a roaring fire in the centre of the small clearing.
The fire taken care of, Mareech turned to Raavan. With a start, Mareech noticed the animal was still alive. Making frantic, yet weak sounds, like an agonised pleading. A chill ran up his spine. He got up, and in one fluid move, pulled out his own knife, took the hare from Raavan and stabbed it in the heart.
He held the blade there for a few moments, till the hare stopped moving. Then he handed it back to Raavan. After a long, still moment, he turned back to the hare and started skinning it again. Mareech walked over to where his bag lay and pulled out some dried meat. He began heating it over the flame, using a slim, sharpened rod as a skewer. Thank you. I will remember your kindness. I will remember your loyalty. And went back to heating the meat.
If only the night would pass quickly, and the dawn arrive soon. For the next day, they would finally be home, in Kannauj. The ancient city of Kannauj had blessed many Indians with a great deal. Situated on the banks of the holy Ganga, the city had been a great centre of manufacturing, especially of fine cloth, as far back as anyone could remember. It was known for its production of equally fine perfumes. It had also long been a centre of debate, research and shared knowledge, and was the heartland of the Kanyakubj Brahmins, a community of illustrious, if impoverished intellectuals.
The joke among the Kanyakubjas was that Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge, was very kind towards them, while Lakshmi, the Goddess of Prosperity and Wealth, was wont to ignore them altogether. As a seat of learning, the city was home to many of the finest thinkers and philosophers of the time, including the celebrated Rishi Vishwamitra, who had been born into the royal family of Kannauj.
But it turned out to be not so understanding when it came to the weary band of runaways that showed up at its gates, seeking sanctuary. After all, the revered Rishi Vishrava could not be responsible for the bad karma that gave birth to their Naga offspring. Within a day of reaching Kannauj, the four of them found themselves outside the city once again, on the banks of the holy Ganga, wondering where they could go.
Mareech looked away at the river, his mind seething with anger. How could we have expected that? He started sharpening his knife again. Some light of wisdom may dawn on us as well. Raavan glanced at him superciliously. You should try reading too, Uncle. Pesky kid. They found lodgings in a charitable guesthouse in a small village, a short distance from the famous Vaidyanath temple.
Vaidyanath was famed for its physicians, and Kaikesi lost no time in taking Kumbhakarna to one, to see if the outgrowths on his shoulders and ears could be removed. The doctor, however, advised against it. There was too much vascularity in the outgrowths, too many blood vessels, and removing them surgically could lead to the death of the child, he said.
In any case, Kumbhakarna seemed like a happy baby whose outgrowths, unusually, did not cause him pain. It was best that he learn to live with them. Kaikesi was deeply disappointed. So was Raavan. But the reason for his disappointment was different. Not that he spoke of it to anyone. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, they left for the main Vaidyanath temple. It would soon be time for the morning aarti, the public offering of devotion to the Mahadev, Lord Rudra. The Vaidyanath temple was, in effect, a huge complex of many temples, set in the middle of a dense jungle.
Of course, the largest temple was dedicated to Lord Rudra. The Mahadev. The God of Gods. The temple complex was separated from the flood-prone Mayurakshi by marshlands and flood-plains that sponged the excess waters of the tempestuous river during the monsoon season, thus keeping the temples safe. Several species of medicinal herbs and roots grew in the swamp, making the small temple-town a treasure trove of medicines for the treatment of most diseases.
In fact, its name derived from this: Vaidyanath, the Lord of the Medicine Men. The main temple of Vaidyanath was shaped like a giant lotus. It had an uncomplicated but enormous core, with a hall, the sanctum sanctorum, and a spire built of stone and mortar, following the standards prescribed in the Aagama architectural texts. The main spire shot up a massive fifty metres from a fifteenmetre base. Each petal was four times the size of a fullgrown man. Made from the wood of robust sal trees, among the best hardwoods anywhere in the world, each petal had been further hardened through a process of chemical treatment and painted with a pink dye.
They were laid out on four levels, one above the other, to create a gargantuan lotus flower that encompassed the core of the temple. The main spire was painted yellow and grew out of the centre of this lotus like a giant pistil.
The base was coloured green, to signify the stem of the lotus. The elongated base was hollow and functioned as a tunnelshaped entry into the temple. It was almost surreal. And deeply symbolic. The lotus was a flower that retained its fragrance and beauty even while growing in slush and dirty water. It posed a silent challenge to the humans who visited the temple, to be true to their dharma even if those around them were not.
The number of petals—one hundred and eight—was significant too. The people of India, the followers of the dharmic way, attached a huge significance to the number. They believed that it was a divine number repeated again and again in the structure of the universe. The diameter of the sun was a hundred and eight times the diameter of the earth.
The average distance from the sun to the earth was a hundred and eight times the diameter of the sun. The average distance of the moon from the earth was a hundred and eight times the diameter of the moon. There were several other examples of this number appearing almost magically in the universe.
Over time, it had been incorporated into many rituals. For instance, it was recommended that a mantra be chanted a hundred and eight times. At the far end of the temple, in the sanctum sanctorum, was a life-size idol of Lord Rudra. The Lord sat cross-legged, like a yogi, his eyes closed in concentration. Right behind him was a massive three-metre high lingam-yoni— an ancient depiction of the One God.
The lingam was in the shape of half an egg, and some ancients believed that it represented the Brahmanda, or the Cosmic Egg, which allowed creation to coalesce. Others believed that it was a representation of masculine energy and potential. The union of the lingam and the yoni represented creation, a result of the partnership between the masculine and the feminine, an alliance between passive Space and active Time from which all life, indeed all creation, originated.
Outside the sanctum sanctorum, in the centre of the lotus-shaped temple, was the main gathering hall for devotees. By the time Raavan and his family reached the temple, they had little time to admire either its beauty or symbolism.
The aarti had already begun in the main hall. And it was spectacular. Thirty massive drums were placed sideways on large stands positioned throughout the hall. Big, burly men holding drumsticks the size of their own arms stood beside them, pounding the drums repeatedly.
He could feel the waves of sound in his bones. Even Kumbhakarna, the little baby, shook his arms excitedly. As the music gained in tempo, male and female devotees surged across the hall, towards the two-hundred-odd bells that hung from different points. They began ringing them now. In perfect harmony. Then, in a low voice, the devout, in tune with each other, began chanting a simple disyllabic word.
A word of immense power. In ecstatic devotion to the Mahadev. The Greatest God. Lord Rudra himself. The drums kept pace with the chanting.
Raavan looked around him. For the first time in his life, he experienced the sheer joy of being a part of something bigger than himself. He was a devotee of Lord Rudra. They all were. And there was no differentiation here. None at all.
Rich men danced next to their visibly poor compatriots. Students pirouetted next to their teachers. People with deformities chanted beside soldiers blessed with formidably fit bodies.
Purist priests danced with hedonist aghoras. Women danced with men and transgender people. Children with their parents. People of all denominations and castes. Indians and non-Indians. No differentiation.
Freedom from judgement. Freedom from expectations. Freedom from right and wrong. Freedom from Gods and Demons. Freedom to be oneself. And revel in the union with Lord Rudra. As though on cue, the drums and the bells fell silent. Only the echoes remained, lingering in the hushed silence of a deep and blissful devotion. The aarti had lasted no more than five minutes.
But it gave the joy of a lifetime to all those who were present there. Raavan glanced around him. There was ecstasy on every face. He looked at his uncle Mareech and his mother Kaikesi. Tears of joy were flowing down their cheeks. Raavan felt his own cheeks and was surprised to find them moist.
The Virgin Goddess had come forward to fulfil her duty. Everybody looked up. Craning their necks. Balancing on their toes to look beyond those in front of them. All keen to catch a glimpse of their living Goddess. But not Raavan.
He kept his eyes on the ground. Mareech glanced at his sister before turning back to look at the Kanyakumari, his hands held together in devotion.
I am told the previous Kanyakumari got her first period a few months ago. She has moved on and a new Kanyakumari has been recognised. Where do they go? What do they do? Maybe they go back to their villages once they are not Kanyakumaris anymore. But how can anyone find them? Very few even know their original birth-names. Hatred flashed in his eyes. For a brief, insane moment, he considered lunging forward and striking her dead. That would get rid of her forever.
But he banished the thought as quickly as it had occurred to him. It was pointless. They would simply recognise another girl-child as the Kanyakumari.
His Kanyakumari was not coming back. He knew almost nothing. All he remembered were her words. Her voice. And her face.
Her angelic face was burnt into his mind. A face that made all the pain go away. The thought he had been avoiding finally burst through to his consciousness. He was never going to see her again.
She was gone from his life. Our team will inform you by email when Raavan Orphan of Aryavarta by Amish Tripathi pdf ebook available. Raavan, Enemy of Aryavarta Amish Tripathi. It's the latest book in the Ram Chandra series by Amish Tripathi. Raavan: Enemy of Aryavarta Ram Chandra Book 3 and millions of other books are available for instant access.
Amish does nowhere mean to whitewash the sins and evil of Raavan. Ravaan was the first child of Maharishi Vishrava. Online PDF e-books: See all the books here. He has simply put Raavan into perspectives. Check out my reading vlog for more. Good book what I've read so far, although all of this author's books I've read so far have been exceptional.
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