‘What brings you to these parts, Great One?’ asked Shvetaketu.
‘I had some work upriver,’ said Vishwamitra, enigmatically, refusing to elaborate.
Shvetaketu knew better than to ask any more questions on this subject to the fearsome Malayaputra chief. But an attempt at conversation was warranted. ‘Raavan’s trade treaties are causing immense pain to the kingdoms of the Sapt Sindhu, noble Guru. People are suffering and being impoverished. Somebody has to fight him.’
Almost seven feet tall, the dark-skinned Vishwamitra was altogether of unreal proportions, both physically and in intellect. His large belly lay under a sturdy chest, muscular shoulders, and powerful arms. A flowing white beard grazed his chest. Brahminical, tuft of knotted hair on an otherwise shaven head. Large, limpid eyes. And the holy janau, sacred thread, tied over his shoulder. In startling contrast were the numerous battle scars that lined his face and body. He looked down at Shvetaketu from his great height.
‘There are no kings today who can take on this task,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘They are all just survivors. Not leaders.’
‘Perhaps this task is beyond that of mere kings, Illustrious One …’
Vishwamitra’s smile broadened mysteriously. But no words followed.
Shvetaketu would not let down his need for interaction with the great man. ‘Forgive my impertinence, Maharishiji, but how long do you expect to stay with us? It would be wonderful if my students could get the benefit of your guidance.’
‘I will be here for only a few days, Shvetaketu. Teaching your children may not be possible.’
Shvetaketu was about to repeat his request, as politely as possible, when a loud sound was heard.
A speedy whoosh followed by a loud thwack!
Vishwamitra had once been a Kshatriya warrior prince. He recognised the sound immediately. Of a spear hitting a wooden target. Almost perfectly.
He turned in the direction that the sound had emerged from, his brows lifted slightly in admiration. ‘Someone in your gurukul has a strong throwing arm, Shvetaketu.’
Shvetaketu smiled proudly. ‘Let me show you, Guruji.’
‘Sita?’ asked Vishwamitra, surprised beyond words. ‘Janak’s daughter, Sita?’
Vishwamitra and Shvetaketu were at one end of the sparse but well-equipped outdoor training arena, where students practised archery, spear-throwing and other ananga weapon techniques. At the other end was a separate area set aside for the practice of anga weapons like swords and maces. Sita, immersed in her practice, did not see the two rishis as they silently walked in and watched her get ready for the next throw.
‘She has the wisdom of King Janak, great Malayaputra,’ answered Shvetaketu. ‘But she also has the pragmatism and fighting spirit of Queen Sunaina. And, dare I say, my gurukul teachers have moulded her spirit well.’
Vishwamitra observed Sita with a keen eye. Tall for a thirteen-year old, she was already beginning to build muscle. Her straight, jet-black hair was braided and rolled into a practical bun. She flicked a spear up with her foot, catching it expertly in her hand. Vishwamitra noticed the stylish flick. But he was more impressed by something else. She had caught the spear exactly at the balance point on the shaft. Which had not been marked, unlike in a normal training spear. She judged it, instinctively perhaps. Even from a distance, he could see that her grip was flawless. The spear shaft lay flat on the palm of her hand, between her index and middle finger. Her thumb pointed backwards while the rest of the fingers faced the other direction.
Sita turned to the target with her left foot facing it. It was a wooden board painted with concentric circles. She raised her left hand, again in the same direction. Her body twisted ever so slightly, to add power to the throw. She pulled her right hand back, parallel to the ground; poised as a work of art.
Perfect.
Shvetaketu smiled. Though he did not teach warfare to his students, he was personally proud of Sita’s prowess. ‘She doesn’t take the traditional few steps before she throws. The twist in her body and strength in her shoulders give her all the power she needs.’
Vishwamitra looked dismissively at Shvetaketu. He turned his attention back to the impressive girl. Those few steps may add power, but could also make you miss the target. Especially if the target was small. He did not bother to explain that little detail to Shvetaketu.
Sita flung hard as she twisted her body leftward, putting the power of her shoulder and back into the throw. Whipping the spear forward with her wrist and finger. Giving the final thrust to the missile.
Whoosh and thwack!
The spear hit bang on target. Right at the centre of the board. It jostled for space with the earlier spear which had pierced the same small circle.
Vishwamitra smiled slightly. ‘Not bad … Not bad at all …’
What her two spectators did not know was that Sita had been taking lessons from Hanuman, on his regular visits to see his two sisters. He had helped perfect her technique.
Shvetaketu smiled with the pride of a parent. ‘She is exceptional.’
‘What is her status in Mithila now?’
Shvetaketu took a deep breath. ‘I can’t be sure. She is their adopted daughter. And, King Janak and Queen Sunaina have always loved her dearly. But now that …’
‘I believe Sunaina was blessed with a daughter a few years back,’ interrupted Vishwamitra.
‘Yes. After more than a decade of marriage. They have their own natural-born daughter now.’
‘Urmila, right?’
‘Yes, that is her name. Queen Sunaina has said that she does not differentiate between the two girls. But she has not visited Sita for nine months. She used to come every six months earlier. Admittedly, Sita has been called to Mithila regularly. She last visited Mithila six months ago. But she didn’t return very happy.’
Vishwamitra looked at Sita, his hand on his chin. Thoughtful. He could see her face now. It seemed strangely familiar. But he couldn’t place it.
It was lunchtime at the gurukul. Vishwamitra and his Malayaputras sat in the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by the simple mud huts that housed the students. It also served as an open-air classroom. Teaching was always done in the open. The small, austere huts for the teachers were a short distance away.
‘Guruji, shall we begin?’ asked Arishtanemi, the Malayaputra military chief.
The students and the gurukul staff had served the honoured guests on banana leaf plates. Shvetaketu sat alongside Vishwamitra, waiting for the Chief Malayaputra to commence the ceremony. Vishwamitra picked up his glass, poured some water into the palm of his right hand, and sprinkled it around his plate, thanking Goddess Annapurna for her blessings in the form of food and nourishment. He scooped the first morsel of food and placed it aside, as a symbolic offering to the Gods. Everyone repeated the action. At a signal from Vishwamitra, they began eating.
Vishwamitra, however, paused just as he was about to put the first morsel into his mouth. His eyes scanned the premises in search of a man. One of his soldiers was a Naga called Jatayu. The unfortunate man had been born with a condition that led to deformities on his face over time, classifying him as a Naga. His deformities were such that his face looked like that of a vulture. Many ostracised Jatayu. But not Vishwamitra. The Chief Malayaputra recognised the powerful warrior and noble soul that Jatayu was. Others, with prejudiced eyes, were blind to his qualities.
Vishwamitra knew the biases that existed in the times. He also knew that in this ashram, it was unlikely that anybody would have bothered to take care of Jatayu’s meals. He looked around, trying to find him. He finally saw Jatayu, sitting alone in the distance, under a tree. Even as he was about to signal a student, he saw Sita heading towards the Naga, a banana-leaf plate in one hand, and a tray full of food in the other.
The Maharishi watched, as Jatayu stood up with coy amazement.
From the distance, Vishwamitra could not hear what was being said. But he read the body language. With utmost respect, Sita placed the banana-leaf pla
te in front of Jatayu, then served the food. As Jatayu sat down to eat with an embarrassed smile, she bowed low, folded her hands into a Namaste and walked away.
Vishwamitra watched Sita, lost in thought. Where have I seen that face before?
Arishtanemi, too, was observing the girl. He turned to Vishwamitra.
‘She seems like a remarkable girl, Guruji,’ said Arishtanemi.
‘Hmm,’ said Vishwamitra, as he looked at his lieutenant very briefly. He turned his attention to his food.
Chapter 6
‘Kaushik, this is not a good idea,’ said Divodas. ‘Trust me, my brother.’
Kaushik and Divodas sat on a large boulder outside their gurukul, on the banks of the Kaveri River. The two friends, both in their late thirties, were teachers at the Gurukul of Maharishi Kashyap, the celebrated Saptrishi Uttradhikari, successor to the seven legendary seers. Kaushik and Divodas had been students of the gurukul in their childhood. Upon graduation, they had gone their separate ways. Divodas had excelled as a teacher of great renown and Kaushik, as a fine Kshatriya royal. Two decades later, they had joined the prestigious institution again, this time as teachers. They had instantly rekindled their childhood friendship. In fact, they were like brothers now. In private, they still referred to each other by the gurukul names of their student days.
‘Why is it not a good idea, Divodas?’ asked Kaushik, his massive, muscular body bent forward aggressively, as usual. ‘They are biased against the Vaanars. We need to challenge this prejudice for the good of India!’
Divodas shook his head. But realised that further conversation was pointless. He had long given up trying to challenge Kaushik’s stubborn streak. It was like banging your head against an anthill. Not a good idea!
He picked up a clay cup kept by his side. It contained a bubbly, milky liquid. He held his nose and gulped it down. ‘Yuck!’
Kaushik burst into laughter as he patted his friend heartily on his back. ‘Even after all these years, it still tastes like horse’s piss!’
Divodas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled. ‘You need to come up with a new line! How do you know it tastes like horse’s piss, anyway? Have you ever drunk horse’s piss?!’
Kaushik laughed louder and held his friend by the shoulder. ‘I have had the Somras often. And I’m sure even horse’s piss can’t taste worse!’
Divodas smiled broadly and put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. They sat on the boulder in companionable silence, watching the sacred Kaveri as it flowed gently by Mayuram, the small town that housed their gurukul. The town was a short distance from the sea, and the perfect location for this massive gurukul, which taught hundreds of young students. More importantly, it also offered specialised courses in higher studies in different fields of knowledge. Being close to the sea, students from the Sapt Sindhu in the North could conveniently sail down the eastern coast of India to the gurukul. Thus, they did not need to cross the Narmada River from the north to south, and violate the superstitious belief that instructed against it. Furthermore, this gurukul was close to the submerged, prehistoric land of Sangamtamil, which along with the submerged ancient land of Dwarka in western India, was one of the two fatherlands of Vedic culture. This made its location uniquely holy to the students.
Divodas braced his shoulders, as if gathering resolve.
Kaushik, knowing well the non-verbal cues of his friend, remarked, ‘What?’
Divodas took a deep breath. He knew this would be a difficult conversation. But he decided to try one more time. ‘Kaushik, listen to me. I know you want to help Trishanku. And, I agree with you. He needs help. He is a good man. Perhaps immature and naive, but a good man nonetheless. But he cannot become a Vayuputra. He failed their examination. He must accept that. It has nothing to do with how he looks or where he was born. It is about his capability.’
The Vayuputras were the tribe left behind by the previous Mahadev, Lord Rudra. They lived far beyond the western borders of India in a place called Pariha. The Vayuputras were tasked with supporting the next Vishnu, whenever he or she arose. And, of course, one of them would become the next Mahadev whenever Evil raised its dangerous head.
Kaushik stiffened. ‘The Vayuputras are intolerant towards the Vaanars and you know it.’
The Vaanars were a large, powerful, and reclusive tribe living on the banks of the great Tungabhadra River, north of the Kaveri. The Tungabhadra was a tributary of the Krishna River farther to the north. The tribe had a distinctly different appearance: Mostly short, stocky and very muscular, some of them were giant-like too. Their faces were framed with fine, facial hair, which ballooned into a beard at the jaw. Their mouths protruded outwards, and the skin around it was silken smooth and hairless. Their hirsute bodies sported thick, almost furry hair. To some prejudiced people, the Vaanars appeared like monkeys and thus, somehow, less human. It was said that similar tribes lived farther to the west of Pariha. One of their biggest and most ancient settlements was a land called Neanderthal or the valley of Neander.
‘What intolerance are you talking about?’ asked Divodas, his hand raised in question. ‘They accepted young Maruti into their fold, didn’t they? Maruti is a Vaanar too. But he has merit. Trishanku doesn’t!’
Kaushik would not be dissuaded. ‘Trishanku has been loyal to me. He asked for my help. I will help him!’
‘But Kaushik, how can you create your own version of Pariha? This is not wise …’
‘I have given him my word, Divodas. Will you help me or not?’
‘Kaushik, of course I will help! But, brother, listen …’
Suddenly a loud, feminine voice was heard from a distance. ‘Hey, Divodas!’
Kaushik and Divodas turned around. It was Nandini. Another teacher at the gurukul. And a friend to both. Kaushik cast a dark, injured look at Divodas, gritting his teeth softly.
‘Guruji …’
Vishwamitra’s eyes flew open, bringing him back to the present from an ancient, more-than-a-century-old memory.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Guruji,’ said Arishtanemi, his hands joined in a penitent Namaste. ‘But you had asked me to wake you when the students assembled.’
Vishwamitra sat up and gathered his angvastram. ‘Is Sita present?’
‘Yes, Guruji.’
Shvetaketu sat on a chair placed in a discreet corner. He was clearly elated to see all the twenty-five students of his gurukul gathered in the open square. Vishwamitra sat on the round platform built around the trunk of the main peepal tree. It was the seat of the teacher. The great Chief Malayaputra would teach his students, if only for one class. This was a rare honour for Shvetaketu and his students.
The teachers of the gurukul and the Malayaputras stood in silence behind Shvetaketu.
‘Have you learnt about our great ancient empires?’ asked Vishwamitra. ‘And the reasons for their rise and fall?’
All the students nodded in the affirmative.
‘All right, then someone tell me, why did the empire of the descendants of the great Emperor Bharat decline? An empire that flourished for centuries, was annihilated within just two generations. Why?’
Kaaml Raj raised his hand. Shvetaketu groaned softly.
‘Yes?’ asked Vishwamitra.
‘Guruji,’ answered Kaaml, ‘they were attacked by foreigners and had internal rebellions at the same time. They were like the kancha marbles we play with. Everyone from everywhere was hitting them again and again. How could the empire survive?’
Saying this, Kaaml guffawed uncontrollably, laughing as if he had just cracked the funniest joke in human history. Everyone else remained silent. A few students at the back held their heads in shame. Vishwamitra stared at Kaaml with a frozen expression. The same expression was then directed towards Shvetaketu.
Not for the first time, Shvetaketu considered sending young Kaaml back to his parents. He really was a strange, untrainable child.
Vishwamitra did not deign to respond to Kaaml and repeated his question, this time loo
king directly at Sita. But the princess of Mithila did not answer.
‘Bhoomi, why don’t you answer?’ asked Vishwamitra, using her gurukul name.
‘Because I am not sure, Guruji.’
Vishwamitra pointed to the front row. ‘Come here, child.’
Since her last visit to Mithila, Sita had preferred to be alone. She mostly sat at the back of the class. Her friend Radhika patted her back, encouraging her to go. As Sita came forward, Vishwamitra gestured for her to sit. Then he stared at her eyes closely. Very few sages were adept at reading people’s minds through their eyes. Vishwamitra was one such rare sage.
‘Tell me,’ said Vishwamitra, his eyes piercing through her mind. ‘Why did the Bhaaratas, the descendants of the great Emperor Bharat, disintegrate so suddenly?’
Sita felt very uncomfortable. She felt an overpowering urge to get up and run. But she knew she could not insult the great Maharishi. She chose to answer. ‘The Bhaaratas had a massive standing army. They could have easily fought on multiple battle fronts. But their warriors were …’
‘They were useless,’ said Vishwamitra, completing Sita’s thought. ‘And, why were they useless? They had no shortage of money, of training, of equipment, or of war weapons.’
Sita repeated something she had heard Samichi say. ‘What matters is not the weapon, but the woman who wields that weapon.’
Vishwamitra smiled in approval. ‘And why were their warriors incapable of wielding weapons? Do not forget, these were weapons of far superior technology than those of their enemies.’
Sita had not thought about this. She remained silent.
‘Describe the Bhaarat society at the time of their downfall,’ Vishwamitra demanded.
Sita knew this answer. ‘It was peaceful. A liberal and polite society. It was a haven for arts, culture, music, conversations, debates … They not only practised but proudly celebrated non-violence. Both verbal and physical. It was a perfect society. Like heaven.’
Sita: Warrior of Mithila Page 6