The stormy wind howled around the small, dilapidated hut barely standing on the edge of the mountain cliff. One more fierce gust, and the hut would have been swept away into the roaring, frothy waterfall below, erasing all traces of our existence. Would I have been wiped from the pages of history so easily? Was my fate merely to be defeated? Back then, I didn't realize it, but I was born to fulfill someone else's destiny—to bestow divinity upon another.
Clutching each other, we three siblings stood with our weary, desperate mother, gazing at the glittering palace of my stepbrother, Kubera. Though it was close, it felt like a different world. I had been there once, hiding behind my poor, dark-skinned mother, my younger brothers holding my fingers. My exhausted, hungry sister slumped lifelessly over my mother's shoulder like a tattered, old cloth. We were poor—not just poor, but wretched. The only thing we had in abundance was poverty itself. Hunger and shame clung to us like second skin.
As a last resort, my mother dragged us to beg from the wealthiest man in the world—our stepbrother, Kubera, the Lord of Riches. In that opulent palace, where arrogance dripped from every corner, we stood with begging bowls. We were given alms—a few gold coins and mocking glances from Kubera's wives. Our needs were insignificant, and his time was far too precious to waste on us. With a dismissive wave, he tossed us some loose coins, and that was it. No further thought was spared for us.
That was until the day I made my existence impossible to ignore—defiantly and unapologetically. But that came much later. Until then, we stopped begging like paupers. The only treasure I took from that palace was my burning ambition. The sight of that wealth ignited a fire in me—a fire that never died, fueled by the hunger in my belly. I knew then that the world Kubera owned today would be mine tomorrow—and beyond.
If our little hut survived the torrential rains tonight, our journey would begin tomorrow. I was certain—the world was mine to conquer.
We never received any formal education. No Brahmin was willing to teach us for free, no matter how much we pleaded. We were wild, dark-skinned, and troublesome—half-breeds, they called us. Our father was a great sage, but that meant nothing to us. He was more engrossed in his studies than in caring for his own children. A Brahmin through and through. Our mother belonged to some obscure Asura tribe—a fact that was an open secret.
Our father wasn't cruel—just self-absorbed, like most men of his caste. He believed his mere presence in our home was a blessing. He conveniently forgot that people needed food to survive. Oh, and he named us after demons—because we had no interest in his scriptures. We often mocked him. Whenever he and his friends chanted the Vedas, I openly questioned their faith. Kumbhakarna, Surpanakha, and I would mimic them in our mud hut. Only my youngest brother, Vibhishana, watched them with reverence, absorbing every word.
Everything changed when our father bequeathed all his wealth to our stepbrother, Kubera. We were left with nothing. Growing up became a struggle—a constant, gnawing pain that seeped into our souls. Yet, we never strayed from righteousness. Our morality was different from what the privileged called justice. We learned that truth could bend when necessary. Our dharma was simple: Keep your word. Speak your mind. Never act against your conscience. Never deceive, even in failure. Respect women. Never tolerate injustice.
We were not bound by any scripture or tradition. We were almost illegitimate.
The next day, we left the island. I had heard of vast lands in the north. I wanted to travel across Bharat, climb the snow-capped Himalayas, swim against the raging Ganga in monsoon, trek through the dense forests of Sahyadri and Vindhya. I dreamed of seeing monkeys, yakshas, and kinnaras—of visiting the celestial city of Gandharvas, alive with music. So much world to conquer! So much life to savor!
One day, Ravana would rule the world—from the Himalayas to Lanka. No—from Lanka to the Himalayas.
A small doubt lingered in the shadows of my grand dreams. Were these just illusions born of hunger? Would death come today, swallowing us in the dark waters, leaving no trace? Would my ambitions ever be understood?
My mother's tears anchored my soul. She wanted us to conquer the world—yet she also wanted us close. Perhaps she saw the fire in my eyes and chose not to hold us back. When I looked back, I saw her—bent, clad in rags, embracing my ugly sister. To me, she was the most beautiful girl in the world. But even I had to admit—by conventional standards, she was hideous.
The guards at my stepbrother's palace laughed as we struggled with the raft, raising their cups in mock toast to our demise. They sang vulgar songs, insulting my mother. I wanted to snap their necks. But I had promised her—no violence until I learned wisdom and strength.
We traveled through the evergreen forests of Sahyadri. We saw grand palaces, harbors, elephants, sandalwood, peacocks, and monkeys. Ships with rainbow sails carried gold and diamonds, spices and silks to distant lands. Temples where gods resided—and priests who looted in their name. Cities blazed with light, women of celestial beauty.
Kubera's flags fluttered on ships—his trade empire stretched across Greece, Egypt, China. Had I revealed my identity, even a junior manager in one of his gold-plated offices would have welcomed us. But I refused. I could have lived comfortably as a clerk in his empire—ensuring at least one meal a day for my family. But how could I forget the contempt in his eyes when he tossed coins at us?
Hunger I could endure—but not the humiliation of serving in his empire. Some would call it pride. The wise say one must be pragmatic—content with what little life offers. But my dreams were different. I didn't just want to live in this world—I wanted to conquer it.
Why were people so submissive? Why did power and wealth belong to so few? Why did the rest bow under their weight? Worse—why did they serve those who oppressed them and their children? Fear? I didn't know.
But what I saw was injustice—wealth, caste, rituals, traditions, blind faith—all conspiring to crush the masses. Was there no better way to live? The moment I asked "Why?"—I was branded a rebel. My father's Brahmin friends tried to exile me from the village. They said I was possessed—a demon.
Perhaps I was too young, too brash. My perspective was raw. The exception was my younger brother, Vibhishana. He was calm, obedient—never questioning. The village adored him. Often, I thought he was too naive. But he fit into this world—destined for greatness. I loved him. He was fragile—needed protection from this cruel world.
I lacked self-assurance. I wasn't "intelligent" in the traditional sense. Unlike Vibhishana, I couldn't recite the Vedas. To me, they were nonsense—words written by idle Brahmins millennia ago. Instead of working, they prayed to gods they invented—for rain, sun, cows, wealth.
Perhaps I was prejudiced. But their yagnas were not mere rituals—they were tools. The Brahmins were no fools. Burning blades of grass? They claimed it could shake the earth, control the elements. The irony? Carpenters, masons, farmers—the real workers—bowed to these charlatans.
Everywhere I traveled, frauds claimed divine connection. How did ancient kings suddenly become gods? Fascinating.
I am an atheist. I believe in God—but for me, He is private. Prayer should be silent, personal.