by Amish
‘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 gently placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder.
Radhika took a deep breath and shook her head. Snapping out of her blues. She had been sent to Mithila with a purpose. ‘By the way, Guru Vashishtha has made his decision. So have the Vayuputras.’
‘And?’
‘It’s Ram.’
Sita took a long, satisfied breath. Then, she smiled.
Another year passed by. Sita was twenty-four years old now. She had visited the entire length of the western coast of India, the previous year. From the beaches of Balochistan all the way down to Kerala, which cradled Agastyakootam. She was finally back in Mithila, engaged in mounds of pending royal duties. Whatever little time she could spare, she spent with her younger sister, Urmila, and her father, Janak.
Kushadhwaj had not visited Mithila for a while. He wasn’t in Sankashya either. Which was strange. Sita had tried to make inquiries about his whereabouts, but had not been successful so far. What she did know was that the Sankashya administration had lost much of its efficiency after Sulochan’s death, universally believed to be the result of an unfortunate heart attack.
Sita was used to Radhika’s unexpected visits, by now. Hence, she was delighted to receive her friend, whom she was meeting after a few months.
‘How are things in your village, now that the excitement of hosting the princes of Ayodhya is gone?’
Radhika laughed. ‘It’s all right …’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m getting there …’
‘And how is Ram doing in Ayodhya?’
‘He has been made the chief of police. And Bharat the chief of diplomatic relations.’
‘Hmm … So Queen Kaikeyi still has her grip on Ayodhya. Bharat is better placed to catapult into the role of Crown Prince. The chief of police is a tough and thankless job.’
‘So it would seem. But Ram is doing exceedingly well. He has managed to bring crime under visible control. This has made him popular among the people.’
‘How did he manage that miracle?’
‘He just followed the laws. Ha!’
Sita laughed, befuddled. ‘How does Ram abiding by the law make any difference? The people also have to follow it. And, Indians will never do that. In fact, I think we enjoy breaking rules. Pointlessly. For the heck of it. One must be pragmatic when dealing with Indians. Laws must be enforced, yes. But this cannot be an end in itself. You may sometimes need to even misuse the law to achieve what you want.’
‘I disagree. Ram has shown a new way. By simply ensuring that he, too, is accountable and subject to the law. No shortcuts are available to the Ayodhyan nobility anymore. This has electrified the common folk. If the law is above even a prince, then why not them?’
Sita leaned into her chair. ‘Interesting …’
‘By the way,’ asked Radhika, ‘where is Guru Vishwamitra?’
Sita hesitated.
‘I am only checking because we believe Guru Vashishtha has gone to Pariha to propose Ram’s candidature as the Vishnu.’
Sita was shocked. ‘Guru Vishwamitra is in Pariha as well.’
Radhika sighed. ‘Things will soon come to a head. You better have a plan in mind to convince Guru Vishwamitra about Ram and you partnering as the Vishnus.’
Sita took a deep breath. ‘Any idea what the Vayuputras will do?’
‘I have told you already. They lean towards Guru Vashishtha. The only question is whether they will give in to Guru Vishwamitra. After all, he is the chief of the Malayaputras and the representative of the previous Vishnu.’
‘I will speak with Hanu bhaiya.’
Chapter 17
‘But, Didi,’ pouted Urmila, keeping her voice low as she spoke to her elder sister, Sita, ‘why have you agreed to a swayamvar? I don’t want you to leave. What will I do without you?’
Urmila and Sita sat on a large, well-camouflaged wooden machan in a tree. Their feet dangled by the side. Sita’s bow lay within hand’s reach, next to a quiver full of arrows. The jungle was quiet and somnolent this hot afternoon. Most of the animals, it seemed, were taking a nap.
Sita smiled and pulled Urmila close. ‘I have to get married sometime, Urmila. If this is what baba wants, then I have no choice but to honour it.’
Urmila did not know that it was Sita who had convinced her father to arrange the swayamvar. The swayamvar was an ancient tradition where the father of the bride organised a gathering of prospective bridegrooms; and the daughter selected her husband from among the gathered men. Or mandated a competition. Sita was actively managing the arrangements. She had convinced Vishwamitra to somehow get Ram to Mithila for the swayamvar. An official invitation from Mithila to Ayodhya would not have gotten a response. After all, why would Ayodhya ally with a small and relatively inconsequential kingdom like Mithila? But there was no way that Ayodhya would say no to the powerful Malayaputra chief’s request just to attend the swayamvar. And, at the swayamvar itself, managed by her Guru, the great Malayaputra Vishwamitra, she could arrange to have Ram as her husband. Vishwamitra had also liked the idea. This way, he would displace Vashishtha and gain direct influence over Ram. Of course, he was unaware that Sita had other plans. Plans to work with Ram in partnership as the Vishnu.
God bless Hanu bhaiya! What a fantastic idea.
Urmila rested her head on Sita’s shoulder. Although a young woman now, her sheltered upbringing had kept her dependent on her elder sister. She could not imagine life without her nurturer and protector. ‘But …’
Sita held Urmila tight. ‘You too will be married. Soon.’
Urmila blushed and turned away.
Sita heard a faint sound. She looked deep into the forest.
Sita, Samichi, and a troop of twenty policemen had come to this jungle, a day’s ride from Mithila, to kill a man-eating tiger that was tormenting villagers in the area. Urmila had insisted on accompanying Sita. Five machans had been built in a forest clearing. Each machan was manned by Mithila policemen. The bait, a goat, had been tied in the open. Keeping the weather in mind, a small waterhole had also been dug, lined with waterproofing bitumen. If not the meat, perhaps the water would entice the tiger.
‘Listen, Didi,’ whispered Urmila, ‘I was thinking …’
Urmila fell silent as Sita raised a finger to her lips. Then, Sita turned around. Two policemen sat at the other end of the machan. Using hand signals, she gave quick orders. Silently, they crawled up to her side. Urmila moved to the back.
Sita picked up her bow and noiselessly drew an arrow from the quiver.
‘Did you see something, My Lady?’ whispered a policeman.
Sita shook her head to signal no. And then, cupped her ear with her left hand.
The policemen strained their ears but could not hear anything. One of them spoke in a faint voice, ‘I don’t hear any sound.’
Sita nocked the arrow on the bowstring and whispered, ‘It’s the absence of sound. The goat has stopped bleating. It is scared stiff. I bet it’s not an ordinary predator that the goat has sniffed.’
The policemen drew their bows forward and nocked arrows. Quickly and quietly.
Sita thought she caught a fleeting glimpse of stripes from behind the foliage. She took a long, hard look. Slowly, she began to discern alternating brownish-orange and black stripes in the dark, shaded area behind the tree line. She focused her eyes. The stripes moved.
Sita pointed towards the movement.
The policeman noticed it as
well. ‘It’s well-camouflaged …’
Sita raised her hands, signalling for quiet. She held the bowstring and pulled faintly, ready to shoot at the first opportunity.
After a few excruciatingly long moments, the tiger stepped into view, inching slowly towards the waterhole. It saw the goat, growled softly and turned its attention back to the water. The goat collapsed on the ground in absolute terror, urine escaping its bladder in a rush. It closed its eyes and surrendered itself to fate. The tiger, though, did not seem interested in the petrified bait. It kept lapping up the water.
Sita pulled the bowstring back, completely.
Suddenly, there was a very soft sound from one of the machans to the right.
The tiger looked up, instantly alert.
Sita cursed under her breath. The angle wasn’t right. But she knew the tiger would turn and flee in moments. She released the arrow.
It whizzed through the clearing and slammed into the beast’s shoulder. Enough to enrage, but not disable.
The tiger roared in fury. But its roar was cut short just as suddenly. An arrow shot into its mouth, lodging deep in the animal’s throat. Within split seconds, eighteen arrows slammed into the big cat. Some hit an eye, others the abdomen. Three missiles thumped into its rear bicep femoris muscles, severing them. Its rear legs debilitated, the tiger collapsed to the ground. The Mithilans quickly reloaded their bows and shot again. Twenty more arrows pierced the severely injured beast. The tiger raised its head one last time. Sita felt the animal was staring directly at her with one uninjured eye.
My apologies, noble beast. But it was either you or the villagers under my protection.
The tiger’s head dropped. Never to rise again.
May your soul find purpose, once again.
Sita, Urmila, and Samichi rode at the head of the group. The policemen rode a short distance behind. The party was headed back to the capital city.
The tiger had been cremated with due respect. Sita had made it clear to all that she did not intend to keep the skin of the animal. She was aware that the opportunity to acquire the tiger skin, a mark of a brave hunter, would have made her policemen careful with their arrows. They would not have liked the pelt damaged. That may have led to the tiger merely being injured rather than killed.
Sita’s objective was clear. She wanted to save the villagers from the tiger attacks. An injured animal would have only become more dangerous for humans. Sita had to ensure that all her policemen shot to kill. So, she had made it clear to all that the tiger would be cremated.
‘I understand why you gave that order, Prime Minister,’ said Samichi, ‘but it’s sad that we cannot take the tiger skin home. It would have been a great trophy, displaying your skill and bravery.’
Sita looked at Samichi, then turned to her sister. ‘Urmila, fall back please.’
Urmila immediately pulled the reins of her horse and fell behind the other two, out of earshot.
Samichi pulled her horse close to Sita’s. ‘I had to say that, Sita. It will encourage Urmila to brag about your bravery and …’
Sita shook her head and interrupted Samichi. ‘Propaganda and myth-making are part and parcel of ruling. I understand that. But do not spread stories that will get debunked easily. I did not exhibit any skill or bravery in that hunt.’
‘But …’
‘My shot was not good. Everyone present knows that.’
‘But, Sita …’
‘Every single one knows that,’ repeated Sita. ‘Earlier too, you gave me all the credit for the hunt. Near the policemen.’
‘But you deserved the …’
‘No, I did not.’
‘But …’
‘You believe you did me a service. No, Samichi, you did not. I lost respect among those men by receiving an undeserved compliment.’
‘But …’
‘Don’t let your loyalty to me blind you. That is the worst thing you can do to me.’
Samichi stopped arguing. ‘I’m sorry.’
Sita smiled. ‘It’s all right.’ Then she turned to her younger sister and beckoned her. The three of them rode on, in silence.
Sita had returned from the hunt just a few days earlier. Preparations for her swayamvar had begun in full swing. She personally supervised most of the work, ably assisted by Samichi and her younger sister, Urmila.
Sita sat in her chamber perusing some documents, when a messenger was announced.
‘Bring him in.’
Two guards marched in with the messenger in tow. She recognised the man. He was from Radhika’s tribe.
Saluting smartly, the messenger handed her a rolled parchment. Sita examined the seal. It was unbroken.
She dismissed the messenger, broke the seal and read Radhika’s message.
Her anger rose even before she reached the last word. But even in her rage, she did not forget what she must do. She held the parchment to a flame till every inch of it was reduced to ashes.
Task done, she walked up to the balcony to cool her mind.
Ram … Don’t fall into Guruji’s trap.
Mithila was a few weeks away from Sita’s swayamvar.
Sita’s spirits had been uplifted by the news that Vishwamitra was on his way to Mithila. Along with the Malayaputras and the princes of Ayodhya. Her mind had been feverishly contemplating plausible excuses to cancel the swayamvar. In the absence of Ram, it would have been a pointless exercise.
‘Sita,’ said Samichi, saluting as she entered the princess’ chamber.
Sita turned. ‘Yes, Samichi?’
‘I have some troubling news.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I have heard that your uncle Kushadhwaj has been invited to the swayamvar. In fact, he is inviting some of his friends as well. He’s behaving like a joint host.’
Sita sighed. She should have guessed that her father would invite Kushadhwaj.
Such misplaced generosity.
On the other hand, Kushadhwaj had not visited Mithila in years. Perhaps, he had made his peace with his reduced circumstances.
‘I am his niece, after all,’ said Sita, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Chacha may want to demonstrate to the Sapt Sindhu royalty that he retains some influence in his elder brother’s household and kingdom. Let him come.’
Samichi smiled. ‘As long as the one you want also comes, right?’
‘Ram is coming … He is coming …’
Samichi broke into a rare smile. Though she did not understand why Sita had suddenly developed an interest in Ram, and in allying with Ayodhya, she supported her princess wholeheartedly. Allying with Ayodhya, even in its weakened state, would only benefit Mithila in the long run. And, once Sita left for Ayodhya, Samichi expected to become even more powerful. Perhaps, even rule Mithila for all practical purposes.
After all, who else was there?
Chapter 18
A nervous Samichi stood in the small clearing. The ominous sounds of the jungle added to the dread of a dark, moonless night.
Memories from the past crashed into the present. It had been so long. So many years. She had thought that she had been forgotten. Left to her own devices. After all, Mithila was a minor, insignificant kingdom in the Sapt Sindhu. She hadn’t expected this. A sense of gratification meshed with the unease of the moment to altogether overwhelm her mind.
Her left hand rested on the hilt of her sheathed sword.
‘Samichi, did you understand what I said?’ asked the man. His gravelly voice was distinctive. The result of years of tobacco and alcohol abuse. Accompanied by uncontrolled shouting.
The man was clearly a noble. Expensive clothes. All neatly pressed. Soft, well-coiffed and completely grey hair. An array of rings on all his fingers. Jewelled pommels decorated his knife and sword. Even his scabbard was gold-plated. A thick black line, a tilak, plastered the middle of his wrinkled forehead.
A platoon of twenty soldiers in black uniforms stood quietly in the shadows. Out of earshot. Their swords were securely sheathed. They k
new they had nothing to fear from Samichi.
She was to receive Guru Vishwamitra at Sankashya the following day. She really couldn’t afford this unexpected rendezvous. Not now. She mentioned the True Lord, hoping it would push Akampana back.
‘But, Lord Akampana …’ said Samichi uneasily, ‘… Iraiva’s message …’
‘Forget everything you were told earlier,’ said Akampana. ‘Remember your oath.’
Samichi stiffened. ‘I will never forget my oath, Lord Akampana.’
‘See that you don’t.’ Akampana raised his hand and nonchalantly looked at his manicured nails. Perfectly cut, filed and polished. A light cream dye had been carefully painted on them. The nail on the slim pinkie finger though, had been painted black. ‘So, Princess Sita’s swayamvar will be …’
‘You don’t have to repeat yourself,’ interrupted Samichi. ‘It will be done. It is in Princess Sita’s interest as well.’
Akampana smiled. Perhaps something had gotten through Samichi’s thick head after all. ‘Yes, it is.’
Sita sighed and lightly tapped her head. ‘Silly me.’
She walked into her private puja room and picked up the knife. It was the day of the astra puja, an ancient ritual worship of weapons. And she had forgotten the knife in the garbha griha, at the feet of the deities, after the puja.
Fortunately, she had managed without the weapon today. She had always suspected that the wealthy merchant, Vijay, was more loyal to Sankashya than Mithila. Earlier that day, in the market place, he had tried to incite the crowd to attack her, when she had intervened to save a boy-thief from mob justice.
Fortunately, it had all ended well. No one had been injured. Except that stupid Vijay who would be nursing a broken rib for many weeks. She would visit the Ayuralay and check on him, probably in the evening or the next day. She didn’t really care what happened to Vijay. But it was important to demonstrate that she cared equally for the well-being of the rich as well, and not just the poor. Even the irredeemably stupid ones among the rich.