‘Indeed, some have died. But it is a worthy sacrifice.’
Sita frowned.
‘We need some hold over Raavan. The material in those nests gives us that control.’
Sita froze. The thought that had been troubling her for some time made its reappearance: What is the relationship between the Malayaputras and the Lankans?
‘I will explain it to you, someday,’ said Vishwamitra, reading her thoughts as usual. ‘For now, have faith in me.’
Sita remained silent. But her face showed that she was troubled.
‘This land of ours,’ continued Vishwamitra, ‘is sacred. Bound by the Himalayas in the north, washed by the Indian Ocean at its feet and the Western and Eastern Seas at its arms, the soil in this great nation is hallowed. All those born in this land carry the sacred earth of Mother India in their body. This nation cannot be allowed to remain in this wretched state. It is an insult to our noble ancestors. We must make India great again. I will do anything, anything, to make this land worthy of our great ancestors. And, so shall the Vishnu.’
Sita, Jatayu, and a company of Malayaputra soldiers were sailing back up the western coast towards the Sapt Sindhu. Sita was returning to Mithila. She had spent more than five months in Agastyakootam, educating herself on the principles of governance, philosophies, warfare and personal history of the earlier Vishnus. She had also acquired advanced training in other subjects. This was in preparation for her Vishnuhood. Vishwamitra had been personally involved in her training.
Jatayu and she sat on the main deck, sipping a hot cup of ginger kadha.
Sita set her cup down and looked at the Malayaputra. ‘Jatayuji, I hope you will answer my question.’
Jatayu turned towards Sita and bowed his head. ‘How can I refuse, great Vishnu?’
‘What is the relationship between the Malayaputras and the Lankans?’
‘We trade with them. As does every kingdom in the Sapt Sindhu. We export a very valuable material mined in the cavern of Thamiravaruni to Lanka. And they give us what we need.’
‘I’m aware of that. But Raavan usually appoints sub-traders who are given the licence to trade with Lanka. No one else can conduct any business with him. But there is no such sub-trader in Agastyakootam. You trade directly with him. This is strange. I also know that he strictly controls the Western and Eastern Seas. And that no ship can set sail in these waters without paying him a cess. This is how he maintains a stranglehold over trade. But Malayaputra ships pay nothing and yet, pass unharmed. Why?’
‘Like I said, we sell him something very valuable, great Vishnu.’
‘Do you mean the bird’s nest material?’ asked Sita, incredulously. ‘I am sure he gets many equally valuable things from other parts of the Sapt Sindhu …’
‘This material is very, very valuable. Far more than anything he gets from the Sapt Sindhu.’
‘Then why doesn’t he just attack Agastyakootam and seize it? It’s not far from his kingdom.’
Jatayu remained silent, unsure of how much to reveal.
‘I have also heard,’ continued Sita, choosing her words carefully, ‘that, apparently, there is a shared heritage.’
‘That there may be. But every Malayaputra’s primary loyalty is to you, Lady Vishnu.’
‘I don’t doubt that. But tell me, what is this common heritage?’
Jatayu took a deep breath. He had managed to sidestep the first question, but it seemed he would be unable to avoid this one. ‘Maharishi Vishwamitra was a prince before he became a Brahmin Rishi.’
‘I know that.’
‘His father, King Gaadhi, ruled the kingdom of Kannauj. Guru Vishwamitra himself was the king there for a short span of time.’
‘Yes, so I have heard.’
‘Then he decided to renounce his throne and become a Brahmin. It wasn’t an easy decision, but nothing is beyond our great Guruji. Not only did he become a Brahmin, he also acquired the title of Maharishi. And, he scaled great heights to reach the peak by ultimately becoming the chief of the Malayaputras.’
Sita nodded. ‘Nothing is beyond Guru Vishwamitra. He is one of the all-time greats.’
‘True,’ said Jatayu. Hesitantly, he continued. ‘So, Guru Vishwamitra’s roots are in Kannauj.’
‘But what does that have to do with Raavan?’
Jatayu sighed. ‘Most people don’t know this. It is a well-kept secret, my sister. But Raavan is also from Kannauj. His family comes from there.’
Chapter 16
At twenty years of age, Sita may have had the energy and drive of a youngster, but her travels through much of India and the training she had received at Agastyakootam, had given her wisdom far beyond her years.
Samichi was initially intrigued by Sita’s repeated trips around the country. She was told that they were for trade and diplomatic purposes. And, she believed it. Or, pretended to. As she practically governed Mithila with a free hand in the absence of the princess. But Sita was now back in Mithila and the reins of administration were back in the hands of the prime minister.
Radhika was on one of her frequent visits to Mithila.
‘How are you doing, Samichi?’ asked Radhika.
Sita, Radhika and Samichi were in the private chambers of the prime minister of Mithila.
‘Doing very well!’ smiled Samichi. ‘Thank you for asking.’
‘I love what you have done with the slums at the southern gate. A cesspool has transformed into a well-organised, permanent construction.’
‘It would not have been possible without the guidance of the prime minister,’ said Samichi with genuine humility. ‘The idea and vision were hers. I just implemented it.’
‘Not prime minister. Sita.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I have told you many times,’ said Sita, ‘when we are alone, you can call me by my name.’
Samichi looked at Radhika and then at Sita.
Sita rolled her eyes. ‘Radhika is a friend, Samichi!’
Samichi smiled. ‘Sorry. No offence meant.’
‘None taken, Samichi!’ said Radhika. ‘You are my friend’s right hand. How can I take offence at something you say?’
Samichi rose to her feet. ‘If you will excuse me, Sita, I must go to the inner city. There is a gathering of the nobles that I need to attend.’
‘I have heard,’ said Sita, gesturing for Samichi to wait, ‘that the rich are not too happy.’
‘Yes,’ said Samichi. ‘They are richer than they used to be, since Mithila is doing well now. But the poor have improved their lot in life at a faster pace. It is no longer easy for the rich to find cheap labour or domestic help. But it’s not just the rich who are unhappy. Ironically, even the poor aren’t as happy as they used to be, before their lives improved. They complain even more now. They want to get richer, more quickly. With greater expectations, they have discovered higher dissatisfaction.’
‘Change causes disruption …’ Sita said, thoughtfully.
‘Yes.’
‘Keep me informed of the early signs of any trouble.’
‘Yes, Sita,’ said Samichi, before saluting and walking out of the room.
As soon as they were alone, Sita asked Radhika, ‘And what else has been happening with the other Vishnu candidates?’
‘Ram is progressing very well. Bharat is a little headstrong. It’s still a toss-up!’
It was late in the evening at the gurukul of Maharishi Kashyap. Five friends, all of them eight years old, were playing a game with each other. A game suitable for the brilliant students who populated this great centre of learning. An intellectual game.
One of the students was asking questions and the others had to answer. The questioner had a stone in his hand. He tapped it on the ground once. Then he paused. Then he tapped once again. Pause. Then two times, quickly. Pause. Three times. Pause. Five times. Pause. Eight times. Pause. He looked at his friends and asked, ‘Who am I?’
His friends looked at each other, confused.
A seven-year-old
boy stepped up gingerly from the back. He was dressed in rags and clearly looked out of place. ‘I think the stone taps represented 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, right? That’s the Pingala Series. Therefore, I am Rishi Pingala.’
The friends looked at the boy. He was an orphan who lived in the minuscule guard cabin of the local Mother Goddess temple. The boy was weak, suffering from malnutrition and poor health. But he was brilliant. A gurukul student named Vishwamitra had managed to convince the principal to enrol this poor orphan in the school. Vishwamitra had leveraged the power of the massive endowment that his father, the King of Kannauj, had given to the gurukul, to get this done.
The boys turned away from the orphan, even though his answer was correct.
‘We’re not interested in what you say, Vashishtha,’ sneered the boy who had asked the question. ‘Why don’t you go and clean the guard’s cabin?’
As the boys burst out laughing, Vashishtha’s body shrank in shame. But he stood his ground. Refusing to leave.
The questioner turned to his friends again and tapped the earth once. Then drew a circle around the spot he had tapped. Then he drew the circle’s diameter. Then, outside the circle, he tapped sharply once. Then, he placed the stone flat on the ground. Pause. Then he tapped the stone sharply again. Quickly. Eight times. ‘Who am I?’
Vashishtha immediately blurted out, ‘I know! You tapped the ground and drew a circle. That’s Mother Earth. Then you drew the diameter. Then you tapped 1-0-8 outside. What is 108 times the diameter of the Earth? The diameter of the Sun. I am the Sun God!’
The friends did not even turn to look at Vashishtha. Nobody acknowledged his answer.
But Vashishtha refused to be denied. ‘It’s from the Surya Siddhanta … It’s the correct answer …’
The questioner turned to face him in anger. ‘Get lost, Vashishtha!’
A loud voice was heard. ‘Hey!’
It was Vishwamitra. He may have been only eight years old, but he was already huge. Powerful enough to scare the five boys.
‘Kaushik …’ said the boy questioner nervously, using the gurukul name for Vishwamitra, ‘this has nothing to do with you …’
Vishwamitra walked up to Vashishtha and held his hand. Then, he turned to the five boys. Glaring. ‘He is a student of the gurukul now. You will call him by his gurukul name. With respect.’
The questioner swallowed. Shaking in fear.
‘His gurukul name is Divodas,’ said Vishwamitra, holding Vashishtha’s hand tighter. Divodas was the name of a great ancient king. It was Vishwamitra who had selected this gurukul name for Vashishtha and then convinced the principal to make it official. ‘Say it.’
The five friends remained paralysed.
Vishwamitra stepped closer, menace oozing from every pore of his body. He had already built a reputation with his fierce temper. ‘Say my friend’s gurukul name. Say it. Divodas.’
The questioner sputtered, as he whispered, ‘Divo … das.’
‘Louder. With respect. Divodas.’
All five boys spoke together, ‘Divodas.’
Vishwamitra pulled Vashishtha towards himself. ‘Divodas is my friend. You mess with him, you mess with me.’
‘Guruji!’
Vashishtha was pulled back from the ancient, more than a hundred-and-forty-year-old memory. He quickly wiped his eyes. Tears are meant to be hidden.
He turned to look at Shatrughan, who was holding up a manuscript of the Surya Siddhanta.
Of all the books in the entire world … What are the odds?
Vashishtha would have smiled at the irony. But he knew it was going to be a long discussion. The youngest prince of Ayodhya was by far the most intelligent of the four brothers. So, he looked with a serious expression at Shatrughan and said, ‘Yes, my child. What is your question?’
Sita and Radhika were meeting after a two-year gap.
Over this time, Sita had travelled through the western parts of India, all the way to Gandhar, at the base of the Hindukush mountains. While India’s cultural footprints could be found beyond these mountains, it was believed that the Hindukush, peopled by the Hindushahi Pashtuns and the brave Baloch, defined the western borders of India. Beyond that was the land of the Mlechchas, the foreigners.
‘What did you think of the lands of Anu?’ asked Radhika.
Kekaya, ruled by Ashwapati, headed the kingdoms of the Anunnaki, descendants of the ancient warrior-king, Anu. Many of the kingdoms around Kekaya, bound by Anunnaki clan ties, pledged fealty to Ashwapati. And Ashwapati, in turn, was loyal to Dashrath. Or, at least so it was publicly believed. After all, Ashwapati’s daughter, Kaikeyi, was Dashrath’s favourite wife.
‘Aggressive people,’ said Sita. ‘The Anunnaki don’t do anything by half measures. Their fire, put to good use, can help the great land of India achieve new heights. But, when uncontrolled, it can also lead to chaos.’
‘Agreed,’ said Radhika. ‘Isn’t Rajagriha beautiful?’
Rajagriha, the capital of Kekaya, was on the banks of the river Jhelum, not far from where the Chenab River merged into it. Rajagriha extended on both sides of the river. The massive and ethereally beautiful palace of its king was on the eastern bank of the Jhelum.
‘It is, indeed,’ said Sita. ‘They are talented builders.’
‘And, fierce warriors. Quite mad, too!’ Radhika giggled.
Sita laughed loudly. ‘True … There is a thin dividing line between fierceness and insanity!’
Sita noted that Radhika seemed happier than usual. ‘Tell me about the princes of Ayodhya.’
‘Ram is doing well. My father is quite certain that Guru Vashishtha will choose him.’
‘And Bharat?’
Radhika blushed slightly. And, Sita’s suspicions were confirmed.
‘He’s growing up well too,’ whispered Radhika, a dreamy look on her face.
‘That well?’ joked Sita.
Her crimson face a giveaway, Radhika slapped her friend on her wrists. ‘Shut up!’
Sita laughed in delight. ‘By the great Lady Mohini, Radhika is in love!’
Radhika glared at Sita, but did not refute her friend.
‘But what about the law …’
Radhika’s tribe was matrilineal. Women were strictly forbidden from marrying outside the tribe. Men could marry outside their tribe on condition that they would be excommunicated.
Radhika waved her hand in dismissal. ‘All that is in the future. Right now, let me enjoy the company of Bharat, one of the most romantic and passionate young men that nature has ever produced.’
Sita smiled, then changed the subject. ‘What about Ram?’
‘Very stoic. Very, very serious.’
‘Serious, is it?’
‘Yes. Serious and purposeful. Relentlessly purposeful. Almost all the time. He has a strong sense of commitment and honour. Hard on others and on himself. Fiercely patriotic. In love with every corner of India. Law-abiding. Always! And not one romantic bone in his body. I am not sure he will make a good husband.’
Sita leaned back in her couch and rested her arms on the cushions. She narrowed her eyes and whispered to herself. But he will probably make a good Vishnu.
A year had lapsed since the friends had last met. Her work having kept her busy, Sita had not travelled out of Mithila. She was delighted, therefore, when Radhika returned, unannounced.
Sita embraced her warmly. But pulled back as she noticed her friend’s eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ said Radhika, shaking her head. Withdrawn.
Sita immediately guessed what must have happened. She held her friend’s hands. ‘Did he leave you?’
Radhika frowned and shook her head. ‘Of course not. You don’t know Bharat. He is an honourable man. In fact, he begged me not to leave him.’
She left him?!
‘In the name of Lady Mohini, why? Forget about your tribe’s silly law. If you want him then you have to fight for him …’
‘No. It’s not about the laws
… I would have left the tribe if … if I had wanted to marry him.’
‘Then, what is the problem?’ asked Sita.
‘It wouldn’t have worked out … I know. I don’t want to be a part of this “greatness project”, Sita. I know Ram, Bharat, and you will do a lot for India. I also know that greatness usually comes at the cost of enormous personal suffering. That is the way it has always been. That is the way it will always be. I don’t want that. I just want a simple life. I just want to be happy. I don’t want to be great.’
‘You are being too pessimistic, Radhika.’
‘No, I am not. You can call me selfish but …’
Sita cut in, ‘I would never call you selfish. Realistic, maybe. But not selfish.’
‘Then speaking realistically, I know what I am up against. I have observed my father all my life. There is a fire within him. I see it in his eyes, all the time. I see the same fire in you. And in Ram. A desire to serve Mother India. I didn’t expect it initially, but now I see the same fire in Bharat’s eyes. You are all the same. Even Bharat. And just like all of you, he is willing to sacrifice everything for India. I don’t want to sacrifice anything. I just want to be happy. I just want to be normal …’
‘But can you be happy without him?’
Radhika’s sad smile did not hide her pain. ‘It would be even worse if I married him and all my hopes for happiness were tied to nagging him to give up his dreams for India and for himself. I’d eventually make him unhappy. I’d make myself unhappy as well.’
‘But …’
‘It hurts right now. But time always heals, Sita. Years from now, what will remain are the bittersweet memories. More sweet, less bitter. No one can take away the memories of passion and romance. Ever. That’ll be enough.’
‘You’ve really thought this through?’
‘Happiness is not an accident. It is a choice. It is in our hands to be happy. Always in our hands. Who says that we can have only one soulmate? Sometimes, soulmates want such radically different things that they end up being the cause of unhappiness for each other. Someday I will find another soulmate, one who also wants what I want. He may not be as fascinating as Bharat. Or, even as great as Bharat will be. But he will bring me what I want. Simple happiness. I will find such a man. In my tribe. Or, outside of it.’
Sita: Warrior of Mithila Page 16