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of relief. 
    ‘How does this gold-bird fly? Where are its wings?’ 
    ‘It needs no wings, sky-lord. This is Pushpak.’ 
    ‘A Pushpak,’ the bird-beast replied in a throaty tone. ‘Yes, I recall now. A flying chariot, like the ones the devas use in Swargalok.’ 
    ‘Indeed, and this one is not just a Pushpak. It is the Pushpak. The first of its kind, created to carry the mighty Lord Indra himself into battle. My brother won it from him, along with many other prizes, when our armies invaded Swarga-lok and defeated the armies of the devas in the plane of heaven.’ He neglected to mention that the Pushpak had belonged briefly, rightfully, to his half-brother Kubera, from whom Ravana had wrested this and much else, including the island kingdom of Lanka itself, during a falling-out after the asura-deva wars. He didn’t think the bird-beast was interested in a lesson in mythic history right now. 
    Jatayu issued further sounds of incredulity and amazement, its oozing wounds momentarily forgotten as it marvelled at the perfection and beauty of the flying vehicle. 
    Vibhisena gently repeated his last question. ‘How did you survive, my friend? What miracle shielded you from the devastation wrought by the Brahm-astra?’ 
    Jatayu explained how it had been flying with its warrior brethren high above the clouds on Ravana’s instructions–so as not to be seen by the mortals until the very time of the attack. How it had issued the order to descend and fall upon the city of Mithila, and had seen its fellows plunge down steeply, itself staying back the better to watch the first wave of assault and judge the results. How the towering blue wave had appeared, sweeping across the assembled asura hordes, blasting them on contact into wheeling clouds of grey ash, destroying Jatayu’s winged brethren as well, and of how the bird-lord had watched, dazed and amazed, until the instant the wave had passed immediately below, striking it with a force like it had never felt before in all its centuries of existence. The next thing it knew was that it was many hours later and it was lying woefully wounded upon a rocky clearing scores of miles away, being fed upon by ravenous asura parasites, stragglers that invariably followed in the wake of the asura armies and fed upon the mortal and asura dead alike after battles. If Vibhisena counted them as survivors, then those offal had survived, only because they followed so slowly and far behind that the Brahman wave had not reached them. 
    Vibhisena nodded, sighing as the bird-lord finished hoarsely with a string of curses directed at the rodents who had assaulted his unconscious form. Jatayu was crouched over the side of the Pushpak, its vulturish head craned down to Vibhisena’s face level. 
    It asked in a cracking voice, ‘And what brings you to this site of devastation, brother of the Lord of Lanka? Did you seek to count the dead? They are gone! Washed away by ganga-jal like chimney soot in a monsoon thundershower.’ 
    Vibhisena shook his head, gesturing at the ground below. ‘Nay, lord of skies. I am here on a request from my sister-in-law Mandodhari, who asked me to seek out my brother and ascertain his demise, if so.’ 
    ‘Ravana is dead,’ replied Jatayu sharply, his bird eyes glinting in the brightening sunlight, their wide orbs catching and throwing back the glitter of the golden flanks of the Pushpak. ‘He was on the ground, right in the path of the Brahm-astra’s assault. No asura could have survived.’ 
    ‘And yet,’ Vibhisena said softly, ‘my brother is no ordinary asura. That is why, even though a mere rakshasa, by no means the most ferocious or lethal of the asura races, he has reigned supreme for so many millennia.’ 
    Jatayu snorted, flecks of blood-tinged emission dripping from its nostrils. ‘Supreme or no, he is gone now. I tell you, not a single one survived. Every last one of our forces was turned to ash the instant the wave touched them.’ 
    ‘And