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165 pages

English

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For four teenagers, the Ramayana is not just a tale. It is their fate! In every life they have ever lived, Vikram, Amanjit, Rasita and Deepika have been persecuted and killed by Ravindra, who aspires to the throne of Ravana the Demon-King. Now Rasita is a captive of Ravindra, and demonic beings thought to be mythical are rallying to him. His triumph seems inevitable. Vikram and Amanjit must rescue her. This time, failure is not an option. This time, if Ravindra wins, it will be forever.But slowly, pieces are falling into place. Why are they reliving the Ramayana? Who was Ravana? Where is the real Lanka? Age-old mysteries are uncovered and forgotten powers regained, as the quest to end the tyranny of Ravindra moves towards a finale that is as startling as it is electrifying.

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Publié par	Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd
Date de parution	23 février 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184756203
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0350€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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DAVID HAIR
King of Lanka
Book 4
The Return of Ravana
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
P ROLOGUE: T HE P HOTOGRAPHER
Part One: In Search of Lanka
A S ECRET W EDDING , AND A FTER
I SLE OF THE D EMON -K ING
R EADINESS
T HE B RIDGE OF R AMA
T HE I NVISIBLE G IRL
T HE G HOST AT THE C ITADEL D OOR
Q UID P RO Q UO
I, R AVANA
Y OU W ERE B ORN TO P LAY THIS R OLE
T HE H ALL OF THE D EMON - KING
C HAINED Q UEENS
H ALIKA : T AINTED L OVE
H ALIKA : S ISTERS IN S PIRIT
H ALIKA : T HE S IEGE OF L ANKA
I K NOW I AM A M ONSTER
A N A RCHERY D ISPLAY
C OURTROOM D RAMA , O LD S CHOOL
D ANCING IN THE R AIN
M Y L EAST S IGNIFICANT L IFE
T IM S AHIB
T HE A MBUSH
Part Two: To Reign in Lanka
F ALLING
H EMANT S P EOPLE
L ET US BE M ARRIED
D EATH FROM A BOVE
I N EED MY H EART
A P ARLEY AT THE G ATES
W EDDING P REPARATIONS
T HE F INAL R EVELATION
L OVE AND F IDELITY
P ASHUPATASTRA
B RONZE A GE D RAINAGE
H EALING H ERBS
K EKE S C HOICE
M OKSHA
T EMPLE OF L OVE
D USSHERA
E PILOGUE
A UTHOR S N OTE
A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
KING OF LANKA
David Hair is the author of Pyre of Queens, Swayamvara and The Bone Tiki , winner of Best First Book at the 2010 NZ Post Children s Book Awards. The Bone Tiki and its sequels The Taniwha s Tear and The Lost Tohunga are fantasy novels set in New Zealand.
David is a New Zealander, who has worked primarily in financial services. He has a degree in History and Classical Studies. He has lived in New Delhi, India from 2007 to 2010, but usually resides in Wellington, New Zealand. Apart from writing, he is interested in folklore, history, and has a passion for football.
Dedicated to: Kerry, Brendan and Melissa, as always; All the very good friends we made in India during our 2006-2010 stint in Delhi; And Biddy and Cliff, my parents, who let me daydream (after the chores were done!).
Also in the series
Pyre of Queens Swayamvara Souls in Exile
Prologue
The Photographer
Harappa, April 1947
Mister Tim! Tim-sahib! Chai? Chai?
The white man beneath the straw hat shook himself and looked down. He was sitting on a stone platform at the highest point of the excavations. Sweat had plastered his shirt to his back and standing up for too long was dizzying. Grit filled the air and itched its way into the corners of his eyes and the roof of his mouth. It was only April-what would the summer be like? All about him were trenches, and walkways bridging holes and walls. The shape of the buried city was slowly emerging from the earth like dinosaur bones. He d been desperately thirsty for an hour or more, and now waved urgently at the little chai-walla, who was no more than eleven. Ramesh, I ll come down!
No no, Tim-sahib. I climb! I climb! The little urchin swarmed up the rocks like one of the brown monkeys that infested the site, grinning through his white uneven teeth. See, I climb! The boy s English was severely limited, but improving. In seconds he was crouched beside the Englishman in the shade of the pinnacle. He peered down at the view, delighting in being so high up. Like ants, he grinned, pointing down at all of the dark-skinned men labouring below.
Tim Southby nodded, smiling back. Just like ants, he agreed.
The little boy poured a small cup of sweet spicy tea, and handed it to the Englishman, with hero worship in his eyes. Tim didn t like the look, which he got from too many of the local people. They knew his recent past-he had fought in the war, a hero back home and here too. He d been a fighter-pilot, had won the DFC and bar. A veteran of the Battle of Britain, who fought for two years until an ME-109 got him in its sights and blasted his right leg off below the knee. Now he was just a photographer with a wooden leg, but everyone insisted on treating him like some kind of minor deity.
History and photography had been his passion growing up, and when the war was over he had needed little persuasion to leave battered, miserable England behind, joining an old school chum here in the Punjab; especially after his sweetheart Annie made it clear she found his one-leggedness repulsive. She had latched on to one of his squadron-mates within weeks of dumping him, he d learnt subsequently. When the ship sailed, he d been on the foredeck, looking only ahead.
Ramesh fished into a pocket and pulled out a little metal disc. Money, he said avidly. Old people money. He showed it to Southby, who took it thoughtfully.
Look, he said, showing the boy one side of the coin on which was etched the figure of a seated man in profile. It s another one showing a king.
King? the boy tried out the word.
Your word is raja, Southby told him, and the boy nodded. Southby looked out over the digs, which extended hundreds of yards in every direction. This place may be the most significant archaeological dig of the era, he said, more to himself than the boy, who wouldn t understand most of the words anyway. Hammond believes these Indus Valley sites may predate Egypt or Sumeria. This may be the place where man first evolved civilization. There are drains and water-courses, walls, streets it is magnificent. All the stone blocks are regular, precisely placed and fitted. And there is no obvious royal or religious ostentation either! The society here must have been far more egalitarian than later cultures. Before the warlords and priests got their grip on the people, he added vehemently, thinking of generals and priests he d known in the war, men who thought only in terms of acceptable attrition and sacrifice for the greater good . This place must have been a relative paradise, an island of culture in a sea of primitive barbarism.
Baa-baa Ramesh echoed, giggling at the last word.
Barbarism, Southby grinned. Actually the word does come from baa-baa -the noise the Romans heard when the Germanic tribes talked. He grunted. Damned Germans, still causing trouble. He drank his tea, and patted the boy on the shoulder. A movement below caught his eye. Hey, who s your friend?
Friend? Ramesh puzzled over the word as he peered into the shadows. Oh, it s Kamila! Kamila! He waved a hand, and a plump girl his age slunk shyly from behind a rock and stared.
Hello! Southby called.
The girl shrank back. Ramesh called to her in his rapid-fire Punjabi, and she answered tentatively. Kamila is scared, Ramesh reported.
I won t bite, Southby chuckled.
Bite! Ramesh chortled, snapping his teeth. Bite-bite-bite! He called something teasing to the girl in his own tongue, and she took fright and fled. Heh-heh. I say to her: Sahib will bite you!
For shame! She ll be scared of me for the rest of her life, now.
Ramesh grinned mischievously. Then from below, an impatient voice shouted in Punjabi, and the boy looked down, shouting something back. He quickly reclaimed the empty cup, and with a friendly wave he was gone, clambering back down the pile of ordered stones.
Ramesh was replaced by the foreman Anand Gupta, a plump fellow who always smelt like he needed a bath. He had an immaculate moustache though. Good evening, Southby-sahib, he greeted the Englishman. Is it a good evening for photographs? Is the light good today? he asked politely, having little knowledge of the arcane arts of photography.
Southby shook his head. The air is very hazy today, Anand. Not good for photography, only for pretty sunsets. There is a lot of smoke coming from the cities. More even than during the winter. He thought about that. Is there trouble, Anand?
Anand Gupta frowned. These days there is always trouble in the city, Southby-sahib. Ever since Jinnah won the right for this new Pakistan , this Muslim state. My people are worried. They say Muslims are killing Sikhs and Hindus here in Western Punjab. And Sikhs and Hindus are killing Muslims in Hindustan. It is not good.
It is not good, Southby agreed, staring into the hazy distance. The closest town was just a village, Harappa. Most of the workers came from there, but they d brought in others when the need for labour had increased. It was a mixed crew now, from all over the region. Most were Muslims, some were Hindu. There had been trouble between them, fuelled by the rumours. Southby didn t get too involved. He was just the camera-jockey. The workers were Gupta and Hammond s problem.
They say the Muslim National Guard are going from village to village, Gupta added. The Guard have been declared illegal, but the army does nothing. You Britishers do nothing, he added sullenly.
Southby could only nod apologetically. Welcome to independence. You have to solve your own problems when you re independent.
You British caused most of those problems! Gupta snapped back, then bit his tongue. I am sorry, Southby-sahib. I know it is not your fault personally. I am talking from worry only. He hung his head. I am talking too much.
Southby inclined his head sympathetically. Gupta wasn t a bad stick, and he must be worried for his family and himself, a Hindu stuck here in what would be Pakistani territory. We have guarantees from men who will be in the new administration in Islamabad, he reminded the foreman. You and your people will be safe here.
Gupta looked at him with troubled eyes. I am thinking you are very naive, Southby-sahib.

Southby woke with a gun viciously jammed into his cheek. The man wielding it looked like an Afghani tribesman, but he wore a deep green overcoat and the crescent badge of the outlawed Muslim National Guard. His lean scarred face was buried in a spade-like beard, and his eyes were sunken pits. His skin was blotched and pitted all over his hands and face, as if he s been scalded by boiling water as a child.
Get up, English, the man snarled. He shoved with the gun muzzle. Behind him, two smaller men in the same uniform levelled rifles.
Southby slowly lifted his hands. He found himself surprisingly calm. His fear of death had been burned away in the skies above En