‘Yes, she was,’ smiled Sita. She hesitated a moment, took one more look at Jatayu, and then broached another sensitive topic. ‘Jatayuji, do you mind if I ask you a question?’
‘Anytime you wish to, great Vishnu,’ said Jatayu. ‘How can I not answer?’
‘What is the problem between Maharishi Vishwamitra and Maharishi Vashishtha?’
Jatayu smiled ruefully. ‘You have a rare ability to discover things that you are not supposed to. Things that are meant to be a secret.’
Sita smiled with disarming candour. ‘That is not an answer to my question, Jatayuji.’
‘No, it’s not, my sister,’ laughed Jatayu. ‘To be honest, I don’t know much about it. But I do know this: they hate each other viscerally. It is unwise to even mention the name of Maharishi Vashishtha in the presence of Maharishi Vishwamitra.’
‘Good progress,’ whispered Sita. She was standing in the garden of the Lord Rudra temple in Mithila, looking at the ongoing work of rebuilding the city slums.
A few months ago, Sita had ordered that the slums at the southern gate of Mithila be demolished and new, permanent houses be built for the poor on the same land. These houses, built with the money given by the Malayaputras, would be given to the poor free of cost.
Samichi preened at the compliment from her prime minister. In an unorthodox move, Sita had assigned her, rather than the city engineer, with the task of implementing the project rapidly and within budget. Sita knew that her Police Chief was obsessively detail-oriented, with an ability to push her subordinates ruthlessly to get the job done. Also, having spent her early years in the slums, Samichi was uniquely qualified to understand the problems faced by the people living there.
Though the execution had been entrusted to Samichi, Sita had involved herself in the planning and design of the project after consulting the representatives of the slum dwellers. She had eventually worked out an innovative solution for not only their housing needs, but also providing them with sustainable livelihood.
The slum dwellers had been unwilling to vacate their land for even a few months. They had little faith in the administration. For one, they believed the project would be under construction for years, rendering them homeless for a long time. Also, many were superstitious and wanted their rebuilt homes to stand exactly where the old ones had been. This, however, would leave no excess space for neatly lined streets. The original slum had no streets to begin with, just small, haphazard pathways.
Sita had conceived a brilliant solution: building a honeycomb-like structure, with houses that shared walls on all sides. Residents would enter from the top, with steps descending into their homes. The ‘ceilings’ of all the homes would, from the outside, be a single, joint, level platform; a new ‘ground level’ above all the houses; an artificial ground that was four floors above the actual ground. It would be an open-to-sky space for the slum dwellers, with a grid of ‘streets’ marked in paint. The ‘streets’ would contain hatch doors serving as entries to their homes. This would address their superstitions; each one would get a house exactly at the same location as their original hovel. And, since the honeycomb structure would extend four floors below, each inhabitant would, in effect, have four rooms. A substantially bigger home than earlier.
Because of its honeycomb-like structure, Samichi had informally named the complex Bees Quarter. Sita had liked it so much that it had become the official name!
There was still the problem of temporary accommodation for the slum dwellers, while their new homes were being constructed. Sita had had another innovative idea. She converted the moat outside the fort wall into a lake, to store rain water and to aid agriculture. The uninhabited area between the outer fort wall and the inner fort wall was partly handed over to the slum dwellers. They built temporary houses for themselves there with bamboo and cloth. They used the remaining land to grow food crops, cotton and medicinal herbs. This newly allotted land would remain in their possession even after they moved back into the Bees Quarter, which would be ready in a few months.
This had multiple benefits. Firstly, the land between the outer fort wall and the inner fort wall, which had been left unoccupied as a security measure, was put to good use. Agricultural productivity improved. This provided additional income for the slum dwellers. Moving agriculture within the city wall would also provide food security during times of siege; unlikely though it seemed that impoverished Mithila would ever be attacked.
Most importantly, Mithilans became self-reliant in terms of food, medicines and other essentials. This reduced their dependence on the Sankashya river port.
Samichi had warned Sita that this might tempt Kushadhwaj to militarily attack them. But Sita doubted it. It would be politically difficult for her uncle to justify his army attacking the saintly king of Mithila. It would probably stoke rebellion even among the citizens of Sankashya. Notwithstanding this, it was wise to be prepared for even the most unlikely event.
Sita had always been uneasy about the outer moat being the city’s main water supply. In the unlikely event of a siege, an enemy could poison the water outside and cause havoc. She decreed that a deep lake be constructed within the city as a precaution. In addition to this, she also strengthened the two protective walls of Mithila.
She organised the chaotic central market of the city. Permanent, uniform stalls were given to the vendors, ensuring cleanliness and orderliness. Sales increased, along with a reduction in pilferage and wastage. This led to a virtuous cycle of decrease in prices, further enhancing business.
All these moves also dramatically increased Sita’s popularity. At least, among the poor. Their lives had improved considerably, and the young princess was responsible.
‘I must admit, I am surprised,’ said Jatayu. ‘I didn’t expect a police chief to efficiently oversee the construction of your Bees Quarter so smoothly.’
Sita sat with Jatayu outside the city limits. The day had entered the third prahar. The sun still shone high in the sky.
She smiled. ‘Samichi is talented. No doubt.’
‘Yes. But …’
Sita looked at him and frowned. ‘But what, Jatayuji?’
‘Please don’t misunderstand me, great Vishnu. It is your kingdom. You are the prime minister. And, we Malayaputras concern ourselves with the whole country, not just Mithila …’
‘What is it, Jatayuji?’ interrupted Sita. ‘You know I trust you completely. Please speak openly.’
‘My people in your police force talk to the other officers. It’s about Samichi. About her …’
Sita sighed. ‘I know … It’s obvious that she has a problem with men …’
‘It’s more like hatred for men, rather than just a problem.’
‘There has to be a reason for it. Some man must have …’
‘But hating all men because of one man’s actions, whatever they may have been, is a sign of an unstable personality. Reverse-bias is also bias. Reverse-racism is also racism. Reverse-sexism is also sexism.’
‘I agree.’
‘If she kept her feelings to herself that would be fine. But her prejudice is impacting her work. Men are being targeted unfairly. You don’t want to trigger a rebellion.’
‘She does not allow me to help her in the personal space. But I will ensure that her hatred does not impact her work. I’ll do something.’
‘I am only concerned about your larger interest, great Vishnu. There is no doubt in my mind that she is personally very loyal to you.’
‘I guess it helps that I am not a man!’
Jatayu burst out laughing.
‘How are you, Naarad?’ asked Hanuman.
Hanuman had just returned from a trip to Pariha. He had sailed into the port of Lothal in Gujarat, on his way eastward, deeper into the heart of India. He had been met at the port by his friend Naarad, a brilliant trader in Lothal who was also a lover of art, poetry and the latest gossip! Naarad had immediately escorted his friend, along with his companions, to the office behind his shop.
Hanuman smiled. ‘I don’t think you try too hard to stay away from sin, Naarad!’
Naarad laughed and changed the topic. ‘The usual supplies, my friend? For you and your band?’
A small platoon of Parihans accompanied Hanuman on his travels.
‘Yes, thank you.’
Naarad nodded and whispered some instructions to his aide.
‘And, I thank you further,’ continued Hanuman, ‘for not asking where I am going.’
The statement was too obvious a bait, especially for Naarad. He swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.
‘Why would I ask you? I already know you are going to meet Guru Vashishtha!’
Vashishtha was the royal guru of the kingdom of Ayodhya. It was well known that he had taken the four princes of Ayodhya — Ram, Bharat, Lakshman and Shatrughan— to his gurukul to train and educate them. The location of the gurukul, however, was a well-kept secret.
Hanuman stared at Naarad, not saying anything.
‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ said Naarad, smiling. ‘Almost nobody, besides me of course, knows who you are going to meet. And nobody, not even me, knows where the gurukul is.’
Hanuman smiled. He was about to retort when a loud feminine voice was heard.
‘Hans!’
Hanuman closed his eyes for a moment, winced and turned around. It was Sursa, an employee of Naarad who was obsessed with him.
Hanuman folded his hands together into a Namaste and spoke with extreme politeness, ‘Madam, my name is Hanuman, not Hans.’
‘I know that,’ said Sursa, sashaying towards Hanuman. ‘But I think Hans sounds so much better. Also, don’t you think Sur is better than madam?’
Naarad giggled with mirth as Sursa came uncomfortably close to Hanuman. The Naga glared at his friend before taking a few steps back and distancing himself from his admirer. ‘Madam, I was engaged in an important conversation with Naarad and …’
Sursa cut him short. ‘And, I’ve decided to interrupt. Deal with it.’
‘Madam …’
Sursa arched her eyebrows and swayed her hip seductively to the side. ‘Hans, don’t you understand the way I feel about you? The things I can do for you … And, to you …’
‘Madam,’ interrupted Hanuman, blushing beet-red, and stepping back farther. ‘I have told you many times. I am sworn to celibacy. This is inappropriate. I am not trying to insult you. Please understand. I cannot …’
Naarad was leaning against the wall now, covering his mouth, shoulders shaking, laughing silently. Trying hard not to make a sound.
‘Nobody needs to know, Hans. You can keep up the appearance of your vow. You don’t have to marry me. I only want you. Not your name.’ Sursa stepped forward and reached out for Hanuman’s hand.
With surprising agility for a man his size, Hanuman sidestepped quickly, deftly avoiding Sursa’s touch. He raised his voice in alarm, ‘Madam! Please! I beg you! Stop!’
Sursa pouted and traced her torso with her fingers. ‘Am I not attractive enough?’
Hanuman turned towards Naarad. ‘In Lord Indra’s name, Naarad. Do something!’
Naarad was barely able to control his laughter. He stepped in front of Hanuman and faced the woman. ‘Listen Sursa, enough is enough. You know that …’
Sursa flared up. Suddenly aggressive. ‘I don’t need your advice, Naarad! You know I love Hans. You had said you would help me.’
‘I am sorry, but I lied,’ said Naarad. ‘I was just having fun.’
‘This is fun for you?! What is wrong with you?’
Naarad signalled a couple of his employees. Two women walked up and pulled an irate Sursa away.
‘I will make sure you lose half your money in your next trade, you stupid oaf!’ screamed Sursa, as the women dragged her out.
As soon as they were alone again, Hanuman glared at his friend. ‘What is wrong with you, Naarad?’
‘I was just having fun, my friend. Sorry.’
Hanuman held the diminutive Naarad by his shoulder, towering over him. ‘This is not fun! You were insulting Sursa. And, harassing me. I should thrash you to your bones!’
Naarad held Hanuman’s hands in mock remorse, his eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘You won’t feel like thrashing me when I tell you who the Malayaputras have appointed as the Vishnu.’
Hanuman let Naarad go. Shocked. ‘Appointed?’
How can Guru Vishwamitra do that? Without the consent of the Vayuputras!
Naarad smiled. ‘You won’t survive a day without the information I give you. That’s why you won’t thrash me!’
Hanuman shook his head, smiled wryly, hit Naarad playfully on his shoulder and said, ‘Start talking, you stupid nut.’
Chapter 12
‘Radhika!’ Sita broke into a broad smile.
Sita’s friend from her gurukul days had made a surprise visit. The sixteen-year-old Radhika, a year younger than Sita, had been led into the princess’ private chambers by Samichi, the new protocol chief of Mithila. The protocol duties, a new addition to Samichi’s responsibilities, kept her busy with non-police work of late. Sita had therefore appointed a Deputy Police Chief to assist Samichi. This deputy was male. A strong but fair-minded officer, he had ensured that Samichi’s biases did not affect real policing.
Radhika had not travelled alone, this time. She was accompanied by her father, Varun Ratnakar, and her uncle, Vayu Kesari.
Sita had met Varun Ratnakar in the past, but this was her first meeting with Radhika’s uncle and Ratnakar’s cousin, Vayu Kesari. The uncle did not share any family resemblance with his kin. Substantially short, stocky and fair-complexioned, his muscular body was extraordinarily hairy.
Perhaps he is one of the Vaanars, thought Sita.
She was aware that Radhika’s tribe, the Valmikis, were matrilineal. Their women did not marry outside the community. Men, however, could marry non-Valmiki women; of course, on the condition that if they did, they would leave the tribe. Perhaps Vayu Kesari was the son of one such excommunicated Valmiki man and a Vaanar woman.
Sita bent down and touched the feet of the elderly men.
Both blessed Sita with a long life. Varun Ratnakar was a respected intellectual and thinker, revered by those who valued knowledge. Sita knew he would love to spend time with her father, who was, perhaps, the most intellectual king in the Sapt Sindhu. With the departure of his chief guru, Ashtaavakra, to the Himalayas, Janak missed philosophical conversations. He would be happy to spend some quality time in the company of fellow intellectuals.
The men soon departed for King Janak’s chambers. Samichi, too, excused herself. Her busy schedule did not leave her with much time for social niceties. Sita and Radhika were soon alone in the Mithila princess’ private study.
‘How is life treating you, Radhika?’ asked Sita, holding her friend’s hands.
‘I am not the one leading an exciting life, Sita,’ smiled Radhika. ‘You are!’
‘Me?!’ laughed Sita, rolling her eyes with exaggerated playfulness. ‘Hardly. All I do is police a small kingdom, collect taxes and redevelop slums.’
‘Only for now. You have so much more to do …’
Sita instantly became guarded. There seemed to be more to this conversation than was obvious at the surface level. She spoke carefully. ‘Yes, I do have a lot to do as the prime minister of Mithila. But it’s not unmanageable, you know. We truly are a small and insignificant kingdom.’
‘But India is a big nation.’
Sita spoke even more carefully, ‘What can this remote corner do for India, Radhika? Mithila is a powerless kingdom ignored by all.’
‘That may be so,’ smiled Radhika. ‘But no Indian in his right mind will ignore Agastyakootam.’
Sita held her breath momentarily. She maintained her calm demeanour, but her heart was thumping like the town crier’s drumbeat.
How does Radhika know? Who else does? I have not told anyone. E
xcept Maa.
‘I want to help you, Sita,’ whispered Radhika. ‘Trust me. You are a friend and I love you. And, I love India even more. You are important for India. Jai Parshu Ram.’
‘Jai Parshu Ram,’ whispered Sita, hesitating momentarily before asking, ‘Are your father and you …’
Radhika laughed. ‘I’m a nobody, Sita. But my father … Let’s just say that he’s important. And, he wants to help you. I am just the conduit, because the universe conspired to make me your friend.’
‘Is your father a Malayaputra?’
‘No, he is not.’
‘Vayuputra?’
‘The Vayuputras do not live in India. The tribe of the Mahadev, as you know, can visit the sacred land of India anytime but cannot live here. So, how can my father be a Vayuputra?’
‘Then, who is he?’
‘All in good time …’ smiled Radhika. ‘Right now, I have been tasked with checking a few things with you.’
Vashishtha sat quietly on the ground, resting against a tree. He looked at his ashram from the distance, seeking solitude in the early morning hour. He looked towards the gently flowing stream. Leaves floated on the surface, strangely even-spaced, as if in a quiet procession. The tree, the water, the leaves … nature seemed to reflect his deep satisfaction.
His wards, the four princes of Ayodhya — Ram, Bharat, Lakshman, and Shatrughan — were growing up well, moulding ideally into his plans. Twelve years had passed since the demon king of Lanka, Raavan, had catastrophically defeated Emperor Dashrath, changing the fortunes of the Sapt Sindhu in one fell blow.
It had convinced Vashishtha that the time for the rise of the Vishnu had arrived.
Vashishtha looked again at his modest gurukul. This was where the great Rishi Shukracharya had moulded a group of marginalised Indian royals into leaders of one of the greatest empires the world had ever seen: the AsuraSavitr, the Asura Sun.
A new great empire shall rise again from this holy ground. A new Vishnu shall rise from here.
Vashishtha had still not made up his mind. He wasn’t sure which of the two — Ram or Bharat — he would push for as the next Vishnu. One thing was certain; the Vayuputras supported him. But there were limits to what the tribe of Lord Rudra could do. The Vayuputras and Malayaputras had their fields of responsibility; after all, the Vishnu was supposed to be officially recognised by the Malayaputras. And the chief of the Malayaputras … His former friend …
Sita: Warrior of Mithila Page 11