ASHOK BANKER RAMAYANA PDF
RAMAYANA SERIES: THE COMPLETE EDITION - Kindle edition by AKB eBOOKS, Ashok K. Banker. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC. Ashok banker ramayana series pdf. Worcester 24i junior combi boiler manual harvest moon - the tale of two towns Europe fixed. You can add effects to recorded. Ashok Banker Prince of Ayodhya - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read book online.
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which site can I download a free PDF of Siege of Mithia by Ashok K Banker? How can I download an eBook in PDF? Siege of Mithila (Ramayana, Book 2). Prince of Ayodhya (Ramayana, #1), Siege of Mithila (Ramayana #2), Demons of Chitrakut (Ramayana #3), Armies of Hanuman (Ramayana, #4), Bridge of. This is an eight-book series where Ashok Banker retells the Ramayan in the style of the modern “fantasy” novel, like the Lord of the Rings.
Only the Pisacas used their enemy to breed as well. Nagas, giant cobralike beings with a human head and torso but with yard-long forked tongues, serpentine lower bodies, and long tails, slithered through the alleyways and up walls, finding the strays and those who tried to flee the more organized invaders. Rama saw a group of Nagas converge, hissing, on an unarmed brahmin mother and her two shaven-headed sons.
The raised hoods mercifully hid what happened next. When the hoods parted, the three brahmins lay prone on the street, their skin turning blue from several twin-puckered bites. Uragas, enormous reptilian brethren of the Nagas, flowed sinuously among their cousin species, their enormous python bodies swollen with telltale lumps—the Ayodhyans they'd swallowed alive. Their deceptively human faces were cast in the appearance of beautiful girl-children, a detail that only added to the horror of their violations.
Generally benign, Yaksas, the elfish races, were lovable but mischievous pranksters who used their morphing abilities to tease and entertain, not to kill and maim.
Even though Rama had grown up with tales of their magical antics, he had never heard of Yaksas being openly malevolent. Here, however, their mischief was vicious, their antics deadly. He saw a group of Yaksas morph into a herd of horses as they turned a corner and came face to face with a troop of citizens armed with an assortment of farming implements and kitchen weapons.
The Ayodhyans paused to let the horses ride past, realizing their mistake only when the Yaksas tore into them like predators rather than the gentle herbivores they were masquerading as. Hooves flailed, smashing skulls like ripe pumpkins.
Powerful equine teeth ripped necks and bit off limbs. Half-ton heavy battle-horse bodies trampled screaming humans underfoot, shattering bones and smashing organs. Elsewhere, other Yaksas were using their morphing abilities to disguise themselves as elephants, camels, deer, dogs, swine—even an unlikely band of murderous buffalo, loping along with horns dripping blood and gore.
There were other Asura races, too, committing other unspeakable acts of violence and desecration. Defiling holy icons, demolishing temples, and slaughtering, always slaughtering.
A rumbling sound forced him to raise his gaze to the extremities of the city; he saw the king's highway boiling with more intruders. The Asura forces covered the road all the way to the edge of the Southwoods, a distance of a full yojana.
They flowed from the Southwoods down to the city like a black, boiling river of pestilence. Even at a glance, it was clear that the invaders vastly outnumbered the defenders. And yet, more kept coming in a constant, seething flow. There seemed to be no end to their unholy numbers. Click Here DownLoad A screeching cry startled him from his horrified reverie. He looked up to see the early dawn sky darkening. Great, hulking shadows coalesced into the winged shapes of flying bird-beasts, humanoid creatures out of myth and fable.
He stared in disbelief at what seemed to be Garudas and Jatayus, named after the gigantic mythic man-eagle and enormous fabled man-vulture of ancient folklore.
Their slender, lightly feathered bodies were strikingly humanoid except for the birdlike eyes and beaks and the incredible muscular wings growing from their backs. Some had a wingspan of ten yards or more. They swooped down to the streets below, down to the killing floor of the slaughterhouse that Ayodhya had become.
Rama scanned the sky and saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of the flying creatures flocking to the carnage, calling to each other exultantly in their protohuman speech. As they reached street level and a new wave of horror began, he shut his eyes and staggered back, away from the aperture, unable to absorb any more.
Now do you see the futility of resisting me and my forces? Would you like to see your kith and kin ravished and slaughtered like your countrymen below? Your brothers, perhaps? Or your birth-mother? Or— Rama lashed out. This time he struck without discipline or stance. Pure rage fueled his actions. The sword slashed through empty air. He came to his senses a moment later, at the far end of the tower chamber, sword vibrating in his two-handed grip. He had traced an interweaving mandala pattern that covered every square yard of the chamber.
There was no living being here. His eyes misted with impotent rage. Why do you show me these monstrous visions? Show yourself, damn you!
You still have not seen the real horrors. The best part comes later, when the survivors are taken back to Lanka as my slaves and whores. Shall I show you that now?
It was an attempt to understand, to make sense of the evil that confronted him. Now you begin to learn. Yes, I do want something from you. A vow of allegiance. Bend your knee to me now, this instant, and swear fealty to me.
Do this now, and perhaps I shall see fit to spare Ayodhya when my armies lay waste the nations of Arya. Kneel, boy, and live. He forced his breathing to stay measured, his voice as steady as he could keep it. It took more strength than wielding the sword. Show yourself and face me like the man you claim you are, coward! Lightning out of a pitch-black sky.
Thunder boomed and echoed an instant later. When the voice resumed, it sounded like giant teeth gnashing in frustration. Still just a boy. But you will learn. I will teach you the song of pain and terror. And you will bend your knee then. You will beg and cry for the honor of kneeling to me. Until then, sleep your childish sleep, boy. And remember this well: Ayodhyawillfall.
Another blinding flash of white light. Click Here DownLoad He woke in his bed, chest heaving, sweat-drenched, fever-hot, bone-chilled. He sprang to his feet, stood naked on the cool redstone floor—he had tossed off his loincloth as the night grew warmer. Even as he reached for his sword, he knew that it was still there on the bed where it had lain all night, untouched.
Just another bad dream, he thought, willing himself to calm down. He remembered the perfection of his movements and asanas in the dream and also how futile all his training had proved. Who was this faceless beast that tortured him this way? This was the third time this week alone that the monster had appeared and shown him similarly horrible dream-visions.
Too horrible even to discuss with anyone else. Not even Lakshman. Just another nightmare. As real and terrifying as all nightmares usually were. But this time it felt like something more. It felt like a prophecy. The traveler reached the top of the rise and paused.
Drivers from TOP
He was clad in the simple garb of an ascetic. The coarse white dhoti girding his loins, wooden toe-grip slippers on his feet, matted, unkempt hair swirling around his craggy face, the long, straggly white beard, the red-beaded rudraksh maala around his neck—all marked him for a hermit returning from a long, hard tapasya.
His gaunt face and deep-set eyes completed the portrait of a forest penitent, a tapasvi sadhu. Yet there was something about him that set him apart from any ordinary sadhu or hermit—an indefinable quality that belied the obvious first impression. An alertness in his intense predatory eyes, a sense of banked power in his fluid movements, a hint of hidden strength, and most of all, an unmistakable regal air.
Leaning lightly on the head-tall wildwood staff, his large frame silhouetted against the dusky purple of the predawn sky, he resembled nothing so much as a warrior king surveying his battlements.
He would have looked at home on a royal chariot, gripping the carved bonewood of a longbow, polished armor gleaming in the cold sunlight, contemplating the battlefields lay. He had been a warrior once. A king, even.
Lord of an ancient and illustrious northern Arya clan, master of a great throne and monarch of a rich dynasty. He had given it all up millennia earlier to pursue a life of total dedication to the pursuit of brahman, the life force that knit the universe. Now he wielded this wooden staff instead of a sword, voiced mantras instead of royal edicts. His kingdom was the realm of atman and brahman, spirit and power.
His name had passed beyond history, across the boundaries of legend into the misty realms of myth. A guru among gurus, a seer that other seers looked up to reverentially. A brahmarishi. Yet the regal bearing and manner had not left him entirely. And at this fateful moment, this cusp of history, as he stood sketched against the sky on that high peak, looking down at the lush, epic beauty of the Sarayu Valley, he looked every inch the king he once had been.
Even the gentle northern wind that rustled the vast rolling banks of kusa grass below seemed to pause briefly, awaiting his command.
The waters of the Sarayu, ice pure and crystal clear, stilled their gurgling momentarily. The world grew silent, marking the moment as he spoke aloud a sacred mantra. Not just a mantra, a maha-mantra. The sacred and omnipotent Gayatri. As he spoke, the lines of destiny swirled around him. The faint blue hue of brahman, the raw energy of spiritual enlightenment, caressed his form, an invisible cloak of power. From here on, every step he took closer to Ayodhya would bring about change, historic change.
For on this cool, crisp morning, the last night of winter, the first day of spring, he was about to make a king—perhaps the greatest king of them all. What he wrought today in that city by the river would reverberate down the corridors of human history. Gripping the hefty staff more firmly, the seer-mage Vishwamitra stepped back on the well-worn cart track of the king's highway and began the long downward trek to the first wall.
The city itself was still a whole yojana distant, and he wished to be there before daybreak. But first he had to alter his appearance. It would not do to appear as himself. The unannounced appearance of a seer-mage of his legendary status would become the talk of the city, bringing brahmins by the hundreds out of doors to pay their respects, which would only delay his urgent mission. Without slowing his pace, he spoke the mantra of transformation. The glow of brahman grew brighter around him as nature itself responded to the sacred incantation.
Countless tiny motes of bluish light began to swirl around him, blurring his form. A large boulder lay off to one side of the road, and he stepped off the path and into the knee-deep kusa grass, droplets of dew clinging to his dhoti like beads of quicksilver.
As he strode around the rock and passed out of sight, his body shimmered as if seen through a curtain of smoke. When he emerged scant seconds later on the far side of the boulder, it was no longer as the great seer-mage Vishwamitra.
The man who stepped back onto the cartwheel-ridged mud road was a young, muscular dark-skinned man with the traditional animal-skin kilt, bone necklace, and body-piercing adornments of a sudra hunter. A bulging game bag was slung over one shoulder, a gleaming sickle-spear clutched in the other hand. A few scattered motes of blue light trailed behind him, winking out slowly like fireflies extinguished by rain.
The hunter strode toward Ayodhya. High on the hill, a dark shadow detached itself from a small grove of eucalyptus trees. It hopped forward cautiously, reached a mossy ledge overhanging the path below, and peered over the rim.
Its keen eyes easily picked out the figure of the sudra hunter far below, striding north at a determined pace. The disguise did not deceive it. It was familiar with creatures that changed their bhes-bhav at will.
Even at this distance, the seer-mage's aura was as keenly visible to its preternatural senses as a halo around a blue-skinned deva. Its bright golden eyes followed the hunter's striding form until he disappeared over a rise a mile distant. Then it chittered and scratched repeatedly at the mossy ledge underfoot.
Its yard-long talons drew deep grooves, sending the thick, damp moss flying in shredded strips, exposing the rock. The tips of its claws drew sparks from the rock as it raised its head and issued a blood-curdling screech. The cry was almost human, and the traveler on the path below heard it and recognized its source but strode on without slowing.
An ordinary sudra hunter would have been terrified out of his wits; the great seer-mage Vishwamitra barely gave the cry a second's attention. The creature chittered again, frustrated. It now wished it had attacked the traveler while he was still in the dense jungles of Bhayanak-van, the darkwoods. The seer-mage had been aware of its presence from the very outset, it knew, so it had made no attempt to conceal itself.
But rather than glance up fearfully at the gigantic shadow lurking overhead, as most ordinary mortals would have done, the sage had simply stridden on relentlessly, as if it had been a mere raven or crow flying overhead and not the legendary Jatayu itself, first of its name—a name that struck terror into the hearts of mortals across the Arya nations. Furious at being ignored, weary of circling endlessly to compensate for the far slower pace of the earthbound mortal, Jatayu had longed to plunge down, down, to strike at the dhoti-clad human and rip him to shreds.
But its orders had been clear:Follow and observe. Nothing more, nothing less. The Dark Lord of Lanka had been explicit in his instructions. It scratched the ledge one last time, hard enough this time to draw a cracking noise like a dry twig being split.
Its great talons had caused a fissure in the rock. Turning its enormous bald head skyward, it considered its next move. It had a long way to travel, in the shortest time possible. Lanka was a whole subcontinent away, and the news Jatayu carried was important. The Lord of the Asuras would not be pleased to learn the seer-mage Vishwamitra's destination, but he would certainly be pleased at his spy's diligence. It spread its wings, first the left then the right, unfolding them slowly, painfully, sighing as it did so.
They were weary from the long journey. What was more, its belly rumbled with hunger. It had been able to snatch a few small prey on the wing: a pair of parrots, a duck that had strayed from its fellows while flying south for the winter, even a juicy pregnant bat. But they were barely snacks for its enormous appetite. If it could just stay awhile, forage around until it found the burning ghats where it knew these Ayodhyans must cremate their dead, it would have food aplenty.
After all, though it was part human, it was also part vulture. And the vulture part craved human flesh. But Lanka was thrice as far as the distance it had flown already. Even with brief rests, the journey would consume precious time.
Hopefully, the seer-mage would stay in the city that long. These holy men usually took their time when they made their rare forays back into civilization. And this particular one had broken his retreat after a considerable time, even by Jatayu's count. Over two hundred mortal years, it reckoned. Which meant there had to be a very good reason for Vishwamitra's visit to Ayodhya. Which meant that the lord of Lanka would not appreciate the news being delivered late. Sighing in frustration, Jatayu began the arduous task of flapping its mighty wings, trying to work up enough wind to elevate itself off the ground until it found an air current.
For yards around, the grass was flattened by the tremendous force of its flapping. A family of hares creeping from their hole were pressed to the ground, their long ears laid flat on the earth to either side of their heads. With a final, ear-splitting screech of effort, Jatayu launched itself off the ledge, plummeting downward like a launched boulder for several heart-stopping seconds before it found a small wind wave and clung to it fiercely.
The wave strengthened, and it straightened out scant yards above the trail the sage had taken. With one more massive effort, it rode the wave out into the Sarayu Valley. Airborne at last, it drifted for several minutes, climbing steadily higher to find a current flowing the direction it wished to go.
It saw the seven gates of Ayodhya far below, ringing the mortal city like a set of concentric necklaces around a queen's neck. The River Sarayu undulated like a silver python through the lush valley. The magnificent palaces and mahals at the center of the city straddled the roaring river with a variety of vaulting arches and inbuilt bridges in a large, complex system of architecture. It was an amazing sight, and Jatayu accepted grudgingly that it had never seen a mortal city as intricately designed as this one.
So this was the great Ayodhya the Unconquerable. As it drifted on a strong up-current that flowed parallel to the river, the sickly sweet odor of mortal flesh came clearly to its hunger-heightened senses. All the beauty and splendor of the magnificent Arya architecture was forgotten as its appetite was provoked again. To Jatayu, that was what this great city was, ultimately: a giant feeding trough. Soon, it knew, its lord and master would beat down the proud walls of this so-called unconquerable city, and Jatayu and its kind would feast to their hearts' content.
The giant man-vulture issued an ululating cry, mocking the city and its inhabitants and their precarious mortality before riding the air current southward to its distant destination. The sound that issued was a single word, split into three extended syllables by the bird-beast's cry. A grizzled veteran at the seventh gate glanced up and glimpsed the shockingly large silhouette that was sketched briefly against the deep blue predawn sky. It must have a wingspan of at least twenty yards!
Like I told you before, this is the time of day you see the strangest things. It was right above us. It looked like a giant vulture—that round head, long hooked beak, that hunched back. But there was something odd about the body.
It was broader than a bird, differently shaped, almost like a A giant man-vulture, is that what it looked like, young novice? The gob of phlegm glistened in the light of the gate lamps. He watched it splash into the still waters of the moat far below before he answered in a disinterested tone. Not anymore. A trick of the light is all it was we saw.
One sees strange things on an awamas ki raat. The lack of a moon confuses the human mind such nights. Now, get your thoughts back on your work. It's almost time to open the gates. It was a Garuda. Just like the ones in the frescoes at the War Museum. From the Asura Wars. It was a silent message to the young novice to let the matter drop. If that thing they had glimpsed had indeed been a man-vulture, it would have been called a Jatayu. A Garuda was a man-eagle, the great flying mount of the devas, and a holy icon.
A Jatayu, on the other hand, was not man's friend. But one of the failings of youth is that it seldom heeds warnings—or heeds them too late. The novice spoke impetuously, ignoring the silent message. You fought in the last war with my father. You've seen creatures like that before, haven't you? How can you say they don't exist? You talk about the last war? What do you know of it? You were not even a seed in your father's gonads when the Last Asura War ended.
That was twenty-two years ago this past Shravan. Who are you to speak of such things? He knew how sensitive the old veterans were to talking lightly of the old days and old ways. His father had thrashed him once for simply repeating a play-yard rhyme about rakshasas; he had been only seven at the time. He never made fun of Asuras or the Asura Wars ever again.
Still, he knew what he had seen just now. And it was no ordinary bird. It was the old guard who spoke again, gruffly, after several minutes of tense silence. Giant man-vultures? Jatayus, not Garudas, mind you! If not for him, I would not be standing here manning this wall today. Your father was a good man, Vishnu take his aatma.
He and I saw enough beasts out of hell to last a hundred lifetimes. That's why Maharaja Dasaratha formed the PFs, to give us veterans a regiment of our own. He almost disbanded the entire army; that's how much he wanted to put the war behind him.
We all did, because some things are best forgotten. He shuddered once, shook his head, and spat again into the moat. The young soldier spoke cautiously. It's thanks to you all that we live in times of peace today.
I know that. Every Arya in the seven nations knows it. But don't just thank us PFs. Thank the good Maharaja Dasaratha. He was always at the forefront of the Arya armies, fighting right beside us, and it's thanks to him and Maharaja Janak and the other clan chiefs that we were able to rid the land of the last Asuras.
Why, Dasaratha was away fighting so long, he was in his thirty-fifth year by the time the wars ended, and he and Rani Kausalya hadn't even begun a family yet! Imagine that, if you will! Most of us are grandparents by that age. Truly, he gave his best years and best men to the cause. He planted the banyan tree of peace and prosperity beneath which we all shelter today.
I've been listening to too many stories in the Veterans' Inn, I guess. But that's all the tales of the Asura Wars are now—stories. And may they always stay just that, Vishnu be praised. Move to it. Time enough for stories and wine when the shift's ended. I'll tell you a story about Jatayus that'll turn your blood to icemelt, over a matka of the maharaja's bhaang at the Holi feast today.
Now get back to work. They were busy working the heavy winch wheel that lowered the enormous wooden gate. The gate also served as a bridge across the moat outside; when lowered fully it bridged the fifteen-yard gap. The sound of it settling in its iron cradle was like a giant thumping his fist.
Then they worked the levers that drained and refilled the moat with fresh water directly from the river. This was done weekly to keep diseases from breeding in the water. A small crowd was waiting outside the gate when it came down.
The brief chatter between the two guards had delayed gate-opening by a few minutes. The other six gates had already opened and allowed in the travelers eager to enter Ayodhya.
It was amotleybunch. Mostly bullock carts carrying entire families from the outlying northern farms, children squealing excitedly at the thought of spending a feast day in the great city.
A few kshatriyas, professional armsmen, also arriving for the festival or simply passing through. A courier from Mithila, Ayodhya's sister city in the eastern region of Kosala, with Maharaja Janak's royal seal on his leather bag. A few brahmins on foot or riding mules or asses, their enormous bellies murmuring at the promise of the feast ahead.
A vendor leading three camels laden with bags full of rang, the brightly colored powders used during the Holi festival. An assortment of street entertainers: a snake charmer, a family of acrobats carrying their paraphernalia, a rope climber, two jadugars, a flautist, a Saivite self-flagellator wielding a five-yard-long set of metal-tipped whips, a bear-and-monkey showman.
They were just the early birds. By sunrise there would be an incessant flow of traffic into Ayodhya. In recent years it seemed as if every citizen in the kingdom of Kosala wanted to come to the capital city to avail themselves of the king's open-house policy of free food and drink to all for the day.
Holi was the biggest festival day of the Arya year apart from Deepavali. And while Deepavali provided one last opportunity to celebrate and feast before the onset of winter, Holi marked the celebration of the first day of spring—a new beginning to a new harvest year. The two seventh-gate guards watched the ragged caravan of travelers trundle excitedly through the open gates. It was Somasra's aging but still sharp eyes that saw the figure in the thick of the crowd: a tall, white-bearded man clad in the red-ocher robes of a seer, carrying a wildwood staff.
Somasra peered at the seer and blinked, startled. The crowd cleared, turning right and left as their business took them, and for a moment the seer was clearly visible, illuminated in the flickering torchlight from the mashaals bordering the gate. He strode purposefully into the city, heading up Harishchandra Avenue. Somasra rubbed his eyes, unable to believe he was seeing right. If his eyesight hadn't failed him at last, then that old seer over there, now already several dozen yards down the main street of Ayodhya, was none other than the legendary seer-mage Brahmarishi Vishwamitra himself.
The famous likeness was unmistakable, a mirror image of the huge portrait in the Seers' Gallery. But how could it possibly be Vishwamitra? The great seer hadn't been seen by human eyes in over How many years was it?
Two hundred? Two hundred fifty?
Several minutes later, Somasra was still trying to decide whether he had seen correctly, when the real Vishwamitra, still disguised as a sudra hunter, strode through the gate, following the same route as the impostor who had assumed his form.
This time, even Somasra's alert vision failed to recognize the visitor. The flickering flames of the backlight sent Manthara's shadow fleeing ahead of her, dancing across the cobbled street then up the wall that marked the end of the blind alley. At this dark hour, after yet another sleepless night in a succession of sleepless nights spent in anxious anticipation, the reminder of her own misshapen form was more than Manthara could bear.
She turned to the startled serving girl and laid her hand thrice across the wretch's face. The girl cried out, whimpering, but kept her hold on the mashaal. Even in the flickering glow, the marks of Manthara's long, bony fingers stood out as clearly as lashes on the girl's pale young cheeks.
She stared wide-eyed, not knowing what her error had been, and Manthara didn't bother to inform her. She had already turned back and was shuffling the last yards to the door at the end of the alley. Manthara paused for a moment to listen for the sounds of the night patrol. It was getting dangerously late. Only a few moments ago, she'd heard the faint sound of the seventh gate being lowered with a booming like distant thunder.
She must return to the palace before the change of guards, which took place at dawn. She raised her hand to knock on the door, but it opened even before her knuckles fell on the battered and scarred wood. A short, dark figure clad in a flowing black chador gestured her in impatiently.
Once I started reading it, I just could not put it down. I gobbled-up the first six of the series as and when they were released. I was under the impression that the series was over with the six books maybe there was a gap between the publishing of the sixth and the seventh book, or something in the sixth book gave me that impression.
However, I recently discovered that Banker has added two more volumes to the series, making it a total of 8 books. I have read the first six books twice, and I have re-started with the third round, once again a few weeks ago. It is a world full of magic created by through repeated retelling over centuries and repackaged by Ashok Banker in an engrossing manner.
The narrations are riveting and the charaters uniquely distinguishable. Banker also sprinkles the narration with some Sanskrit and Hindi words, to give it an authentic feel. Sita is depicted as a warrior princess who often roams her kingdom incognito. Kaikeyi is a self-centered, weak-willed woman constantly manipulated by her evil mentor — Manthara, who in turn is controlled by Ravana.
Dasaratha, a brave warrior king in his younger days is slowly getting decript, spaced-out, and easily manipulated. Ravana is a fearsome and an extermely powerful Rakashasa not some funny looking guy with ten heads and artificial laughter.
And then there is the irascible Jatayu, and a strange wild man called Bearface who keeps crossing the path of our heros Rama, Sita, and Lakshman. What I found pleasently surprising is that the pace and engaging style has been maintained across all the first six volumes and the eighth volume. I was slightly disappointed with the seventh one Vengeance of Ravana. If you have not yet read any of the books in the series, go for the first one right away! You will not regret it.
My reading of the Ramanyana has been primarily through the Amar Chitra Katha, Chandamama and host of other story books. And reinforced in my childhood by bed time story telling by my mother. I will await your reviews to take up Book 1 of the series…I am presuming that the books need to be read in the chronological order indicated?
31070241 Ashok Banker Prince of Ayodhya
Hi Rajesh, Good to see that you have started reviewing books and movies in your personal blog. I have read the Part One of the series sometime back and enjoyed it.
You may find my review at http: Your email address will not be published. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. Here is the full list of the series with links to the reviews and online bookstores: Book 1 Prince of Ayodhya reviewed here On Amazon. Book 2 Siege of Mithila reviewed here On Amazon.
Book 3 Demons of Chitrakut reviewed here On Amazon. Book 4 Armies of Hanuman reviewed here On Amazon.Sita is depicted as a warrior princess who often roams her kingdom incognito. They were both silent for several moments. What he wrought today in that city by the river would reverberate down the corridors of human history.
He held out his hands, cupped together, to receive the lavish payment, probably more money than he had ever earned at one time in all his wretched life.
A thousand impossible sights filled his mind. In moments, he had covered the seven circles of personal safety.
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