Rama glanced back to see Lakshman disappearing through the root curtain. He looked at Sita. She caught the expression on his face and nodded. ‘He wants something to do,’ she said. ‘It is better to let him go with the chief and hunt. It will do him good.’
Rama nodded and sighed as he wrapped the remains of their repast, bunching the banana leaf filled with the fishbones into a bundle. He dug a small hole with his hands and buried the leaf and bones in it, to return it to the earth. ‘What were you doing when I came?’
She frowned. ‘Doing? Oh. I was … ‘ She pointed up at the thread she had tied to the tree trunk. ‘Tying a knot.’
He smiled. ‘To hold Nyagrodha together? Was he broken?’
She smiled back, responding to the jest. ‘It’s an old Mithilan tradition. Or superstition. Call it what you will. Tie a thread from your garment to a banyan tree and make a wish.’
He took her hand. ‘Doesn’t that normally apply to lovers seeking to wed? Or married couples who are facing some threat to their unity?’
She clasped his hand tightly. ‘And to newly-weds praying for a long and harmonious union.’
‘Then shouldn’t the couple walk around the tree, as a parikrama? To strengthen the bond symbolised by the tying of the knot?’
She looked up at him with a doe-eyed softness that he had seen only once before: their wedding night. In that all-too-brief idyllic time between their arrival home and his fateful call to the kosaghar. She put her other hand on his, pulling him towards her.
‘The walking must be accomplished by mutual desire,’ she said. ‘That is when it becomes a true parikrama.’
He clasped her hands with his other hand as well, bringing himself close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. ‘Then we shall walk together.’
The sun was low in the sky when they finished. He did not feel tired. If anything, he felt refreshed and more vigorous than before. The meal they had taken together, the parikrama performed, their hands clasped as they walked around the massive trunk of the ancient banyan, the knowledge that they were two beings united in spirit, all added to strengthen their already growing bond. When he had walked away from the banks of the Ganga last evening, turning his back on Bharat and his princely heritage for ever, he had felt as if that was the last meaningful thing he would ever do, as if from that moment onwards everything else would be without significance or sense, merely existence.
Even Lakshman’s presence by his side had weighed heavily on his conscience: why had he allowed his brother to accompany him into exile? Why had he not been stronger, firmer, even crueller if that was what it took? All day today he had thought of a suitable argument he could pose to his brother to persuade him to turn back even now. But he had not felt the same way about Sita. He was glad of her presence. Where with Lakshman he felt guilty and irresponsible for letting his brother come, in Sita’s case he felt relieved and blessed. It was a strange thing. Not two weeks earlier he would not have felt this way; would have turned his back on his wife as Lakshman had turned his back on Urmila, and gone to the forest to pay his dharmic debt. But so much had changed so swiftly; in a way, he was no longer the Rama who had left Ayodhya with Brahmarishi Vishwamitra less than two weeks ago. And neither was Lakshman the same. They had both changed in some deep, immeasurable way that could not be explained, nor discussed openly. It was not that their relationship was any less strong; it was that their brotherly bond no longer occupied the same central position in their mutually shared universe. Rama already cherished his bond with Sita just as much.
He looked at his wife’s face, flushed and glowing from their long parikrama - each circuit of the banyan trunk was a hundred yards at least, and they had completed a hundred and eight such circuits, as was expected. What was this invisible force that had bonded her to him so swiftly and strongly? Mere days earlier she had been only a name from his childhood, a fond memory. Now, she was already as close to him as his brother. He would not have believed that to be possible days ago; now he accepted it was inevitable. It is in the nature of the relationship itself, he told himself. This is what it means to be wedded to someone. It is not beyond brotherhood, it is simply something else.
He reached out and gently brushed a wisp of sweat-dampened hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear as he had seen her do. She nodded absently, lost in some deep thought.
‘I am glad you came,’ he said softly. ‘I did not wish it, for your sake, but I am glad you did, for mine.’
She looked up at him. ‘I too am glad I came. But for my sake, not yours.’
He smiled. ‘So we both had our own reasons. So be it.’
She did not say anything to that. There was no need to. He clasped her to his chest and embraced her, embraced the wonder that was his first love, his wife, in the gentle shade of Nyagrodha, who watched impassively and silently, as it had watched lovers like them for close to a thousand years.
THREE
Guha emerged from the darkness of the woods into the circle of light cast by the fire, his dark skin rendering him almost invisible except for the glowing whites of his eyes and his flashing teeth. The chief bore more firewood. He dropped the bundle, chose a sizeable log and placed it into the heart of the flames. Then he sat back, stirring the fire with a long stick, until he was satisfied by its colour and warmth. The aroma of roasted meat still hung sweetly in the air, along with a sense of contentment that Sita would not have believed possible at the end of such a day, or in such surroundings.
Partly it was the good meal and the fire. The night was cold here, colder than it had been back in Mithila - or in Ayodhya for that matter. She did not know why that should be, unless there had been an unexpected spring fall up in the Himalayas. She supposed it was always possible. If so, it was a bad omen and would be taken as such by the farmers of Vaideha, who would otherwise have been preparing to sow their monsoon crops.
As if reading her thoughts, Guha spoke. ‘Unnaturally cold this night,’ he said. ‘A bad omen, my prince.’
Rama leaned forward to place a hand on the chief’s shoulder. ‘Just Rama, old friend. You can drop the “prince” now. I left all titles back in Ayodhya.’
Guha guffawed. The chief’s laughter was gloriously unaffected and ribald, as shocking as a profane word on account of its sheer vigour and bawdy boldness. ‘Such titles cannot be shed like silk garments and gold ornaments, my Ayodhyan friend! You are crown prince of Ayodhya and will remain so for ever. You may have wished you had left the title behind, yet it follows you as loyally as a milk-fed puppy into these Nisada lands.’ He gestured with the stick, sending sparks scattering within an inch of Sita’s feet. She drew her feet up hurriedly. ‘And it will be with you when you go into the Dandaka-van, or wherever else you may journey in your long exile.’ The tribal chieftain shook his head, baring his teeth like a cougar shaking a dead rabbit by the throat. ‘The burdens of kingship do not come off when a king is exiled. They only grow weightier on his shoulders.’
There was only the sound of the fire crackling softly for a long moment, then Rama replied, ‘You seem to have spent some time contemplating such matters, my friend. I cannot disagree with your reasoning. What you say is true: I am yet and will always be a prince of Ayodhya. Yet I only meant that it would please me more if you called me by my birth-name. For right now I am a prince without a kingdom, or a throne. And as such, I am Rama, your good friend, as Dasaratha my father was once before me. I ask only that you treat me with the same rough warmth you gave him, as a man rather than a king.’
Guha turned to stare at Rama. The chief’s broad bulging features hid no emotion. Sita could read his surprise as clearly as if he had spoken his state of mind aloud. ‘Wherefrom does such nobility arise, tell me then. What meat or milk were you fed by your mother’s hand that you turned out to be thus?’
He dropped the stick with which he had been prodding the fire and turned to face Rama fully.
‘You said that I should not speak of it again and I agree that I shoul
d not. You have made your decision plain on the matter. Yet I still cannot accept your acceptance of this banishment. I do not believe that if Dasaratha were here with us tonight he would permit you to continue on this journey into darkness and anonymity. You, prince of Ayodhya, heir to the Suryavansha throne! Your place is there in the capital of the Kosala nation, ruling justly and wisely as your father always wished. I swear, Rama, if Dasa was here he would rescind every oath he has sworn to your stepmother and command you even now to return home and take your rightful place at the reins of power. Do you doubt it?’
Rama sighed, leaning forward. The shawl he held loosely around his shoulders fell open. ‘I do not doubt it, my friend. But Dasaratha is not here. My father died after pronouncing this exile upon me, and it is all I can do to fulfil it.’
He raised his hand before Guha could answer. ‘Yet stay your arguments, Guha. You are a great man and a wise king. But once my feet are set on a path, I will not be turned back. End this debate now, as it should have ended when I left the gates of my city. Accept me as what I am now, a prince in exile.’
Guha exploded. Rising to his feet, the chief turned to face Rama. Yet despite his imposing size, the Nisada king’s attitude was imploring rather than intimidating. Sita could clearly read the chief’s frustration and anger on his fleshy features.
‘So be it!’ he said, his barrel-chested growl counter-pointing the crackle and snap of the fire. ‘Rama, I do not claim to understand your godlike adherence to dharma.
Nay, even the gods, your sacred devas, would be shamed by your dharmic diligence, for did not they stray from their own dharmic paths from time to time? A mistake or three is permissible to us mortals, let alone our devas. But I do not question that stubborn adherence which you displayed so astonishingly on the banks of the Ganga. I stood by silently as you sent Bharat back with the raj-taru, denying your own brother’s wishes that you rule Ayodhya. You did not see what transpired after that, and you did not wish to know it, but I will tell you nevertheless.’
He squatted before Rama, peering into his face. ‘Do you know what Bharat did after you, Lakshman and Sita went into the woods? He wept inconsolably. Then, when Shatrugan asked him what he desired to do next, he looked at me and asked if there was any object belonging to Rama that remained in my possession. I went and looked, and lo, I found your slippers, Rama. For you had shed them before seating yourself at my table for the repast, and had not had an opportunity to wear them again. They remained there exactly as you had left them, mud-crusted and worn at the heels. I showed them to Bharat, and do you know what he did then?’
Again Rama did not respond, and the impassive expression on his face was one that even Sita could not read. She wanted to put her hand in his, to feel his touch, but she did not want to interrupt the debate. Guha’s words were heartfelt and passionate, and she was moved by the emotion the chieftain exuded.
‘He kissed them, Rama,’ Guha went on. ‘He kissed those mud-spattered slippers and clutched them to his chest as lovingly as any religious icon. And then he said to Shatrugan - and I will never forget the look on his face or the determination in his voice when he spoke - “Shatrugan, my brother, take these slippers belonging to our brother Rama, the true prince and king-in-waiting of our nation, take them to Rama’s mother Kausalya. Tell her that they are to be placed upon the sunwood throne as symbols of Rama’s continued sovereignty. There they must stay until Rama returns from exile and replaces them with his own person.” While he himself intends to reside in common style at Nandigram, the remotest border town, sworn never to enter Ayodhya until Rama’s return to claim his rightful place on the throne.’
Guha shook his head, wiping the spontaneous tears that had sprung to his eyes. ‘Such fraternal devotion and love never have I seen before. And do you know what thought passed through my mind at that moment? Greatness inspires greatness! If Rama sets so noble and self-sacrificing an example, can his brother do any less? Why, at that moment I wished I could be one-tenth as great a king as you are. To take such a harsh decision and embrace it to my breast as if it were a rose-petal garland, not the briar necklace you have worn. For then truly should the Nisadas be a great people, and this land as great as any Arya nation.’
‘You are a great king, Guha,’ Rama said. ‘And the Nisadas are a great people. How can you even doubt that? Why else do you think my father always took such pleasure in coming here, in consorting with you, hunting and feasting with you? Do you know, my friend, he always thought of you as dearly as his own blood. He told us once that he had five sons, not four. For Guha was no less dear to him than we, the sons of his own body.’
Guha stared at Rama. ‘He said such a thing? In his own words?’
Lakshman spoke from across the fire. ‘Indeed, chief. He said it more than once.’ Lakshman exchanged a glance with Rama, grinning wryly. ‘He even used to joke that if Guha ever left his forest kingdom by the Ganga and chose to come to Ayodhya, we brothers would lose a great part of our legacy. For he would grant you any wish you desired, even if it were part of the kingdom itself.’
Guha had turned to stare at Lakshman. The fire underlit his features, burning them into a mask of incredulity and sorrow. He turned back to face Rama. ‘I knew he loved me, as I loved him too. But that he felt this way … ‘ He shook his wild locks. ‘He never said such things, not even when he was drinking to give me company.’ He emitted a short choked laugh at the last memory.
Rama sighed. ‘For him to say it here would have been inappropriate, Guha. But he meant it, of that much you can be certain. He made me promise once, for he knew that I would be king after him, that if you were ever in need, whether in time of war, pestilence or famine and drought, I must give you whatever aid you desired. Not that I should give you what I could, but whatever you desired.’
‘Whatever I desired … ‘ Guha repeated the words like a sacred litany. His eyes, large and moist in his dark face, glowed like fireflies in a dark bush. He gripped Rama’s arm, his large hairy fist encircling Rama’s slender wrist easily. ‘And what did you reply then, my friend?’
‘I said that I would give you not only whatever you desired, I would personally care for the Nisadas as if they were my own family.’ Rama paused, looking directly into Guha’s eyes. ‘For if my father regarded you as his son, then that made you my brother as well. And brothers must share the responsibility of caring for their families, must they not?’
Into the crackling silence that followed, Lakshman said softly: ‘Rama was only ten at the time. I remember it.’
Guha leapt up and embraced Rama. It was like watching a bear leap upon an antelope, so different were their physical structures. Yet Rama was as quick to respond, and he rose to meet Guha’s bearlike embrace with swift felicity. The two men, so unlike in appearance and upbringing, embraced chest to chest with all the passion and enthusiasm of blood brothers. Lakshman rose to his feet in accord with Rama, but stood where he had sat, watching. Sita couldn’t help but notice the quick, impatient gesture Lakshman made as he swiped at his face, as one might if wiping away an inadvertently shed tear.
Guha roared his pleasure to the night. The forest shuddered in response, sleeping birds and skulking creatures raising a brief, irritable response before returning to their nocturnal occupations. ‘This is a great night, my friends … ‘ He roared again. ‘My brothers! It calls for a celebration!’
In his own tongue, he called out several quick, sharp words. Lakshman raised his eyebrows, glancing around. Not long after, Guha’s men appeared - another set of men, different from the ones who had brought the fish earlier and those who had helped skin and clean the meat that Guha and Lakshman had hunted bearing several earthen flasks. They set them down carefully, and retreated into the darkness of the benighted forest as swiftly as they had appeared.
Guha uncapped and poured the wine from the flasks into goblets, handing them round to each of them. Sita took hers without protest, knowing that to refuse it would offend the Nisada chief mightily. When
each had a goblet in hand, Guha raised his high above his head, roaring a tribute: ‘To my brothers Rama and Lakshman, and my sister Sita, fellow warriors of the Nisada clan!’
Quaffing his drink in one enormous swallow, the chief beamed his pleasure at Rama. ‘I have the answer to your problem, Rama. A beautiful and simple answer that will fulfil your father’s vow as well as retain your dignity and honour.’
Rama asked with genuine curiosity, ‘What have you thought of, my brother?’
‘Stay here.’ The chief expanded his arms, encompassing the forest around them. ‘Stay and rule the Nisadas with me. Both of you. Your wife will live like a queen of our tribe, you will enrich our lives with your great Vedic knowledge and guru-taught wisdom, and we will treat you like the kings you rightfully are. Stay here for fourteen years and rule beside me.’ The chief took up a flask and poured fresh drinks into their goblets. Rama’s goblet had room only for a few drops, Sita noted: he had barely sipped the first drink. Lakshman alone was willing to humour their host. The chief raised his own goblet, eyes shining with pride at his ingenious solution. ‘What say you?’
Rama handed his goblet to Sita—she took it and set it beside her own untouched drink on a flat patch of ground. He went to Guha and embraced the burly man passionately. ‘Brother, my brother … I love you dearly. Even had my father not proclaimed you akin to a son, still would I have thought you my brother. The Nisadas are fortunate beyond words to have as fine a man as you for their chief.’
Guha broke the embrace, holding Rama at arm’s length. ‘But?’ He added impatiently, ‘There is a “parantu” in your tone, Rama. I can hear it even though you leave it unsaid. Finish your thought. I am a great chief … a brother to you … but?’
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