As the morning wore down into noonday and grew into afternoon, Sita’s mind churned with the same line of thought. At one point, she felt almost grateful that they were far from civilisation. Had they remained in Ayodhya, who knew how many people in distress might have come to Rama’s doorstep, begging his intercession in some case or other. That, after all, was the inevitable responsibility of any prince or king, to protect his people. The Arya nations did not believe in sending out champions to fight their fights. She did not know how she would have dealt with the constant stress of Rama venturing out to subdue this riot or settle that dispute, or hunt down that asura. She would never be able to be that Sita now. That choice had been denied her the instant her husband had been exiled - and had accepted the exile unquestioningly. Now, all she had was Rama - and Lakshman, of course, wonderful jovial Lakshman.
And virtually nothing else. And if she was to pass fourteen years in this hostile wilderness, surely the least she should have was Rama’s presence beside her, not his absence on account of him running off to champion some desperate cause or other.
On the other hand, she mused, as they passed through a surprising though brief patch of pilai - a sandy stretch with shells which crunched underfoot, indicating that a river had flown through here at some point, or perhaps even an ancient ocean in aeons past - at least in the Dandaka-van there would be no more people who would continually seek out Rama to champion their causes. He might be kept busy wielding his sword or firing his bow daily to ensure their survival in hostile environs, but that would be in their own defence. He would stay close by her at all times, not venture forth to slay some berserk rakshasa or perform some miraculous feat of valour for any brahmarishi who invoked his services under the Brahmin-Kshatriya code. And that, she concluded, was probably the only assurance she had. There were no more lost causes to champion in here, except their own.
They had crossed the pilai land and climbed up into a hilly region, winding up and down repeatedly. Ahead of them, Lakshman slowed and called a halt.
‘I sense plentiful game here,’ he said. ‘I’ll hunt us down some food and we can take a brief respite before continuing. According to Somashrava’s directions, this hilly territory we’re walking through means that we’re a few hours’ march from Chitrakut hill. After we take some nourishment, we can press on and be there before nightfall. We will camp there as the sage suggested when we were parting. It is the most appropriate site in this region.’
He had removed his bow and began to string it deftly as he spoke. Rama nodded. ‘I will stay with Sita. You catch us some light game. Nothing large. Perhaps just a small beast. We do not wish to eat too heartily when we have hours yet to march. I will build a fire while you hunt.’
Sita’s mind pictured a rabbit or a brace of squirrels skinned and skewered on a stick over a fire. Her stomach churned. ‘Rama,’ she said, catching hold of his shoulder, ‘I will find and pluck us some herbs. We can wash them and eat them raw. They will be nourishing enough for our needs.’
Lakshman frowned. ‘Herbs? To season the meat, you mean? There’s no need for that. Roasted meat has its own fine taste.’ He patted his flat stomach. ‘It’s been two days since we ate meat, with Guha that was.’
‘No!’ she said, louder than she’d intended. Both brothers looked at her, surprised. ‘No,’ she repeated, softer. ‘I meant there’s no need to hunt.’ She gestured at the sky, visible in glimpses through the trees. ‘It will take up precious time. I would rather reach our destination earlier. We can always sup there more heartily, to celebrate our new homecoming.’
‘That’s a fine idea,’ Lakshman said. ‘But we should eat something now. I haven’t eaten a morsel since yesterday and the good Brahmins only fed us fruits!’
‘I will pluck herbs,’ she insisted. ‘They will be nourishing enough. As Rama said, we ought to eat lightly, to travel the quicker. That way, we will waste no time hunting or building a fire.’
Lakshman’s face changed and he seemed about to argue the point, but Rama nodded approvingly. ‘Sita speaks wisely. Let us take a quick respite and lunch on herbs and roots. We can always hunt at Chitrakut hill, after we pick out the spot for our domicile.’
He smiled as he slapped Lakshman on the back. ‘We are in forest exile after all, my brother. Herbs and roots, remember? Herbs and roots!’
Lakshman muttered something about herbs and roots marrying one another and keeping out of everyone else’s way, but acquiesced without further debate. He left his bow strung and ready but put it aside reluctantly as Sita went about the task of ferreting out something edible. The pickings were slim, for the region was too wild and hilly for the most nourishing herbs or shrubs to flourish. After several moments of searching, she finally found some bitter-root and some sister-of-spinach leaf. She washed them in a little spring nearby, Rama watching over her alertly, and offered them to her husband and brotherin-law. The root and leaf looked very meagre in Lakshman’s
broad hands, but he took them uncomplainingly, munching noisily. His face altered visibly when he chewed into the bitterroot, but he managed to keep chewing and swallowing without uttering a word of complaint. That made her feel guilty. Would it have been so bad if she had allowed him to hunt down some small creature? Yes! If she could have her way, she would not want either brother firing a single arrow or unsheathing their swords again unless it was a matter of their own survival. And, merciful Sri knew, there would be instances enough for such defensive actions in the fourteen years to come. If she could do anything to reduce the violence they inflicted, it would go a long way to alleviating the heartsickness she felt.
Lakshman looked up suddenly, stopping in mid-chew. When he spoke, he revealed a mouthful of half-eaten leaves and root. ‘Did you hear that?’ He stood, taking up his bow and notching an arrow to the cord.
Rama slid his sword out slowly.
Sita put down the banana leaf on which she was holding her food.
They waited.
Someone, or something, for this was Chitrakut, was coming through the brush. Two bushes grew together, their leaves forming a light barrier. Sita watched as the stalks of the bushes were bent back slowly, to allow a body to pass through. She held her breath as the leaves parted to reveal the face of the approaching visitor.
Her first impression, completely absurd of course, was that it was Nakhudi. She had harboured fantasies of the rani-rakshak tracking her all this while, determined to follow her mistress to the ends of the earth to fulfil her oath of lifelong fealty. Almost immediately, she knew that the head emerging through the parted leaves was too low-set to belong to the statuesque Jat. Her second, equally absurd thought was that it was her mother. Which was even more uncanny, for she had never seen her mother, ever.
She blinked and wiped her mind free of these delusions.
And saw the woman who stood in the clearing, staring dully at the raised sword and drawn bow of Rama and Lakshman, both pointed at her.
TWELVE
The woman gasped with astonishment and lowered her head at once.
‘My lords?’ she said in a quavering voice. ‘I am no threat to thee.’
Lakshman took a step forward, keeping his arrow trained on the stranger. ‘Show your face.’
Reluctantly, her head jerking as she drew nervous, gasping breaths, the woman raised her head. She was an elderly woman, Sita saw, her face wreathed with wrinkles, her nose large and hooked, her jaw large but weak. She wore garments in the tribal style, brightly coloured reds and yellows, but they had faded and worn away with overuse and were little more than toooften-patched swatches of cloth stitched together. She was about Sita’s height, perhaps slightly taller, though it was hard to tell with her bent the way she was, and her entire aspect - the stringy, dirty white hair, the thin, grimy, wrinkled neck, jutting shoulder-points, bony frame, tattered garments, the unravelling jute sack that she carried, clutched in one withered fist - bespoke extreme poverty. Her fair skin and pale, almost colourless - but very faintly greenis
h - eyes told a story of a life spent foraging and sifting for scant nourishment. She walked with the weary tread of one who had been beaten down often by life and kept her back bent in expectation of further beatings. She gazed dully from one armed man to the other, as if knowing that she might be struck down by them for no good reason, and prepared to accept that as easily as any fate.
Rama lowered and sheathed his sword. Lakshman lowered his arrow a notch, but kept it strung.
‘She could be an asura in human guise,’ Lakshman said.
Rama hesitated, his hand still on his sword-grip.
Sita moved forward. ‘No.’
She went to the woman and touched her face, then her shoulder. The woman did not so much as flinch or blink, taking the examination with the same choiceless lack of response with which she’d viewed her possible death. Sita felt nothing but bone and skin beneath the weathered cloth.
‘She is no asura,’ she said. ‘Only an old tribal woman.’
Lakshman made a disgusted noise. ‘That’s obvious. Had she been an asura, she would have torn you to bits by now, my good sister-in-law!’
Sita ignored him. ‘Namaskar,’ she said to the woman. ‘I am Sita Janaki, travelling to Chitrakut hill with my husband and my brother-in-law. We apologise for greeting you with such aggression. We were informed to beware of demons in these woods.’
The woman said meekly, ‘Aye, my lady. Demons there are plentiful in Chitrakut. And even more in the forests beyond the hill, in Panchvati groves. But I am only Shabbri, a poor forager. I cause nobody no harm.’
Sita turned and looked pointedly at Lakshman. He rolled his eyes but said no more. Rama came over to the woman.
‘Namaskar. I am Rama of Ayodhya, husband of Sita Janaki.’
The woman’s eyes remained downcast, unwilling to meet Rama’s. ‘I am Shabbri, a poor forager,’ she repeated dully. ‘Master,’ she added.
‘Where do you hail from, Shabbri-devi? Where is your family? Your clan?’
The woman started. ‘Oh no, sire. Do not address me so. I am no devi. Merely a lowly outcast. Solitary and homeless, I wander these woods of Chitrakut and live off the land. I cause nobody no harm, nohow.’
‘Alone? Here? How do you survive? Do you not fear the wild beasts and the demons?’
‘What have I to fear? I who have nothing and no one? The demons do not desire such as me. For they are mostly rakshasas, descended of the line of their lord, Ravana of Lanka, and, being so, are therefore descendants of the line of Pulastya and all of higher caste than myself. They will not touch me or allow my shadow to fall upon them for fear they will be polluted.’
Sita raised her eyebrows, glancing at Rama to see his reaction. She had never heard of flesh-eating demons who avoided low-castes for fear of polluting their souls, but obviously the old woman believed in them. She thought it more likely that the woman had fortuitously escaped harm until now, or was not fleshy and appetising enough for the rakshasas to trouble themselves over. Rama shrugged too, as if to say, Well, what’s the point in arguing? Sita agreed silently.
She touched the old woman’s hand. ‘Come, Shabbri. Sit with us and share our meal. We have not much but you are welcome to eat a bite with us.’
Shabbri drew back fearfully from Sita’s touch. ‘You must not touch me, my lady. I am of the lowest gotra. You will be polluted by me.’ Her eyes flickered to one side then the other. ‘I should make my way from here.
You are clearly of high birth and varna, from your speech and manner and weaponry. It is not right that I should tarry here in your presence.’
Rama took a step forward, as if to stop the woman. ‘Wait. I wish to speak with you a little. We are new to these woods and would welcome any help.’
Shabbri glanced up fearfully, not at Rama’s eyes, but off to one side. ‘What help can one such as I offer thou, sire? Allow me to leave before I commit the sin of caste-offence and earn the wrath of my superiors.’
Sita felt sorry for the old woman. She had obviously been treated badly in her time. She reached out and took the woman’s hand, intending to clasp it and show the frightened forager that she did not care about such things as caste-offences and varna demarcations. Instead, she startled the old woman, who jerked her hand back. It happened to be the hand clutching the jute sack, and Sita caught the mouth of the sack instead of Shabbri’s hand. The woman lost her grip on it, and the sack fell on to the ground between them, spilling its contents.
Rama exclaimed aloud as he saw the small rounded objects that emerged from the jute bag.
He bent down, picking up one of the fallen objects and bringing it to his face. He sniffed it curiously. A look of wonderment came over him. The change transformed his face completely. He looked like the boy Sita recalled faintly from her childhood memories. Not Rama the rakshasa-slayer, champion of Bhayanak-van, and performer of other great feats of valour. Simply Rama the boy.
‘Ber,’ he said reverentially. ‘Ripe ber.’
The old woman had fallen in her haste to retreat from the outstretched hand. Sita bent down and offered her hand again. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I do not care for caste-laws. Take my hand and rise.’
The old woman’s eyes were big and wide. Still she struggled to rise on her own, but found no purchase on the leafy shrubs. Finally she accepted Sita’s offer and allowed herself to be helped up. But she balked and whimpered when Sita’s hand accidentally touched her feet.
‘No, mistress, it is not right, not right. Shabbri is an outcast, most wretched of all varnas.’
Sita looked at her firmly. ‘My father says that there are no castes in the eyes of the devas, only good people and bad. Tell me, do you consider yourself a good person or a bad one?’
Shabbri looked uncertain, her eyes darting away. ‘Shabbri has done no one no harm.’
Sita nodded. ‘You are clearly a good person. You have nothing to fear. When your soul is finally freed from the cycle of rebirth and attains moksh, you will ascend to Swarga-lok the same as any Brahmin or brahmacharya. My father knows this implicitly, and he has spent his entire life studying theology.’
Shabbri stared nervously at Sita, who smiled reassuringly. After a moment, Shabbri smiled back shakily.
Then she looked past Sita and cried out.
Rama was picking up the fallen wildberries and popping them into the sack. Shabbri took a step towards him, then stopped, still subservient to a lifetime of self-training. She shook her head, speaking with her head lowered.
‘No, master. You must not touch those. They are Shabbri’s food for today.’ She added hesitantly, ‘Perhaps for the next several days.’
Rama finished gathering up the berries and came over, holding out the sack. ‘I was collecting them for you. Our apologies for startling you, maa. We will not steal your meal, you need have no fear on that account. I was hoping you could show us where you found these ber, that we might pluck our own.’
Shabbri kept her head lowered, but her hand crept out and took the sack. Still, Sita noted, she was careful not to let her hand touch Rama’s.
‘It would be my great honour, master. I found these in a patch some four or five yojanas west of here.’
‘West,’ Rama repeated, his mouth closing tightly. He glanced in that direction. It was quite contrary to the way they were travelling, which was south-east. He looked at Lakshman, who was seated on the same fallen tree they had been sitting on when Shabbri had appeared. Lakshman raised his eyebrows but made no comment. Rama sighed. ‘That would delay us. I suppose plucking ber will have to wait.’
‘Like eating rabbit meat,’ Lakshman said drily. His fallen herbs and roots lay underfoot, ignored. He rubbed his bare belly pointedly. Sita rolled her eyes at him. He grinned wryly, to show that he was only jesting … well, half jesting. Even Sita’s stomach felt ill nourished.
Shabbri hesitated, having caught some if not all the import of this last exchange. Her eyes darted to Sita. She seemed to have gained a smidgen of confidence, Sita was pleased to note. ‘Ye
s?’ Sita asked, encouraging.
‘My lady,’ Shabbri said haltingly, ‘I would like nothing better than to offer your lord my entire lot of ber. I can always find more before sundown, and Shabbri does not require much herself.’
‘That is very generous of you, maa. My husband is inordinately fond of ber. The only thing he likes as much is kairee. Perhaps we could offer you a trade. We are travelling to Chitrakut hill, to take up residence there. Once we arrive at that location, my husband and brother-in-law will hunt us a good meal. If you come with us, we will gladly provide you with as much food as you like from our own cookfire. It would be only fair, if we are to sample your ber.’
‘Indeed,’ Rama said. ‘If you can bring us ber from time to time, you may eat as often as you like with us.’ He smiled. ‘Your ber smell very fresh and ripe. I daresay they are quite juicy and sweet too.’
Shabbri’s eyes opened wide again as Sita spoke, growing large and round with each sentence. When Rama spoke, though, she exclaimed and shook her head rapidly. ‘Nay, master. Nay. I am honoured beyond words by your generosity. Never has any high-caste treated Shabbri with such kindness before. I will gladly fetch you all the ber you desire. But you must not eat of those I have collected in this sack.’
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