Sita - Warrior of Mithila (Book 2 of the Ram Chandra Series)

by Amish

  Sita dragged the saddle to the private courtyard of the royal chambers, where her young horse waited for her. It was held by one of Kushadhwaj’s aides.

  Sunaina smiled. ‘Thank you so much. Sita will be lost in this project for the next few weeks. I don’t think she will eat or sleep till she’s learnt how to ride!’

  ‘She’s a good girl,’ said Kushadhwaj.

  ‘But it is an expensive gift, Kushadhwaj.’

  ‘She’s my only niece, Bhabhi,’ said Kushadhwaj to his sister-in-law. ‘If I won’t spoil her, then who will?’

  Sunaina smiled and gestured for them to join Janak in the veranda adjoining the courtyard. The king of Mithila set the Brihadaranyak Upanishad manuscript aside as his wife and brother joined him. Discreet aides placed some cups filled with buttermilk on the table. They also lit a silver lamp, placed at the centre of the table. Just as noiselessly, they withdrew.

  Kushadhwaj cast a quizzical look at the lamp and frowned. It was daytime. But he remained quiet.

  Sunaina waited till the aides were out of earshot. Then she looked at Janak. But her husband had picked up his manuscript again. Deeply engrossed. After her attempts to meet his eyes remained unsuccessful, she cleared her throat. Janak remained focused on the manuscript in his hands.

  ‘What is it, Bhabhi?’ asked Kushadhwaj.

  Sunaina realised that she had no choice. She would have to be the one to speak up. She pulled a document out of the large pouch tied to her waist and placed it on the table. Kushadhwaj resolutely refused to look at it.

  ‘Kushadhwaj, we have been discussing the road connecting Sankashya to Mithila for many years now,’ said Sunaina. ‘It was washed away in the Great Flood. But it has been more than two decades since. The absence of that road has caused immense hardship to the citizens and traders of Mithila.’

  ‘What traders, Bhabhi?’ said Kushadhwaj, laughing gently. ‘Are there any in Mithila?’

  Sunaina ignored the barb. ‘You had agreed in principle to pay for two-thirds of the cost of the road, if Mithila financed the remaining one-third.’

  Kushadhwaj remained silent.

  ‘Mithila has raised its share of the money,’ said Sunaina. She pointed to the document. ‘Let’s seal the agreement and let the construction begin.’

  Kushadhwaj smiled. ‘But Bhabhi, I don’t see what the problem is. The road is not that bad. People use it every day. I myself took that road to Mithila yesterday.’

  ‘But you are a king, Kushadhwaj,’ said Sunaina pleasantly, her tone studiously polite. ‘You are capable of many things that ordinary people are not. Ordinary people need a good road.’

  Kushadhwaj smiled broadly. ‘Yes, the ordinary people of Mithila are lucky to have a queen as committed to them as you are.’

  Sunaina did not say anything.

  ‘I have an idea, Bhabhi,’ said Kushadhwaj. ‘Let Mithila begin the construction of the road. Once your share of the one-third is done, Sankashya will complete the remaining two-third.’

  ‘All right.’

  Sunaina picked up the document and a quill from a side table and scribbled a line at the end. She then pulled out the royal seal from her pouch and marked the agreement. She offered the document to Kushadhwaj. It was then that Kushadhwaj realised the significance of the lamp.

  Lord Agni, the God of Fire, as witness.

  Every Indian believed that Agni was the great purifier. It was not a coincidence that the first hymn of the first chapter of the holiest Indian scripture, the Rig Veda, celebrated Lord Agni. All promises that were sealed with the God of Fire as witness could never be broken; promises of marriage, of yagnas, of peace treaties … and even a promise to build roads.

  Kushadhwaj did not take the agreement from his sister-in-law. Instead, he reached into his pouch and pulled out his own royal seal. ‘I trust you completely, Bhabhi. You can mark my agreement on the document.’

  Sunaina took the seal from Kushadhwaj and was about to stamp the agreement, when he softly spoke, ‘It’s a new seal, Bhabhi. One that reflects Sankashya properly.’

  Sunaina frowned. She turned the seal around and looked at its markings. Even though it was a mirror image of the symbol that would be marked on the agreement, the Queen of Mithila recognised it immediately. It was a single dolphin; the seal symbol of Mithila. Sankashya had historically been a subsidiary kingdom of Mithila, ruled by the younger members of the royal family. And it had a different seal: a single hilsa fish.

  Sunaina stiffened in anger. But she knew that she had to control her temper. She slowly placed the document back on the table. The Sankashya seal had not been used.

  ‘Why don’t you give me your actual seal, Kushadhwaj?’ said Sunaina.

  ‘This is my kingdom’s seal now, Bhabhi.’

  ‘It can never be so unless Mithila accepts it. No kingdom will recognise this as your seal till Mithila publicly does so. Every Sapt Sindhu kingdom knows that the single dolphin is the mark of the Mithila royal family’s direct line.’

  ‘True, Bhabhi. But you can change that. You can legitimise this seal across the land by using it on that document.’

  Sunaina cast a look at her husband. The king of Mithila raised his head, looked briefly at his wife, and then went back to the Brihadaranyak Upanishad.

  ‘This is not acceptable, Kushadhwaj,’ said Sunaina, maintaining her calm expression and voice to hide the anger boiling within. ‘This will not happen for as long as I’m alive.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you are getting so agitated, Bhabhi. You have married into the Mithila royal family. I was born into it. The royal blood of Mithila flows in my veins, not yours. Right, Janak dada?’

  Janak looked up and finally spoke, though the tone was detached and devoid of anger. ‘Kushadhwaj, whatever Sunaina says is my decision as well.’

  Kushadhwaj stood up. ‘This is a sad day. Blood has been insulted by blood. For the sake of …’

  Sunaina too rose to her feet. Abruptly interrupting Kushadhwaj, though her tone remained unfailingly polite. ‘Be careful what you say next, Kushadhwaj.’

  Kushadhwaj laughed. He stepped forward and took the Sankashya seal from Sunaina’s hand. ‘This is mine.’

  Sunaina remained silent.

  ‘Don’t pretend to be a custodian of the royal traditions of Mithila,’ scoffed Kushadhwaj. ‘You are not blood family. You are only an import.’

  Sunaina was about to say something when she felt a small hand wrap itself around hers. She looked down. The young Sita stood by her side, shaking with fury. In her other hand was the saddle that Kushadhwaj had just gifted her. She threw the saddle at her uncle. It fell on his feet.

  As Kushadhwaj doubled up in pain, the Sankashya seal fell from his hand.

  Sita leapt forward, picked up the seal and smashed it to the ground, breaking it in two. The breaking of a royal seal was considered a very bad omen. This was a grievous insult.

  ‘Sita!’ shouted Janak.

  Kushadhwaj’s face contorted with fury. ‘This is an outrage, Dada!’

  Sita now stood in front of her mother. She faced her uncle, daring him with her eyes. Spreading her arms out to cover her mother protectively.

  The king of Sankashya picked up the broken pieces of his royal seal and stormed out. ‘You have not heard the last of this, Dada!’

  As he left, Sunaina went down on her knees and turned Sita around. ‘You should not have done that, Sita.’

  Sita looked at her mother with smouldering eyes. Then turned to look at her father, defiant and accusing. There was not a trace of apology on her face.

  ‘You should not have done that, Sita.’

  Sita held on to her mother, refusing to let go. She wept with wordless anguish. A smiling Janak came up to her and patted her head. The royal family had gathered in the king’s private office. A few weeks had passed since the incident with Kushadhwaj. Sita, her parents had decided, was old enough to leave for gurukul; literally, the Guru’s family, but in effect a residential school.

  Jan
ak and Sunaina had chosen Rishi Shvetaketu’s gurukul for their daughter. Shvetaketu was the uncle of Janak’s chief guru, Ashtaavakra. His gurukul offered lessons in the core subjects of Philosophy, Mathematics, Science, and Sanskrit. Sita would also receive education in other specialised subjects like Geography, History, Economics, and Royal Administration, among others.

  One subject that Sunaina had insisted Sita be taught, overriding Janak’s objections, was warfare and martial arts. Janak believed in non-violence. Sunaina believed in being practical.

  Sita knew that she had to go. But she was a child. And the child was terrified of leaving home.

  ‘You will come home regularly, my dear,’ said Janak. ‘And we will come and see you too. The ashram is on the banks of the Ganga River. It’s not too far.’

  Sita tightened her grip on her mother.

  Sunaina prised Sita’s arms and held her chin. She made her daughter look at her. ‘You will do well there. It will prepare you for your life. I know that.’

  ‘Are you sending me away because of what I did with chacha?’ sobbed Sita.

  Sunaina and Janak immediately went down on their knees and held her close.

  ‘Of course not, my darling,’ said Sunaina. ‘This has nothing to do with your uncle. You have to study. You must get educated so that you can help run this kingdom someday.’

  ‘Yes, Sita,’ said Janak. ‘Your mother is right. What happened with Kushadhwaj uncle has nothing to do with you. It is between him, and your mother and I.’

  Sita burst into a fresh bout of tears. She clung to her parents like she’d never let them go.

  Chapter 5

  Two years had passed since Sita had arrived in Shvetaketu’s gurukul. While the ten-year-old student had impressed her guru with her intelligence and sharpness, it was her enthusiasm for the outdoors that was truly extraordinary. Especially noteworthy was her skill in stick-fighting.

  But her spirited temperament also created problems on occasion. Like the time when a fellow student had called her father an ineffectual king, more suited to being a teacher than a ruler. Sita’s response had been to thrash the living daylights out of him. The boy had been confined to the gurukul Ayuralay for almost a month. He had limped for two months after that.

  A worried Shvetaketu had arranged for extra classes on the subjects of non-violence and impulse control. The hotheaded girl had also been strictly reminded of the rules against physical violence on the gurukul premises. The art of warfare was taught to inculcate self-discipline and a code of conduct for future royal duties. Within the school, they were not allowed to hurt one another.

  To ensure that the message went home, Sunaina had also been told of this incident on one of her visits to the gurukul. Her strong words had had the desired impact on Sita. She had refrained from beating other students since then, though her resolve was tested at times.

  This was one such time.

  ‘Aren’t you adopted?’ taunted Kaaml Raj, a fellow classmate.

  Five students from the gurukul had gathered close to the pond on the campus. Three sat around Sita, who had drawn a geometric shape on the ground, using some ropes. Engrossed in explaining a theorem from the Baudhayana Shulba Sutra, she had been studiously ignoring Kaaml. As were the others. He was hovering around as usual, trying to distract everyone. Upon hearing his words, all eyes turned to Sita.

  Radhika was Sita’s best friend. She immediately tried to prevent a reaction. ‘Let it be, Sita. He is a fool.’

  Sita sat up straight and closed her eyes for a moment. She had often wondered about her birth mother. Why had she abandoned her? Was she as magnificent as her adoptive mother? But there was no doubt in her mind about one fact: She was Sunaina’s daughter.

  ‘I am my mother’s daughter,’ muttered Sita, looking defiantly at her tormentor as she pointedly ignored her friend’s advice.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that. We are all our mothers’ children. But aren’t you adopted? What will happen to you when your mother has a real daughter?’

  ‘Real daughter? I am not unreal, Kaaml. I am very real.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But you are not …’

  ‘Just get lost,’ said Sita. She picked up the twig with which she had been explaining the Baudhayana theorem.

  ‘No, no. You aren’t understanding what I’m saying. If you are adopted, you can be thrown out at any time. What will you do then?’

  Sita put the twig down and looked at Kaaml with cold eyes. This would have been a good moment for the boy to shut up. Regrettably, he did not have too much sense.

  ‘I can see that the teachers like you. Guruji likes you a lot. You can come back here and teach all day when you get thrown out of your home!’ Kaaml broke into maniacal laughter. No one else laughed. In fact, the tension in the air was crackling dangerously.

  ‘Sita …’ pleaded Radhika, again advising calm. ‘Let it be …’

  Sita ignored Radhika’s advice yet again. She slowly got up and walked towards Kaaml. The boy swallowed hard, but he did not step back. Sita’s hands were locked tightly behind her back. She stopped within an inch of her adversary. She looked at him and glared. Straight into his eyes. Kaaml’s breath had quickened nervously, and the twitch in his temple showed that his courage was rapidly disappearing. But he stood his ground.

  Sita took one more threatening step. Dangerously close to Kaaml. Her toe was now touching the boy’s. The tip of her nose was less than a centimetre from his face. Her eyes flashed fire.

  Sweat beads had formed on Kaaml’s forehead. ‘Listen … you are not allowed to hit anyone …’

  Sita kept her eyes locked with his. She kept staring. Unblinking. Cold. Breathing heavily.

  Kaaml’s voice emerged in a squeak. ‘Listen …’

  Sita suddenly screamed loudly; an ear-splitting sound right in Kaaml’s face. A forceful, strong, high-pitched bellow. A startled Kaaml fell back, flat on the ground and burst into tears.

  And, the other children burst into laughter.

  A teacher appeared seemingly from nowhere.

  ‘I didn’t hit him! I didn’t hit him!’

  ‘Sita …’

  Sita allowed herself to be led away by the teacher. ‘But I didn’t hit him!’

  ‘Hanu bhaiya!’ cooed Radhika as she hugged her elder brother. Or more specifically, her elder cousin brother.

  Radhika had asked Sita along to meet her favourite relative. The meeting place was around an hour’s walk from the gurukul, deep in the jungles to the south, in a well-hidden clearing. This was where the cousins met. In secret. Her brother had good reasons to remain invisible to the gurukul authorities.

  He was a Naga; a person born with deformities.

  He was dressed in a dark-brown dhoti with a white angvastram. Fair-skinned. Tall and hirsute. An outgrowth jutted out from his lower back, almost like a tail. It flapped with rhythmic precision, as though it had a mind of its own. His massive build and sturdy musculature gave him an awe-inspiring presence. Almost a godly aura. His flat nose was pressed against his face, which in turn was outlined with facial hair, encircling it with neat precision. Strangely though, the skin above and below his mouth was hairless, silken smooth and light pink in colour; it had a puffed appearance. His lips were a thin, barely noticeable line. Thick eyebrows drew a sharp, artistic curve above captivating eyes that radiated intelligence and a meditative calm. It almost seemed like the Almighty had taken the face of a monkey and placed it on a man’s head.

  He looked at Radhika with almost paternal affection. ‘How are you, my little sister?’

  Radhika stuck her lower lip out in mock anger. ‘How long has it been since I saw you last? Ever since father allowed that new gurukul to come up …’

  Radhika’s father was the chief of a village along the river Shon. He had recently given permission for a gurukul to be set up close to the village. Four young boys had been enrolled. There were no other students. Sita had wondered why Radhika was still in Rishi Shvetaketu’s gurukul, when another was now so clos
e to home. Maybe a small, four-student gurukul was not as good as their Guruji’s renowned school.

  ‘Sorry Radhika, I’ve been very busy,’ said the man. ‘I’ve been given a new assignment and …’

  ‘I don’t care about your new assignment!’

  Radhika’s brother quickly changed the topic. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?’

  Radhika stared at him for a few more seconds, then smiled in surrender and turned to her friend. ‘This is Sita, the princess of Mithila. And this is my elder brother, Hanu bhaiya.’

  He gave his new acquaintance a broad smile as he folded his hands into a Namaste. ‘Hanu bhaiya is what little Radhika calls me. My name is Hanuman.’

  Sita folded her hands too, and looked up at the kindly face. ‘I think I prefer Hanu bhaiya.’

  Hanuman laughed warmly. ‘Then Hanu bhaiya it is!’

  Sita had spent five years in the gurukul. She was thirteen years old now.

  The gurukul was built on the southern banks of the holy Ganga, a short distance downriver from Magadh, where the feisty Sarayu merged into the sedate Ganga. Its location was so convenient that many rishis and rishikas from various ashrams used to drop into this gurukul. They, usually, even taught for a few months as visiting teachers.

  Indeed, Maharishi Vishwamitra himself was on a visit to the gurukul right now. He and his followers entered the frugal ashram, home to almost twenty-five students.

  ‘Namaste, great Malayaputra,’ said Shvetaketu, folding his hands together and bowing to the legendary rishi, chief of the tribe left behind by the sixth Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram. The Malayaputras were tasked with two missions: to help the next Mahadev, Destroyer of Evil, if and when he or she arose. And, to give rise to the next Vishnu, Propagator of Good, when the time was right.

  The gurukul was electrified by the presence of the great Maharishi Vishwamitra; considered a Saptrishi Uttradhikari, successor to the legendary seven rishis. It was a singular honour, greater than receiving any of the men and women of knowledge who had visited before.