Sita: Warrior of Mithila

  ‘True. But there were some for whom it was hell.’

  Sita did not say anything. But her mind wondered: For whom?

  Vishwamitra read her mind as if she had spoken aloud. He answered, ‘The warriors.’

  ‘The warriors?’

  ‘What are the chief qualities of warriors? What drives them? What motivates them? Yes, there are many who fight for honour, for the country, for a code. But equally, there are those who simply want a socially sanctioned way to kill. If not given an outlet, such people can easily turn to crime. Many great warriors, celebrated by humanity, narrowly escaped being remembered as social degenerates. What saved them from becoming criminals and instead, turned them into soldiers? The answer is the warrior code: The right reason to kill.’

  It’s difficult for a child to surrender certainties and understand nuances. Sita, after all just a thirteen-year-old, stiffened.

  ‘Warriors thrive on admiration and hero worship. Without these, the warrior spirit, and with it, the warrior code, dies. Sadly, many in the latter-day Bhaarat society despised their soldiers and preferred to condemn them. Every action of the army was vehemently criticised. Any form of violence, even dharmic violence, was opposed. The warrior spirit itself was berated as a demonic impulse that had to be controlled. It didn’t stop there. Freedom of speech was curtailed so that verbal violence could also be controlled. Disagreement was discouraged. This is how the Bhaaratas felt that heaven could be created on earth; by making strength powerless, and weakness powerful.’

  Vishwamitra’s voice became softer, almost as if he was speaking only to Sita. The assembly listened in rapt attention.

  ‘Essentially, the Bhaaratas curbed their Kshatriya class drastically. Masculinity was emasculated. Great sages of yore who preached absolute non-violence and love were glorified and their messages amplified. But then, when barbaric invaders attacked from foreign lands, these pacifist, non-violent Bhaarat men and women were incapable of fighting back. These civilised people appeared like weak wimps to the brutal warriors from abroad.’ With an ironic laugh, Vishwamitra continued, ‘Unexpectedly, for the people of Bhaarat society, the Hiranyaloman Mlechcha warriors did not care for their message of love. Their answer to love was mass murder. They were barbarians, incapable of building their own empire. But they destroyed Bhaarat power and prestige. Internal rebels finished the job of destruction.’

  ‘Guruji, are you saying that to fight foreign monsters, you need your own monsters?’

  ‘No. All I’m saying is that society must be wary of extremes. It must constantly strive towards attaining a balance among competing ideologies. Criminals must be removed from society, and meaningless violence must be stopped. But the warrior spirit must not be demonised. Do not create a society that demeans masculinity. Too much of anything creates an imbalance in life. This is true even of virtues such as nonviolence. You never know when the winds of change strike; when violence may be required to protect your society, or to even survive.’

  There was pin-drop silence.

  It was time.

  Vishwamitra asked the question he had steered the conversation towards. ‘Is there an extremism that the Sapt Sindhu surrendered to which allowed Raavan to defeat them?’

  Sita considered the question carefully. ‘Yes, resentment and hatred towards the trading class.’

  ‘Correct. In the past, because of a few monsters among their warriors, the Bhaaratas attacked the entire Kshatriya way of life. They became pathologically non-violent. There have been societies that have attacked the Brahmin way of life, becoming proudly anti-intellectual, because a few of their Brahmins became closed-minded, elitist and exclusivist. And the Sapt Sindhu in our age began to demean trading itself when a few of their Vaishyas became selfish, ostentatious, and money-grubbing. We gradually pushed trade out of the hands of the ‘evil-moneyed capitalists’ of our own society, and into the hands of others. Kubaer, and later Raavan, just gathered the money slowly, and economic power flowed naturally to them. The Battle of Karachapa was only a formality that sealed long historical trends. A society must always aim for balance. It needs intellectuals, it needs warriors, it needs traders, it needs artists, and it needs skilled workers. If it empowers one group too much or another too little, it is headed for chaos.’

  Sita recalled something she had heard in one of the dharma sabhas of her father. ‘The only “ism” I believe in, is pragmatism.’

  It was said by a Charvak philosopher.

  ‘Are you committed to Charvak philosophy?’ asked Vishwamitra.

  The Charvak School of philosophy was named after their ancient founder, an atheist who believed in materialism. He had lived near Gangotri, the source of the holy Ganga. The Charvaks only believed in what could be sensed by the physical senses. According to them, there was neither a soul, nor any Gods. The only reality was this body, a mix of the elements, which would return to the elements once it died. They lived for the day and enjoyed life. Their admirers saw them as liberal, individualistic and non-judgemental. On the other hand, their critics saw them as immoral, selfish and irresponsible.

  ‘No, I am not committed to the Charvaks, Guruji. If I am pragmatic, then I should be open to every school of philosophy. And accept only those parts that make sense to me, while rejecting other bits that don’t. I should learn from any philosophy that can help me fulfil my karma.’

  Vishwamitra smiled. Smart, very smart for a thirteen-year-old.

  Chapter 7

  Sita sat by the pond, reading Nyayasutra, the classic text which introduced a key school of Indian philosophy, Nyaya Darshan. A few months had passed since Vishwamitra had visited Rishi Shvetaketu’s gurukul.

  ‘Bhoomi,’ said Radhika, using the gurukul name of Sita, ‘someone from your home has come to meet you.’

  Sita sighed with irritation. ‘Can’t they wait?’

  She was compiling a list of questions she wanted to ask Rishi Shvetaketu. Now the exercise would be delayed.

  Samichi stood patiently, close to the jetty. Waiting for Sita.

  A posse of ten men stood behind her. They were under her command.

  Samichi was not the girl from the slums anymore. Having joined the police, she was a rapidly rising star there. It was common knowledge that the royal family liked her, indebted as they were to her for having saved Princess Sita in the Mithila slums. People were guarded in her presence. Nobody knew her exact age, including Samichi herself. Her appearance suggested that she was in her early twenties now. For a woman of her age, not born into nobility, to be commanding a posse in the police force was a rare honour. But then, she had saved the princess.

  ‘Samichi!’

  Samichi groaned as she recognised the voice. It was that ridiculous boy, Kaaml Raj. He was panting by the time he ran up to her. Excited.

  ‘Someone told me you were here. I came as fast as I could.’

  Samichi looked at the twelve-year-old. He held a red rose in his hands. She narrowed her eyes and resisted the temptation to shove him. ‘I’ve told you …’

  ‘I thought you’d like this rose,’ said Kaaml shyly. ‘I saw you enjoy the fragrance of the flowers the last time you were here.’

  Samichi spoke in a cold whisper. ‘I’m not interested in odours of any kind.’

  Not to be deterred, Kaaml held out a hand, showing her his bleeding finger. A pathetic attempt to extract sympathy. He had pricked himself repeatedly with thorns before yanking the flower from the rose bush. Seeing that it wasn’t working, he stepped closer. ‘Do you have some medicine for my finger?’

  Samichi stepped back to put some distance between them. In doing so, she stumbled on a stone. Just a little. Kaaml rushed forward to grab her. The poor boy genuinely wanted to help. What happened next was blinding in its speed. Samichi screamed in anger, twisted his arm, and viciously kicked him in the leg. As Kaaml fell forward, she brought her elbow up in a brutal jab. It cracked his nose. Instantly.

  Kaaml clutched his bleeding nose, as Samichi shouted in anger, ‘
DO NOT TOUCH ME, EVER!’

  Kaaml was crying desperately now. He lay on the ground in a frightened heap. Bloodied. Trembling. The policemen rushed forward and helped the boy to his feet. They cast a surreptitious, horror-filled glance at their leader. All of them had the same thought.

  He’s only a boy! What is wrong with her?

  Samichi’s stony face showed no trace of regret. She signalled a Mithila policeman with a dismissive wave of a hand. ‘Get this idiot out of here.’

  The policeman lifted the boy gingerly and walked away to find the gurukul doctor. The other policemen walked back to the jetty in a fearful procession. The air was thick with unspoken words about their captain.

  Something is not right with Samichi.

  ‘Samichi.’

  All turned to see Princess Sita emerge from the trees. And, Samichi transformed like a chameleon. Smiling broadly, she rushed forward with warmth oozing from her eyes.

  ‘How are you, Samichi?’ asked Sita, as she embraced her friend.

  Before Samichi could answer, Sita turned to the policemen standing at a distance and pulled her hands together into a Namaste, along with a warm smile. The policemen bowed low, also folding their hands into a Namaste.

  ‘I wonder why your men always look so scared,’ whispered Sita.

  Samichi grinned and shook her head, holding Sita’s hand, pulling her away, out of earshot of the policemen. ‘Forget them, Princess,’ said Samichi, her smile affectionate.

  ‘I’ve told you before, Samichi,’ said Sita, ‘when we are alone, call me Sita. Not Princess. You are my friend. Anyway, it’s not as if anyone thinks of me as a princess anymore.’

  ‘Whatever anyone may think, I have no doubt that you are a princess of Mithila.’

  Sita rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Princess, I have been sent to …’

  Sita interrupted Samichi. ‘Sita. Not Princess.’

  ‘Apologies, Sita, you must come home.’

  Sita sighed. ‘You know I can’t, Samichi. I have caused enough trouble for maa.’

  ‘Sita, don’t do this to yourself.’

  ‘Everyone knows about the incident with chacha. When I broke his royal seal,’ Sita recalled her uncle Kushadhwaj’s last visit to Mithila. ‘He is endlessly troubling maa and Mithila. Everyone blames me for it. And rightly so. I should just stay away.’

  ‘Sita, your father and mother miss you. Queen Sunaina is very sick. You really should …’

  ‘Nothing can happen to maa. She is a superwoman. You are just saying this to make me leave the gurukul and come home.’

  ‘But … it’s the truth.’

  ‘The truth is that maa should focus on Urmila and the kingdom. You know that baba is … distracted. You yourself have told me what the people say about me. She doesn’t need me to increase her problems.’

  ‘Sita …’

  ‘Enough,’ said Sita, raising her hand. ‘I don’t feel like talking about this anymore.’

  ‘Sita …’

  ‘I feel like practising stick-fighting. Are you game?’

  Anything to change the subject, thought Samichi.

  ‘Come on,’ said Sita, turning around.

  Samichi followed.

  Vishwamitra sat in the lotus position in his austere hut at the Ganga ashram of the Malayaputras.

  He was meditating. Trying to keep all thoughts out of his mind. But he was failing today.

  He heard a whistling sound. And recognised it immediately. It was a common hill myna. A bird that has often been called the most amazing vocalist. It can whistle, warble, shriek, and even mimic.

  What is it doing so far away from home? In the plains?

  His mind wandered to an incident from the past. When he had heard the myna in a place he should not have.

  Amazing how the mind wanders … So flighty and unpredictable …

  The memory of that day, many decades ago, now came flooding back.

  It was the day he had received the news of his former friend, Vashishtha, being appointed the raj guru of Ayodhya.

  Vishwamitra felt his chest constrict. In anger. And pain.

  That backstabber … I did so much for him …

  His mind wandered to the exact moment he had heard the news. At the ashram of …

  Vishwamitra’s eyes suddenly flew open.

  By the great Lord Parshu Ram …

  He remembered where he had seen that face. Sita’s face.

  He smiled. This only reinforced his decision.

  Thank you, Lord Parshu Ram. You made my mind wander only to help me find my path.

  ‘Guruji …’ whispered Arishtanemi.

  He stood next to Vishwamitra at the balustrade of the lead ship. They were in a five-vessel convoy that was sailing down the sacred Ganga, on their way to supervise a search being conducted by their miners for some special material. It would help them acquire a powerful weapon called the Asuraastra, leaving them less dependent on the Vayuputras.

  Centuries ago, Lord Rudra, the previous Mahadev, had restricted the use of daivi astras. The approval of the Vayuputras, the living representatives of Lord Rudra, was mandatory for using the divine weapons. This was not to Vishwamitra’s liking or comfort.

  The great Maharishi had made elaborate plans. Plans which involved, perhaps, the use of the Asuraastra. He knew the Vayuputras did not like him. Not since the episode with Trishanku. They tolerated him because they had no choice. He was, after all, chief of the Malayaputras.

  While the search was a slow and tedious process, Vishwamitra was confident that the material would be found, eventually.

  It was time to move to the next phase of his plan. He had to select a Vishnu. He had just revealed his choice to Arishtanemi, his trusted lieutenant.

  ‘You disagree?’ asked Vishwamitra.

  ‘She is exceptionally capable, Guruji. No doubt about it. One can sense it, even at her tender age. But …’ Arishtanemi’s voice trailed off.

  Vishwamitra put his hand on Arishtanemi’s shoulder. ‘Speak freely. I am talking to you because I want to hear your views.’

  ‘I spent some time watching her carefully, Guruji. I think she is too rebellious. I am not sure the Malayaputras will be able to manage her. Or, control her.’

  ‘We will. She has no one else. Her city has abandoned her. But she has the potential to be great. She wants to be great. We will be her route to realising it.’

  ‘But can’t we also keep searching for other candidates?’

  ‘Your trusted aides gathered information on her in Mithila, right? Most of it was very encouraging.’

  ‘But there was that case of her probably killing a boy in the Mithila slums when she was eight.’

  ‘I see in that incident her ability to survive. Your investigators also said the boy was probably a criminal. She fought her way through, even as a small child. That’s a positive. She has the fighting spirit. Would you rather she had died like a coward?’

  ‘No, Guruji,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘But I am wondering if there are possibly other candidates that we have not yet stumbled upon.’

  ‘You personally know almost every royal family in India. Most of them are completely useless. Selfish, cowardly, and weak. And their next generation, the royal children, are even worse. They are nothing but genetic garbage.’

  Arishtanemi laughed. ‘Few countries have had the misfortune of being saddled with such a worthless elite.’

  ‘We have had great leaders in the past. And we will have a great leader in the future too. One who will pull India out of its present morass.’

  ‘Why not from the common folk?’

  ‘We have been searching for a long time. Had that been Lord Parshu Ram’s will, we would have found one by now. And don’t forget, Sita is only an adopted royal. Her parentage is unknown.’

  Vishwamitra did not feel the need to tell Arishtanemi what he suspected about Sita’s birth.

  Arishtanemi overcame his hesitation. ‘I have heard that the Ayodhya princes …’


  The Malayaputra military chief stopped mid-sentence when he saw Vishwamitra bristle. His famed courage vanished into thin air. Arishtanemi had indeed heard positive reports about the young princes of Ayodhya, particularly Ram and Bharat. Ram was a little less than nine years old. But Vashishtha was the raj guru of Ayodhya. And, Vashishtha was a subject Arishtanemi had learned to avoid.

  ‘That snake has taken the Ayodhya princes to his gurukul,’ said Vishwamitra, anger boiling within. ‘I don’t even know where his ashram is. He has kept it a secret. If I don’t know then nobody knows. We only hear about the four brothers when they return to Ayodhya on holiday.’

  Arishtanemi stood like a statue, barely breathing.

  ‘I know how Vashishtha’s mind works. I had made the mistake of considering him my friend once. He is up to something. Either with Ram or Bharat.’

  ‘Sometimes, things don’t work out as planned, Guruji. Our work in Lanka inadvertently ended up helping …’

  ‘Raavan has his uses,’ interrupted Vishwamitra. ‘Don’t ever forget that. And, he is moving in the direction we need him to. It will all work out.’

  ‘But Guruji, can the Vayuputras oppose the Malayaputras? It is our prerogative to choose the next Vishnu. Not that of the raj guru of Ayodhya.’

  ‘For all their sham neutrality, the Vayuputras will do everything they can to help that rat. I know it. We do not have much time. We must start preparing now!’

  ‘Yes, Guruji.’

  ‘And, if she is to be trained for her role, it too must begin now.’

  ‘Yes, Guruji.’

  ‘Sita will be the Vishnu. The Vishnu will rise during my reign. The time has come. This country needs a leader. We cannot allow our beloved India to suffer endlessly.’

  ‘Yes, Guruji,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘Should I tell the Captain to …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you taking me, Radhika?’ asked Sita, smiling, as her friend led her by the hand.

  They were walking deep into the forest to the south of the gurukul.