Sita: Warrior of Mithila

  Urmila waited for Kaushalya to finish the aarti ceremony, then bent down to touch her feet. Kaushalya blessed the younger princess of Mithila. As Urmila rose, she impulsively stepped forward and embraced Kaushalya. The Queen of Ayodhya was surprised at this unorthodox behaviour and failed to react.

  Urmila pulled back, her eyes moist with emotion. She faintly voiced a word she had been unable to utter without crying, since Sunaina had died. ‘Maa.’

  Kaushalya was moved by the innocence of sweet Urmila. Perhaps for the first time, the queen faced a woman shorter than herself. She looked at the round baby face, dominated by large child-like eyes. An image rose in her mind of a tiny sparrow that needed protection from the big, threatening birds around it. She smiled fondly, and pulled Urmila back into her arms. ‘My child … Welcome home.’

  A palace maid in the service of Queen Kaushalya stood, head bowed. Waiting for her instructions.

  She was in the residential office of Manthara, the richest businesswoman in Ayodhya; arguably, the richest in the Sapt Sindhu. Rumours suggested that Manthara was even richer than Emperor Dashrath. Druhyu, her closest aide, could swear that there was substance to these rumours. Indeed. Very substantial substance.

  ‘My Lady,’ whispered the maid, ‘what are my instructions?’

  The maid fell silent, as Druhyu signalled her discreetly. She waited.

  Druhyu stood submissively next to Manthara. Silent.

  The disfigured Manthara sat on a specially designed chair that offered a measure of comfort to her hunched back. The scars on her face, remnants of a childhood affliction of small pox, gave her a forbidding appearance. At the age of eleven she had fallen ill with polio, leaving her right foot partially paralysed. Born to poverty, her physical disfiguration had added prejudice, not sympathy, to her formative years. She had, in fact, been teased mercilessly. Now that she was rich and powerful, no one dared say anything to her face. But she knew exactly what was said about her behind her back. For now, she was not only reviled for her deformed body, but also hated fiercely for being a Vaishya; for being a very rich businessperson.

  Manthara looked out of the window to the large garden of her palatial estate.

  The maid fidgeted impatiently on her feet. Her absence would be noticed in the palace before long. She had to return quickly. She cast a pleading look at Druhyu. He glared back.

  Druhyu had begun to doubt the usefulness of remaining loyal to Manthara. The woman had lost her beloved daughter, Roshni, to a horrific gangrape and murder. The gang had been tried by the courts and executed. However, Dhenuka, the most vicious of them all, and the leader of the gang, had been let off on a legal technicality. He was a juvenile; and, according to Ayodhyan law, juveniles could not be awarded the death penalty. Ram, the prince of Ayodhya and chief of police, had insisted that the law be followed. No matter what. Manthara had sworn vengeance. Spending huge amounts of money, she had ferreted Dhenuka from jail and had had him killed in a slow, brutal manner. But her thirst for vengeance had not been quenched. Her target now was Ram. She had been patiently waiting for an opportunity. And one had just presented itself.

  Druhyu stared at his mistress, his face devoid of expression. The old bat has been wasting too much money on her revenge mission. It is affecting business. She has lost it completely. But what can I do? Nobody knows the condition of the True Lord. I am stuck with her for now …

  Manthara made up her mind. She looked at Druhyu and nodded.

  Druhyu rocked back with shock, but controlled himself.

  One thousand gold coins! That’s more than this miserable palace maid will earn in ten years!

  But he knew there was no point arguing. He quickly made a hundi in lieu of cash. The maid could encash it anywhere. After all, who would refuse a credit document with Manthara’s seal?

  ‘My Lady …’ whispered Druhyu.

  Manthara leaned forward, pulled out her seal from the pouch tied to her dhoti, and pressed its impression on the document.

  Druhyu handed the hundi to the maid, whose face could barely contain her ecstasy.

  Druhyu quickly brought her down to earth. His cold eyes pinned on her, he whispered, ‘Remember, if the information does not come on time or isn’t true, we know where you live …’

  ‘I will not fail, sir,’ said the maid.

  As the maid turned to leave, Manthara said, ‘I’ve been told that Prince Ram will soon be visiting Queen Kaushalya’s wing of the palace to speak with Emperor Dashrath.’

  ‘I will inform you about everything that is discussed, My Lady,’ said the maid, bowing low.

  Druhyu looked at Manthara and then the palace maid. He sighed inwardly. He knew that more money would be paid out soon.

  ‘Didi, just my section of the palace here is bigger than the entire Mithila palace,’ said Urmila excitedly.

  Urmila had carefully guided her maids in settling her belongings in her husband’s chambers. Having put them to work, she had quickly rushed to meet Sita. Lakshman had been tempted to ask his wife to stay, but gave in to her desire to seek comfort in her sister’s company. Her life had changed dramatically in a short span of time.

  Sita smiled, as she patted her sister’s hand. She still hadn’t told Urmila that Ram and she would be leaving the palace shortly, to return only after fourteen years. Urmila would be left behind, without her beloved sister, here in this magnificent palace.

  Why trouble her right now? Let her settle in first.

  ‘How are things with Lakshman?’ asked Sita.

  Urmila smiled dreamily. ‘He is such a gentleman. He does not say no to anything that I ask for!’

  Sita laughed, teasing her sister gently. ‘That’s exactly what you need. An indulgent husband, who treats you like a little princess!’

  Urmila indicated her diminutive structure, straightened her back and retorted with mock seriousness, ‘But I am a little princess!’

  The sisters burst into peals of laughter. Sita embraced Urmila. ‘I love you, my little princess.’

  ‘I love you too, Didi,’ said Urmila.

  Just then, the doorman knocked and announced loudly, ‘The Queen of Sapt Sindhu and Ayodhya, the Mother of the Crown Prince, Her Majesty Kaushalya. All rise in respect and love.’

  Sita looked at Urmila, surprised. The sisters immediately came to their feet.

  Kaushalya walked in briskly, followed by two maids bearing large golden bowls, the contents of which were covered with silk cloths.

  Kaushalya looked at Sita and smiled politely, ‘How are you, my child?’

  ‘I am well, Badi Maa,’ said Sita.

  The sisters bent to touch Kaushalya’s feet in respect. The Queen of Ayodhya blessed them both with a long life.

  Kaushalya turned to Urmila with a warm smile. Sita noticed that it was warmer than the one she had received. This was a smile suffused with maternal love.

  Sita smiled. Happy. My little sister is safe here.

  ‘Urmila, my child,’ said Kaushalya, ‘I had gone to your chambers. I was told I would find you here.’

  ‘Yes, Maa.’

  ‘I believe you like black grapes.’

  Urmila blinked in surprise. ‘How did you know, Maa?’

  Kaushalya laughed, with a conspiratorial look. ‘I know everything!’

  As Urmila laughed delicately, the queen pulled away the silk cloths with a flourish, to reveal two golden bowls filled to the brim with black grapes.

  Urmila squealed in delight and clapped her hands. She opened her mouth. Sita was surprised. Urmila had always asked to be fed by their mother, Sunaina; but not once had she asked her sister.

  Sita’s eyes moistened in happiness. Her sister had found a mother once again.

  Kaushalya picked a grape and dropped it into Urmila’s open mouth.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Urmila, ‘It is awesome, Maa!’

  ‘And, grapes are good for your health too!’ said Kaushalya. She looked at her elder daughter-in-law. ‘Why don’t you have some, Sita?’

  ?
??Of course, Badi Maa,’ said Sita. ‘Thank you.’

  Chapter 26

  A few days later, Sita sat in solitude in the royal garden.

  It lay adjunct to the palace, within the compound walls. Laid out in the style of a botanical reserve, it was filled with flowering trees from not only the Sapt Sindhu but other great empires of the world. Its splendid diversity was also the source of its beauty, reflecting the composite character of the people of the Sapt Sindhu. Winding paths bordered what had once been a carefully laid out lush carpet of dense grass in geometric symmetry. Alas, like the main palace and the courts, the royal garden also had the appearance of diminishing grandeur and patchy upkeep. It was, literally, going to seed; a sorry reminder of Ayodhya’s depleting resources.

  But Sita was neither admiring the aching beauty nor mourning the slow deterioration that surrounded her.

  Ram had gone to speak with Dashrath and his mother. He would insist that he be punished for the crime of using the daivi astra in Mithila without Vayuputra authorisation.

  While that was Ram’s conversation to handle, Sita was busy making plans to ensure that their lives would not be endangered in the jungle. She had asked Jatayu to meet her outside the city. She would ask him to shadow them during the exile, along with his team. She had no idea how the Malayaputras would react to her request. She knew that they were upset with her for refusing to be recognised publicly as the Vishnu. But she also knew that Jatayu was loyal to her and would not refuse.

  ‘The revenue of a hundred villages for your thoughts, Bhabhi …’

  Sita turned to see Bharat standing behind her. She laughed. ‘The revenue of a hundred villages from your wealthy Kosala or my poor Mithila?’

  Bharat laughed and sat next to her.

  ‘So, have you managed to talk some sense into dada?’ asked Bharat. ‘To make him drop his insistence on being exiled?’

  ‘What makes you think that I don’t agree with him?’

  Bharat was surprised. ‘Well, I thought … Actually, I have done some background check on you, Bhabhi … I was told that you are very …’

  ‘Pragmatic?’ asked Sita, completing Bharat’s statement.

  He smiled. ‘Yes …’

  ‘And, what makes you think that your brother’s path is not pragmatic?’

  Bharat was at a loss for words.

  ‘I am not suggesting that your brother is being pragmatic consciously. Just that the path he has chosen — one of unbridled commitment to the law — may not appear pragmatic. But counter-intuitively, it may actually be the most pragmatic course for some sections of our society.’

  ‘Really?’ Bharat frowned. ‘How so?’

  ‘This is a time of vast change, Bharat. It can be exciting. Energising. But many are unsettled by change. The Sapt Sindhu society has foolishly decided to hate its Vaishyas. They see their businessmen as criminals and thieves. It is over-simplistic to assume that the only way a Vaishya makes money is through cheating and profiteering. It is also biased. Such radicalisation increases in times of change and uncertainty. The fact is that while a few businessmen may be crooks, most Vaishyas are hardworking, risk-taking, opportunity-seeking organisers. If they do not prosper, then society does not produce wealth. And if a society does not generate money, most people remain poor. Which leads to frustration and unrest.’

  ‘I agree with …’

  ‘I am not finished.’

  Bharat immediately folded his hands together into a Namaste. ‘Sorry, Bhabhi.’

  ‘People can adjust to poverty, if they have wisdom and knowledge. But even Brahmins command very little respect in India these days. They may not be resented like the Vaishyas, but it is true that the Brahmins, or even the path of knowledge, are not respected today. I know what people say about my knowledge-obsessed father, for instance.’

  ‘No, I don’t think …’

  ‘I’m still not finished,’ said Sita, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

  ‘Sorry!’ Bharat surrendered, as he covered his mouth with his hand.

  ‘As a result, people do not listen to the learned. They hate the Vaishyas and in the process, have ensured poverty for themselves. The people who are idealised the most today are the Kshatriyas, the warriors. “Battle-honour” is an end in itself! There’s hatred for money, disdain for wisdom and love of violence. What can you expect in this atmosphere?’

  Bharat remained silent.

  ‘You can speak now,’ said Sita.

  Bharat removed the hand that covered his mouth and said, ‘When you speak about the need to respect the Vaishya, Brahmin, or Kshatriya way of life, you obviously mean the characteristics and not the people born into that caste, right?’

  Sita wrinkled her nose. ‘Obviously. Do you really think I would support the evil birth-based caste system? Our present caste system must be destroyed …’

  ‘On that, I agree with you.’

  ‘So, coming back to my question. In an atmosphere of hatred for money-makers, disdain for wisdom-givers, and love only for war and warriors, what would you expect?’

  ‘Radicalisation. Especially among young men. Usually, they are the biggest fools.’

  Sita laughed. ‘They are not all foolish …’

  Bharat nodded. ‘You’re right, I suppose. I am a young man too!’

  ‘So, you have a situation where young men, and frankly some women too, are radicalised. There is intelligence, but little wisdom. There is poverty. There is love of violence. They don’t understand that the absence of balance in their society is at the root of their problems. They look for simplistic, quick solutions. And they hate anyone who doesn’t think like them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it any surprise then that crime is so high in the Sapt Sindhu? Is it any surprise that there is so much crime against women? Women can be talented and competitive in the fields of knowledge, trading and labour. But when it comes to violence, the almighty has not blessed them with a natural advantage.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘These radicalised, disempowered, violence-loving youth, looking for simplistic solutions, attack the weak. It makes them feel strong and powerful. They are especially vulnerable to the authoritarian message of the Masculine way of life, which can lead them astray. Thus, creating chaos in society.’

  ‘And, you don’t think dada’s ideas are rooted in the Masculine way? Don’t you think they’re a little too simplistic? And, too top-down? Shouldn’t the solution be the way of the Feminine? To allow freedom? To let people find balance on their own?’

  ‘But Bharat, many are wary of the uncertainties of the Feminine way. They prefer the simple predictability of the Masculine way. Of following a uniform code without too much thought. Even if that code is made by others. Yes, Ram’s obsession with the law is simplistic. Some may even call it authoritarian. But there is merit in it. He will give direction to those youth who need the certainties of the Masculine way of life. Radicalised young people can be misused by a demonic force in pursuit of endless violence and hatred. On the other hand, Ram’s teachings can guide such people to a life of order, justice, and fairness. He can harness them for a greater good. I am not suggesting that your elder brother’s path is for everyone. But he can provide leadership to those who seek order, certainty, compliance, and definite morals. To those who have a strong dislike of decadence and debauchery. He can save them from going down a path of hatred and violence and instead, build them into a force for the good of India.’

  Bharat remained silent.

  ‘Ram’s true message can provide an answer, a solution, to the radicalisation that plagues so many young people today.’

  Bharat leaned back. ‘Wow …’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I have argued with my brother all my life about his faith in the Masculine way. I always thought that the Masculine way will inevitably lead to fanaticism and violence. But you have opened my mind in just one conversation.’

  ‘Seriously, can you say that the Feminine way never
degenerates? The only difference, Bharat, is that it deteriorates differently. The Masculine way is ordered, efficient and fair at its best, but fanatical and violent at its worst. The Feminine way is creative, passionate and caring at its best, but decadent and chaotic at its worst. No one way of life is better or worse. They both have their strengths and weaknesses.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Freedom is good, but in moderation. Too much of it is a recipe for disaster. That’s why the path I prefer is that of Balance. Balance between the Masculine and the Feminine.’

  ‘I think differently.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I believe there is no such thing as too much freedom. For freedom has, within itself, the tools for self-correction.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. In the Feminine way, when things get too debauched and decadent, many who are disgusted by it, use the same freedom available to them, to revolt and speak out loud. When society is made aware, and more importantly, is in agreement, reforms will begin. No problem remains hidden in a Feminine society for too long. But Masculine societies can remain in denial for ages because they simply do not have the freedom to question and confront their issues. The Masculine way is based on compliance and submission to the code, the law. The questioning spirit is killed; and with that, the ability to identify and solve their problems before they lead to chaos. Have you ever wondered why the Mahadevs, who had come to solve problems that nobody else could, usually had to fight whoever represented the Masculine force?’

  Sita rocked back. She was startled into silence, as she considered what Bharat had said about the Mahadevs. Oh yes … He’s right …

  ‘Freedom is the ultimate answer. Despite all the uncertainties it creates, freedom allows regular readjustment. Which is why, very rarely does a problem with the Feminine way become so big that it needs a Mahadev to solve it. This magical solution is simply not available to the Masculine way. The first thing it suppresses is freedom. Everyone must comply … Or, be kicked out.’