And as Sarama stared at Sita, she spied tears of rage through the flames, fire which refused to touch the sullied princess of Ayodhya, as though afraid. She, Sita, burnt harder than fire, swallowing fire itself, her rage burning through fire, scorching even Agni, who pleaded with Rama to accept his virtuous queen, whose purity, if questioned further, would burn every living thing into oblivion.
When Rama was appeased, and the test, the public trial, over, the fire extinguished, the young couple faced each other once more, as husband and wife, Crown Prince and Princess of Ayodhya. Sarama did not wait to see Rama walk towards his absolved wife.
Sarama, our ancestor, didn’t wait at all. She started to walk. Even as shouts of Long Live! burst across Lanka, as garlands rained down from the Gods.
She walked, disgusted, walking away from Lanka, refusing to stop. She could have used her powers to transport herself elsewhere. She could still fly. But she decided against it. She wanted to walk, inhaling the mayhem, recalling the egos that helped mutilate two women and burn Lanka.
She stopped only when she started approaching the bridge the creature who raped her helped build, The Male, our ancestor, the father of the child she would conceive. She stared long and hard at the beach.
The water was calm but red, the shore quiet, yet stinking of decomposing flesh. Seagulls circled the shoreline, rats started to surface. Sarama stepped forward, didn’t look back. Not even once. The war was over but she believed little that was worthwhile had been salvaged. She began to walk across the bridge. The salty wind would ravage her face but she didn’t care. The sound of the sea kept her company until she reached the end.
“And when she reached the other side,” Muthassi ended, “Sarama, our ancestor, her belly was swollen.”
Regressions
Swapna Kishore
When we are in a village, time flies by as I help the women in their chores-drawing water, milking the cows, stoking cow-dung fires and stir ring the simmering pots of the payasam pudding, or even braiding jas mines in the hair of the young girls. By night, I am tired and fall asleep almost immediately. But when we are traveling, I lie awake below the open, unpolluted skies staring at the full moon and I often think of my Ambapur, oh, so far away, a blur across time and space.
My last evening with Mother is the most vivid of my childhood memories. I was five years old, and supposed to join the Facility the next morning, and Mother and I stood in our dome’s viewing tower, looking at the moon, my small hand in hers.
“You will never be alone,” she told me, “because when we both look at the moon at night, we can imagine we are standing together.”
I wasn’t consoled. “Why can’t I come home for holidays?” I cried plaintively. “What exactly is a futurist?”
Mother’s face seemed all shadows and sharp angles, and her hand stiffened around mine, hurtful. I realized with a shock that she didn’t know the answer.
“Futurists improve the fate of women everywhere, not just women in Ambapur,” she said finally. “Kalpana, learn whatever they teach you, and don’t be impatient.”
I am not impatient now, Mother.
Sometimes I pace, the wet grass ticklish to my bare feet, and absorb the sweet fragrance of parijata flowers. And I wonder-is my past true, if the future will not hold it?
Futurists, I learned at the age of seven, operated in two streams, the researchers and the agents. Researchers provided data while agents changed the future. The glory lay with the agents, though we trainees weren’t told what they did. I couldn’t qualify as an agent; I failed the profile tests thrice despite my through-the-roof IQ and my ‘A’s in every subject. I’d have fudged my personality profile, but I spotted no pattern distinguishing the accepted girls from those rejected-no discriminating levels of IQ, extroversion, assertiveness, nothing.
The shame of my failure struck me fully the day I was moved to the research wing and knew I would never see the agent wing or interact with an agent. I buried myself in work, barely smiling at fellow researchers at meal times, avoiding evening gossip sessions in the common room. If I was doomed to be a researcher, I’d be the best.
Over time, my work began fascinating me. My assignments involved analysis of the complicated social causes and scientific breakthroughs that preceded the initiation of the Ambapur experiment. How did mythology, history, and culture influence the emergence of Swami Sar-vadharmananda? What made his rants against Ambapur so popular? Would the Hindu Religious Resurgence have grown without Nava Manusm-riti? What triggered India’s splintering into multiple countries with the largest, most prosperous states forming Swamiji’s dream Navabharata? To me, that century-old partition of India was particularly interest ing because it transformed Ambapur from an experimental district to a country, howsoever small.
On some days, though, as I unraveled and scrutinized critical forks in history, I wondered at the futility of such intense study, because the applicability of lessons from ancient history was limited, wasn’t it? Then I’d tell myself that my honed abilities would be used later for complex, contemporary scenarios.
My life changed the day Seniormost’s voice boomed from my contact port, taut, curt. “Kalpana, report to Room 455 immediately.”
“Pardon?” My stomach crunched. Why would the country’s most powerful woman, summon me?
“Hurry, Kalpana,” urged Seniormost. “This is an emergency.”
I raced down the corridors. Momentum and panic carried me through an open door, but I skidded to a halt before grimfaced senior women ringing a screen showing an abstract low-res animation-red, yellow, brown splotches, moved in weird patterns. Grainy and coarse and scary, though I could not understand why I felt so queasy.
“Kalpana?” Seniormost frowned at me. “We want you to replace an agent.”
“I’m not qualified,” I stuttered.
“You are the only Series K clone available right now. We need someone similar enough to Kavita to replace her at a critical gender fork.”
“Gender fork? But those happened in the past.” They were events that determined major trends in gender equations.
“Futurist agents,” she cut in, “change the past so that the future changes.”
Change the past? I stared at her, trying to comprehend her words. I’d always thought agents changed the future. “But…”
“Pay attention, we have only fifteen minutes,” Seniormost said. “You know how important Sita was in shaping gender roles, right?”
“Of course.” Sita was projected as the ideal woman in Swami Sarvad-harmananda’s Nava Manusmriti, which ended up as the final reference on Hinduism for Navabharata; Swamiji used Sita to justify the strait-jacket gender laws binding millions of Navabharata women. I had often done what-if analyses of related mythology.
“Because the Ramayana of Nava Manusmriti is not based on a sin gle story but is a melding of several candidate stories,” and Seniormost paused for a beat, “we have several potential intervention points. For our correcting nudges, we have selected ten most significant scenarios. In this particular one, the Sita equivalent assists her husband in his trade, cures her grievously ill brother-in-law, and manages the house and finances during an extended business trip which will later be called an exile.”
“Sounds an improvement on the stereotypical Sita,” I said.
Seniormost waved me to silence. “They returned home and rumors started, as in all Ramayanas. The husband did not ignore them.” A muscle on her face twitched as her gaze snapped to the screen.
I swiveled to see the display, my uneasiness growing as I tried to understand what those strange red and orange splotches meant. “What is happening there?”
“Kavita’s fire-proofing failed.” Seniormost’s tone was heavy.
The import of her words sank slowly into my mind. That scarlet dance was an inferno, licks of flame, and sparks and embers-fire seen by someone burning inside it. A chill crawled up my spine.
“That’s Kavita?” I whispered hoarsely.
“They call her Vaidehi.”
Vaidehi, one of Sita’s names. This is what the fire had made me suspect. What I was seeing on the display was the agni pareeksha, the shameful episode present in each of the over eight-hundred versions of Ramayana. An Ambapur agent was being burned alive, and I was supposed to replace her.
“But Seniormost,” I whispered. “I am not trained. I am clueless… please, I am not sure…”
“I’ve seen your records, Kalpana. You are brilliant and capable of extraordinary mental focus. All the assignment needs is focus. Let them dress you and I’ll explain the rest.”
I barely noticed the women who surrounded me and the hands flurry ing around me; I was numb as if I’d been plunged into ice water. I was supposed to become Sita. Well, a Sita, if not the Sita. My legs wobbled. I think I swayed.
I tried to sort my thoughts as women peeled off my bodysuit and wrapped silk around my waist and chest. Capsules were snapped into my brain implant. A woman tried injecting something into my leg; I kicked reflexively, so someone held my arm rigid and plunged in the needle. A small wart appeared on my skin. “We don’t have time for a binding operation,” someone said. “Left to nature, it takes a week for the button to integrate properly, but it’ll be stable enough unless there is extreme trauma.” Jewelry clasps clicked, someone explained the hidden tools. A spray coated me with a golden haze.
“Thank you,” said Seniormost, and the women withdrew.
Before I could pour out my questions, Seniormost started speaking, so I focused on her words.
“Kavita was trained in essentials and sent out when she was seven years old,” she said. “We had coded the relevant cultural information in her brain implant, and we briefed her frequently using her sync but ton. We got periodic updates on her activity from the button; we have uploaded all information into your implant. Access is by using normal thought control techniques.”
She had not talked of Kavita’s death. I shuddered. “Kavita died in spite of her training. How will I survive?”
“That was an accident.”
“And what am I supposed to do there? How will I know how to behave, what to say, how to recognize people?”
“The implant has all the data and guidance algorithms to help you conform and stay unnoticed.” She smiled reassuringly. “Just stay low profile for a day or two till we study the situation and brief you.”
It sounded tough, but manageable. I took a centering breath. “When will you replace me with a proper agent?”
Seniormost’s face softened. She patted my shoulder and strapped me in a chair. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I know you can do it.” She flung a lever.
The conflagration hemmed me in, intimidating in spite of my fire-proofing. Bile soured my throat as I tried to push away the horror of the situation. My implant flashed an instruction; I obediently directed a miniscule atomizer on the charred remains of my predecessor near my feet. No burnt human bones must be found in the ashes.
Again, impelled by the implant, I ran to the edge of the pyre where the onlookers were grey smudges beyond an orange shimmer. I stepped out of the fire. I must have looked impressive with my skin burnished gold from the afterglow of the dissipating fire-proofing shell, resplendent in silk garments, dazzling with jewelry. A woman certified pure by Agni Devata, the God of Fire.
“Jai Ho!” A few scattered cries from the crowd.
I walked slowly, painfully, on the rough ground, trying to look calm and dignified. A pall of silence smothered the crowds. Some women, several men. I had studied about men, about their salty smells, their thick, coarse voices, their hairy bodies, but even so, seeing them made me shudder. Petals were showered at me-jasmines, roses, marigolds-soft touches against bare skin, a creepy feeling. A crone grasped my hands into her gnarled ones, and led me to a short, skinny man with male-pattern baldness and a bewildered expression. Sweat on his brows. And fear, sour, nauseous fear-I could smell it.
Curiosity overrode my fear. This must be the husband, the wimp who burned his wife to stop baseless gossip about her chastity. How unimpressive he looked! Most mythological interpretations described him, or the collective of men like him, as tall, broad-shouldered, muscular of body and yet sensitive of face, hair a silky curtain.
“My chaste wife,” he muttered, averting his gaze.
Touch his feet, prompted my implant. Seek his blessing for a longer life.
But I couldn’t force myself to act docile to someone who had just killed his wife.
The man raised his hand as if blessing me. I walked past him; he scurried after me, annoyance flitting on his face.
A rickety chariot, lumpy seats covered by a thread-bare spread. I settled down. The man sat opposite me, torso angled away, body rigid, too scared to bother me for a while.
Good. I had time, finally, to orient myself to the situation. A couple of centering breaths helped me focus. Then with my eyes half-closed, I began viewing Vaidehi’s downloads, filter set for salient personal facts. The husband was a local chieftain’s son. After his father called him good-for-nothing, he left his village in a huff , keen to prove his trading acumen. He dragged along his brother and Vaidehi for the business trip. They roamed from village to village, traded, earned gold and jewels. When they returned home, a washerman challenged Vaidehi’s chastity. Rumors, insinuations, and the demands of a fire test followed. Vaidehi expected the husband to ignore them. She knew him to be demanding and easy to anger, but assumed he valued her because of her hard work and loyalty during those years of travel. That was the status last evening, as per the most recent transmission.
I was soaking the information when the chariot jerked to a halt.
No marble palace, no lush bowers, no gold fountains-only a simple stone building. Rice and lentil baras were drying on cloth spread out in the courtyard. Cowpats had been slapped on the walls. A naked boy wheeled a painted wooden cart. Women with their heads covered, some embroidering, others slicing yam. Men sprawled on rope cots and smoked something noxious.
The husband led me to a whitewashed room and closed the door behind us. He whipped out a dagger from his waistband. “How did you survive that fire? Witchcraft?”
My implant suggested I fall at his feet and plead forgiveness. Forgiveness for what, surviving? I had not integrated sufficiently with the Vaidehi persona to manage such acting; such false humility was some thing I could not manage. I ignored the advice and readied myself for his attack.
He lunged at me. I twisted aside and hit his wrist sharply, making him drop the dagger. I kicked it across the room. Mouth agape, eyes round with shock, he stared at his empty hand.
I was utterly disgusted. “If you thought I wouldn’t survive, why did you agree to the fire test?”
His eyes darted from my face to the fallen dagger, and the wariness in his eyes transformed into cunning. He straightened up.
“They would have pushed you into the fire anyway,” he said. “By doing so myself, I retained my position as the chieftain’s son. I don’t know what witchcraft you did, but your emerging from the pyre has strengthened my place.”
Of such pettiness do orators make mighty legends. “They will weave from such incidents a story of Lord Rama, Maryada Purushottam, the exemplar of social propriety,” I said: “Temples will be constructed, festivals celebrated. The fire test will be touted as a righteous act of a king who valued even a washerman’s doubt.”
“King?” He frowned at me. “Who is ‘they’?”
What had I done! Why had I spoken my thoughts aloud? I was supposed to keep quiet and let the implant guide me. I sat down on the bed. “I must think.”
“A woman who thinks?” He snorted. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
This man had seen me emerge unharmed from fire. He lost his dagger to me. Yet he mocked me. Had his fear and awe vanished because he sensed I would not
attack him?
He came closer. “Since you have been proven pure,” he said, “I can taste you again.”
Revulsion swamped me. The thought of a male pressing on me, skin sweating over skin, reminded me too much of the modified Kamasutra that formed an essential part of female education in Navabharata, so that no man was “deprived.” We didn’t have any such training in Am-bapur, of course, where we didn’t have men. Didn’t need them. Hadn’t needed them ever since several top women scientists and industrialists, sick of gender suppression and thrilled that science could render men redundant, bought land and funded enough politicians to kick-start the Ambapur experiment.
Yet now I was forced to interact with a man.
His hand grazed my breasts. I couldn’t hit him; that would contradict my supposed role. But every instinct in me shouted a protest. I had to think fast. I checked mental menus and located the required visualization trigger. The hormone release brought the relief of a cold shower. He jerked back, shock in his eyes.
Thank Goddess for anti-pheromones, I thought, as he rushed from the room.
After a few breaths to reorient, I pondered about my position. I knew I should collapse the boundaries between the downloaded memories and my own, so that my responses matched what Vaidehi’s had been. But I wasn’t ready to surrender myself yet. This transition had been abrupt enough; I couldn’t handle more jolts. I tuned the implant for better response time and quick face recognition, but stopped short of merging with it.
The door opened. The husband’s brother strode in, dragging, horrors, his wife, Madhulika. She was heavy with child.
Breaking the Bow: Speculative Fiction Inspired by the Ramayana Page 23