‘How good are you with a bow and arrow?’ asked Sita.
Ram allowed himself a faint smile.
Sita raised her eyebrows. ‘That good?’
She arose from her chair. As did Ram. The prime minister of Mithila folded her hands into a Namaste. ‘May Lord Rudra continue to bless you, prince.’
Ram returned Sita’s Namaste. ‘And may He bless you, princess.’
An idea struck Sita. ‘Can I meet with your brother and you in the private royal garden tomorrow?’
Ram’s eyes had glazed over once again. He was staring at Sita’s hands in almost loving detail. Only the Almighty or Ram himself knew the thoughts that were running through his head. For probably the first time in her life, Sita felt self-conscious. She looked at her battle-scarred hands. The scar on her left hand was particularly prominent. Her hands weren’t, in her own opinion, particularly pretty.
‘Prince Ram,’ said Sita, ‘I asked—’
‘I’m sorry, can you repeat that?’ asked Ram, bringing his attention back to the present.
‘Can I meet with you and your brother in the private royal garden tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good,’ said Sita, as she turned to leave. She stopped as she remembered something. She reached into the pouch tied to her waistband and pulled out a red thread. ‘It would be nice if you could wear this. It’s for good luck. It is a representation of the blessings of the Kanyakumari. And I would like you to …’
Sita stopped speaking as she realised that Ram’s attention had wandered again. He was staring at the red thread and mouthing a couplet. One that was normally a part of a wedding hymn.
Sita could lip-read the words that Ram was mouthing silently, for she knew the hymn well.
Maangalyatantunaanena bhava jeevanahetuh may. A line from old Sanskrit, it translated into: With this holy thread that I offer you, please become the purpose of my life …
She tried hard to suppress a giggle.
‘Prince Ram …’ said Sita, loudly.
Ram suddenly straightened as the wedding hymn playing in his mind went silent. ‘I’m sorry. What?’
Sita smiled politely, ‘I was saying …’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Never mind. I’ll leave the thread here. Please wear it if it pleases you.’
Placing the thread on the table, Sita began to climb the stairs. As she reached the door, she turned around for a last look. Ram was holding the thread in the palm of his right hand. Gazing at it reverentially. As if it was the most sacred thing in the world.
Sita smiled once again. This is completely unexpected …
Chapter 20
Sita sat alone in her private chamber. Astonished. Pleasantly surprised.
Samichi had briefed her on the conversation between Lakshman and Urmila. Lakshman was clearly besotted with her sister. He was also, clearly, very proud of his elder brother. He simply wouldn’t stop talking about Ram. Lakshman had told the duo about Ram’s attitude towards marriage. It seemed that Ram did not want to marry an ordinary woman. He wanted a woman, in front of whom he would be compelled to bow his head in admiration.
Samichi had laughed, while relating this to Sita. ‘Ram is like an earnest, conscientious school boy,’ she had said. ‘He has not grown up yet. There is not a trace of cynicism in him. Or, realism. Trust me, Sita. Send him back to Ayodhya before he gets hurt.’
Sita had listened to Samichi without reacting. But only one thing had reverberated in her mind — Ram wanted to marry a woman in front of whom he would be compelled to bow his head in admiration.
He bowed to me …
She giggled. Not something she did normally. It felt strange. Even girlish …
Sita rarely bothered about her appearance. But for some reason, she now walked to the polished copper mirror and looked at herself.
She was almost as tall as Ram. Lean. Muscular. Wheat-complexioned. Her round face a shade lighter than the rest of her body. She had high cheekbones and a sharp, small nose. Her lips were neither thin nor full. Her wide-set eyes were neither small nor large; strong brows were arched in a perfect curve above creaseless eyelids. Her straight, jet-black hair was braided and tied in a neat bun. As always.
She looked like the mountain people from the Himalayas.
Not for the first time, she wondered if the Himalayas were her original home.
She touched a battle scar on her forearm and winced. Her scars had been a source of pride. Once.
Do they make me look ugly?
She shook her head.
A man like Ram will respect my scars. It’s a warrior’s body.
She giggled again. She had always thought of herself as a warrior. As a princess. As a ruler. Of late, she had even gotten used to being treated by the Malayaputras as the Vishnu. But this feeling was new. She now felt like an apsara, a celestial nymph of unimaginable beauty. One who could halt her man in his tracks by just fluttering her eyelashes. It was a heady feeling.
She had always held these ‘pretty women’ in disdain and thought of them as non-serious. Not anymore.
Sita put a hand on her hip and looked at herself from the corner of her eyes.
She replayed the moments spent with Ram at the Bees Quarter.
Ram … .
This was new. Special. She giggled once again.
She undid her hair and smiled at her reflection.
This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
The royal garden in Mithila was modest in comparison to the one in Ayodhya. It only contained local trees, plants, and flower beds. Its beauty could safely be attributed more to the ministrations of talented gardeners than to an impressive infusion of funds. The layout was symmetrical, well-manicured. The thick, green carpet of grass thrown into visual relief by the profusion of flowers and trees of all shapes, sizes and colours. It was a celebration of Nature, expressed in ordered harmony.
Sita and Urmila waited in a clearing at the back of the garden. Sita had asked her younger sister to accompany her so that Urmila could spend more time with Lakshman. This would also give her some alone time with Ram, without the looming presence of Lakshman.
Samichi was at the gate, tasked with fetching the young princes of Ayodhya. She walked in shortly, followed by Ram and Lakshman.
The evening sky has increased his radiance … Sita quickly controlled her wandering mind and beating heart.
‘Namaste, princess,’ said Ram to Sita.
‘Namaste, prince,’ replied Sita, before turning to her sister. ‘May I introduce my younger sister, Urmila?’ Gesturing towards Ram and Lakshman, Sita continued, ‘Urmila, meet Prince Ram and Prince Lakshman of Ayodhya.’
‘I had occasion to meet her yesterday,’ said Lakshman, grinning from ear to ear.
Urmila smiled politely at Lakshman, with her hands folded in a Namaste, then turned towards Ram and greeted him.
‘I would like to speak with the prince privately, once again,’ said Sita.
‘Of course,’ said Samichi immediately. ‘May I have a private word before that?’
Samichi took Sita aside and whispered in her ear, ‘Sita, please remember what I said. Ram is too simple. And, his life is in real danger. Please ask him to leave. This is our last chance.’
Sita smiled politely, fully intending to ignore Samichi’s words.
Samichi cast a quick look at Ram before walking away, leading Urmila by the hand. Lakshman followed Urmila.
Ram moved towards Sita. ‘Why did you want to meet me, princess?’
Sita checked that Samichi and the rest were beyond earshot. She was about to begin speaking when her eyes fell on the red thread tied around Ram’s right wrist. She smiled.
He has worn it.
‘Please give me a minute, prince,’ said Sita.
She walked behind a tree, bent and picked up a long package covered in cloth. She walked back to Ram. He frowned, intrigued. Sita pulled the cloth back to reveal an intricately carved, and unusually long, bow. An exquisite piece of weaponry,
it was a composite bow with recurved ends, which would give it a very long range. Ram carefully examined the carvings on the inside face of the limbs, both above and below the grip of the bow. It was the image of a flame, representative of Agni, the God of Fire. The first hymn of the first chapter of the Rig Veda was dedicated to the deeply revered deity. However, the shape of this flame was slightly different.
Sita pulled a flat wooden base platform from the cloth bag and placed it on the ground ceremonially. She looked at Ram. ‘This bow cannot be allowed to touch the ground.’
Ram was clearly fascinated. He wondered why this bow was so important. Sita placed the lower limb of the bow on the platform, steadying it with her foot. She used her right hand to pull down the other end with force. Judging by the strain on her shoulder and biceps, Ram guessed that it was a very strong bow with tremendous resistance. With her left hand, Sita pulled the bowstring up and quickly strung it. She let the upper limb of the bow extend, and relaxed. She let out a long breath. The mighty bow adjusted to the constraints of the potent bowstring. She held the bow with her left hand and pulled the bowstring with her fingers, letting it go with a loud twang.
Ram knew from the sound that this bow was special. ‘Wow. That’s a good bow.’
‘It’s the best.’
‘Is it yours?’
‘I cannot own a bow like this. I am only its caretaker, for now. When I die, someone else will be deputed to take care of it.’
Ram narrowed his eyes as he closely examined the image of the flames around the grip of the bow. ‘These flames look a little like —’
Sita interrupted him, impressed that he had figured it out so quickly. ‘This bow once belonged to the one whom we both worship. It still belongs to him.’
Ram stared at the bow with a mixture of shock and awe, his suspicion confirmed.
Sita smiled. ‘Yes, it is the Pinaka.’
The Pinaka was the legendary bow of the previous Mahadev, Lord Rudra. It was considered the strongest bow ever made. Believed to be a composite, it was a mix of many materials, which had been given a succession of specific treatments to arrest its degeneration. It was also believed that maintaining this bow was not an easy task. The grip, the limbs and the recurved ends needed regular lubrication with a special oil.
‘How did Mithila come into the possession of the Pinaka?’ asked Ram, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful weapon.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Sita. She knew she couldn’t give him the real reason. Not yet, at least. ‘But I want you to practise with it. This is the bow which will be used for the swayamvar competition tomorrow.’
Ram took an involuntary step back. There were many ways in which a swayamvar was conducted. Sometimes the bride directly selected her groom. Or, she mandated a competition. The winner married the bride. However, it was unorthodox for a groom to be given advance information and help. In fact, it was against the rules.
Ram shook his head. ‘It would be an honour to even touch the Pinaka, much less hold the bow that Lord Rudra himself graced with his touch. But I will only do so tomorrow. Not today.’
Sita frowned. What? Doesn’t he want to marry me?
‘I thought you intended to win my hand,’ said Sita.
‘I do. But I will win it the right way. I will win according to the rules.’
Sita smiled, shaking her head. This man is truly special. Either he will go down in history as someone who was exploited by all. Or, he will be remembered as one of the greatest ever.
Sita was happy that she had chosen to marry Ram. In a tiny corner of her heart, though, she was worried. For she knew that this man would suffer. The world would make him suffer. And from what she knew about his life, he had suffered a lot already.
‘Do you disagree?’ asked Ram, seeming disappointed.
‘No, I don’t. I’m just impressed. You are a special man, Prince Ram.’
Ram blushed.
He’s blushing again …!
‘I look forward to seeing you fire an arrow tomorrow morning,’ said Sita, smiling.
‘He refused help? Really?’ asked Jatayu, surprised.
Jatayu and Sita had met in the patch of the jungle that was now their regular meeting place. It lay towards the north of the city, as far away as possible from Raavan’s temporary camp.
‘Yes,’ answered Sita.
Jatayu smiled and shook his head. ‘He is no ordinary man.’
‘No, he isn’t. But I’m not sure whether the Malayaputras agree.’
Jatayu instinctively cast a glance around the woods, as if expecting to be heard by the formidable chief of the Malayaputras. He knew Vishwamitra did not like Ram. The Prince of Ayodhya was just a tool for the Maharishi; a means to an end.
‘It’s all right. The words will not carry to …’ Sita left the name unsaid. ‘So, what do you think of Ram?’
‘He is special in many ways, my sister,’ whispered Jatayu, carefully. ‘Perhaps, just what our country needs … His obsession with rules and honesty, his almighty love for this great land, his high expectations from everyone, including himself …’
Sita finally asked him the question that had been weighing on her mind. ‘Is there anything I should know about the Malayaputras’ plans regarding Ram tomorrow? At the swayamvar?’
Jatayu remained silent. He looked distinctly nervous.
‘You have called me your sister, Jatayuji. And this is regarding my future husband. I deserve to know.’
Jatayu looked down. Struggling between his loyalty to the Malayaputras and his devotion to Sita.
‘Please, Jatayuji. I need to know.’
Jatayu straightened his back and let out a sigh. ‘You do know about the attack on a motley bunch of Asuras close to our Ganga ashram, right?’
Vishwamitra had gone to Ayodhya and asked for Ram and Lakshman’s help in resolving a ‘serious’ military problem that he was facing. He had taken them to his ashram close to the Ganga River. He had then asked them to lead a contingent of his Malayaputra soldiers in an assault on a small tribe of Asuras, who were apparently, attacking his ashram repeatedly. It was only after the ‘Asura problem’ had been handled that they had left for Mithila, for Sita’s swayamvar.
‘Yes,’ said Sita. ‘Was Ram’s life in danger?’
Jatayu shook his head dismissively. ‘It was a pathetic tribe of a handful of people. They were imbeciles. Incapable warriors. Ram’s life was never in danger.’
Sita frowned, confused. ‘I don’t understand …’
‘The idea wasn’t to get rid of Ram. It was to destroy his reputation with his most powerful supporters.’
Sita’s eyes widened as she finally unravelled the conspiracy.
‘The Malayaputras do not want him dead. They want him out of the reckoning as a potential Vishnu; and, under their control.’
‘Are the Malayaputras intending to ally with Raavan?’
Jatayu was shocked. ‘How can you even ask that, great Vishnu? They will never ally with Raavan. In fact, they will destroy him. But only when the time is right. Remember, the Malayaputras are loyal to one cause alone: the restoration of India’s greatness. Nothing else matters. Raavan is just a tool for them.’
‘As is Ram. As am I.’
‘No. No … How can you even think that the Malayaputras would use you as a …’
Sita looked at Jatayu, silently. Perhaps Samichi is right. There are forces far beyond my control. And Ram is …
Jatayu interrupted Sita’s thoughts and unwittingly gave her a clue as to what she should do. ‘Remember, great Vishnu. You are too crucial to the Malayaputras’ plans. They cannot allow anything to happen to you. No harm can come to you.’
Sita smiled. Jatayu had given her the answer. She knew what she must do.
Chapter 21
‘Do I know all there is to know about the Malayaputras’ plans for the swayamvar, Arishtanemiji?’ asked Sita.
Arishtanemi was surprised by the question.
‘I don’t understand, Sita,�
� he said, carefully.
‘How did Raavan get an invitation?’
‘We are as clueless as you, Sita. You know that. We suspect it to be the handiwork of your uncle. But there is no proof.’
Sita looked sceptical. ‘Right … No proof.’
Arishtanemi took a deep breath. ‘Why don’t you say what is on your mind, Sita …’
Sita leaned forward, looked directly into Arishtanemi’s eyes, and said, ‘I know that Raavan’s family has its roots in Kannauj.’
Arishtanemi winced. But recovered quickly. He shook his head, an injured expression on his face. ‘In the name of the great Lord Parshu Ram, Sita. How can you think such thoughts?’
Sita was impassive.
‘You think Guru Vishwamitra has any other identity now, besides being the chief of the Malayaputras? Seriously?’
Arishtanemi looked a little agitated. It was uncharacteristic of him. Sita knew she had hit a nerve. She could not have had a conversation like this with Vishwamitra. She needed to press home the advantage. Arishtanemi was one of the rare few who could convince Vishwamitra. She unnerved him further by choosing silence. For now.
‘We can destroy Raavan at any time,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘We keep him alive because we plan to use his death to help you. To help you be recognised, by all Indians, as the Vishnu.’
‘I believe you.’
Now, Arishtanemi fell silent. Confused.
‘And I also know that you have plans for Ram.’
‘Sita, listen to …’
Sita interrupted Arishtanemi. It was time to deliver the threat. ‘I may not have Ram’s life in my hands. But I do have my own life in my hands.’
A shocked Arishtanemi did not know what to say. All the plans would be reduced to dust without Sita. They had invested too much in her.
‘I have chosen,’ said Sita firmly. ‘Now you need to decide what to do.’
‘Sita …’
‘I have nothing more to say, Arishtanemiji.’
The swayamvar was held in the Hall of Dharma instead of the royal court. This was simply because the royal court was not the biggest hall in Mithila. The main building in the palace complex, which housed the Hall of Dharma, had been donated by King Janak to the Mithila University. The hall hosted regular debates and discussions on various esoteric topics — the nature of dharma, karma’s interaction with dharma, the nature of the divine, the purpose of the human journey …
Sita: Warrior of Mithila Page 19