‘Why are we so dependent on rivers?’ Ram asked. ‘Why don’t we build roads? A city like Mithila need not be cut off.’
‘We did have good roads once upon a time,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘Maybe you can rebuild them.’
As the convoy broke through the forest line, they came upon what must have served as a defensive moat once, but had now been converted into a lake to draw water from. The lake circumscribed the entire city within itself so effectively that Mithila was like an island. There were no animals, like crocodiles, in the lake, for it no longer served a military purpose. Steps had been built on the banks for easy access to water. Giant wheels drew water from the lake, which was carried into the city through pipes.
‘It is incredibly dim-witted to use the moat as your main water supply,’ said Lakshman. ‘The first thing a besieging army would do is to cut it off. Or worse; they may even poison the water.’
‘You are right,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘The prime minister of Mithila realised this. That is why she had a small, but very deep lake constructed, within the city walls.’
Ram, Lakshman and Arishtanemi dismounted at the outer banks of the lake. They had to cross a pontoon bridge to enter the city. Because a pontoon bridge is essentially a floating platform supported by parallel lines of barges or boats, making the structure shaky and unstable, it was wiser to walk across on foot, leading your horse.
Arishtanemi explained enthusiastically, ‘Not only is it cheaper than a conventional bridge, it can also be destroyed easily if the city is attacked. And, of course, be rebuilt just as easily.’
Ram nodded politely, wondering why Arishtanemi felt the need to talk up Mithila. In any case, the city was obviously not wealthy enough to convert the temporary bridge into a more permanent structure.
But then, which kingdom in India, besides Lanka, is wealthy today? The Lankans have taken away all our wealth.
After they crossed over, they came upon the gates of Mithila’s fort walls. Interestingly, there were no slogans or military symbols of royal pride emblazoned across the gate. Instead, there was a large image of Lady Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge, which had been carved into the top half of the gate. Below it was a simple couplet:
Swagruhe Pujyate Murkhaha; Swagraame Pujyate Prabhuhu
Swadeshe Pujyate Raja; Vidvaansarvatra Pujyate.
A fool is worshipped in his home.
A chief is worshipped in his village.
A king is worshipped in his kingdom.
A knowledgeable person is worshipped everywhere.
Ram smiled. A city dedicated to knowledge.
‘Shall we enter?’ asked Arishtanemi, pulling his horse’s lead rope and clicking as he stepped forward.
Ram nodded to Lakshman, and they led their horses behind Arishtanemi as he entered the city. Behind the gates, a simple road led to another fort wall, at a distance of a kilometre from the outer wall. The rest of the area between the two walls was neatly partitioned into plots of agricultural land. Food crops were ready for harvest.
‘Smart,’ said Ram.
‘Yes Dada, growing crops within the fort walls secures their food supply,’ said Lakshman.
‘More importantly, there’s no human habitation here. This area would be a killing field for an enemy who manages to breach the outer fort wall. An attacking force will lose too many men in the effort to reach the second wall, without any hope of a quick retreat. It’s militarily brilliant — two fort walls with uninhabited land in between. We should replicate this in Ayodhya as well.’
Arishtanemi quickened his footsteps as they approached the inner fort wall.
‘Are those windows I see?’ asked Lakshman, pointing towards the top section of the inner fort wall.
‘Yes,’ said Arishtanemi.
‘Do people use the fort wall as a part of their accommodation?’ asked Lakshman, surprised.
‘Yes, they do,’ said Arishtanemi.
‘Oh,’ said Lakshman, shrugging.
Arishtanemi smiled as he looked ahead again.
‘What the hell!’ said Lakshman, stopping short as soon as he passed the gates of the inner city walls of Mithila. He reached for his sword, instinctively. ‘We’ve been led into a trap!’
‘Calm down, prince,’ said Arishtanemi, with a broad smile. ‘This is not a trap. This is just the way Mithila is.’
They had walked into a large, single-walled structure that lay on the other side of the gate; it was a continuous line of homes that shared a huge wall. All the houses were built against each other, like a honeycomb, with absolutely no divisions or space in between. There was a window high on the wall for each individual home, but no doors existed at the street level. It was no surprise that Lakshman thought they had been led into a dead end, a perfect trap or ambush. The fact that most of Vishwamitra’s convoy was missing only added to his suspicions.
‘Where are the streets?’ asked Ram.
Since all the houses were packed against each other in one continuous line, there was no room for streets or even small paths.
‘Follow me,’ said Arishtanemi, enjoying the obvious befuddlement of his fellow travellers. He led his horse to a stone stairway built into the structure of a house.
‘Why on earth are you climbing up to the roof?! And that too, with your horse!’ Lakshman exclaimed.
‘Just follow me, prince,’ said Arishtanemi calmly.
Ram patted Lakshman, as though to soothe him, and started walking up the steps. Lakshman reluctantly followed, leading his horse. They reached the rooftop to confront a scene that was simply unimaginable.
The ‘rooftops’ of all the houses was in fact a single smooth platform; a ‘ground’ above the ‘ground’. ‘Streets’ had been demarcated with paint, and they could see people headed in different directions, purposefully or otherwise. Vishwamitra’s convoy could be seen far ahead.
‘My God! Where are we? And where are those people headed?’ asked Lakshman, who had never seen anything like this.
‘But how do these people enter their houses?’ asked Ram.
As if in answer, a man pulled open a flat door on what evidently was the ‘sidewalk’ on the roof, and then stepped down, into his house, shutting the door behind him. Ram could now see that, at regular intervals on the sidewalks, where no traffic was allowed, were trapdoors to allow residents access to their homes. Small vertical gaps between some lines of houses exposed grilled windows on the side walls, which allowed sunlight and air into some of the homes.
‘What do they do during the monsoon?’ asked Lakshman.
‘They keep the doors and windows closed when it rains,’ said Arishtanemi.
‘But what about light, air?’
Arishtanemi pointed to ducts that had been drilled at regular intervals. ‘Ducts have been built for a group of four houses each. Windows from inside the houses open up into these ducts to allow in air and light. Rainwater run-off collects in drains below the duct. The drains run under the “Bees Quarter” and lead into either the moat outside the walls, or the lake inside the city. Some of it is used for agriculture.’
‘By the great Lord Parshu Ram,’ said Lakshman. ‘Underground drains. What a brilliant idea! It’s the perfect way to control disease.’
But Ram had caught on to something else. ‘Bees Quarter? Is that what this area is called?’
‘Yes,’ answered Arishtanemi.
‘Why? Because it is built like a honeycomb?’
‘Yes,’ smiled Arishtanemi.
‘Someone obviously has a sense of humour.’
‘I hope you have one as well, because this is where we will be living.’
‘What?’ asked Lakshman.
‘Prince,’ said Arishtanemi apologetically, ‘the Bees Quarter is where the workers of Mithila live. As we move inwards, beyond the gardens, streets, temples and mercantile areas, we arrive at the abodes and palaces of the rich, including the royalty. But, as you’re aware, Guru Vishwamitra wants you to travel incognito.’
‘How exactly
do we do that if the prime minister knows we are here?’ asked Lakshman.
‘The prime minister only knows that Guru Vishwamitra has arrived with his companions. She doesn’t know about the princes of Ayodhya. At least, not as yet.’
‘We’re the princes of Ayodhya,’ said Lakshman, his fists clenched tight. ‘A kingdom that is the overlord of the Sapt Sindhu. Is this how we will be treated here?’
‘We’re only here for a week,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘Please…’
‘It’s all right,’ said Ram, cutting in. ‘We’ll stay here.’
Lakshman turned to Ram. ‘But Dada…’
‘We have stayed in simpler quarters before, Lakshman; it’s just for a short while. Then we can go home. We have to honour our father’s wishes.’
‘I hope you both are comfortable,’ said Vishwamitra, as he stepped down into the apartment through the roof door.
In the afternoon, the third hour of the third prahar, Vishwamitra had finally visited the Bees Quarter. The brothers had been given accommodation in an apartment at the inner extreme end, beyond which lay a garden; one of the many that proliferated the inner, more upmarket parts of the city. Being at one end of the massive Bees Quarter structure, they were lucky to have a window on the outer wall, which overlooked the garden. Ram and Lakshman had not visited the inner city as yet.
Vishwamitra had been housed in the royal palace, within the heart of the city. It used to be a massive structure once upon a time, but the kindly King Janak had gradually given away parts of the palace to be used as residences and classrooms for rishis and their students. The philosopher-king wanted Mithila to serve as a magnet for men of knowledge from across the land. He showered gifts from his meagre treasury upon these great teachers.
‘Well, certainly less comfortable than you must be, Guruji,’ said Lakshman, a sneer on his face. ‘I guess only my brother and I need to remain incognito.’
Vishwamitra ignored Lakshman.
‘We are all right, Guruji,’ said Ram. ‘Perhaps the time has come for you to guide us on the mission we have to complete in Mithila. We are eager to return to Ayodhya.’
‘Right,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘Let me get to the point straight away. The king of Mithila has organised a swayamvar for his eldest daughter, Sita.’
A swayamvar was an ancient tradition in India. The father of the bride organised a gathering of prospective bridegrooms, from whom his daughter was free to either select her husband, or mandate a competition. The victor would win her hand.
Mithila did not figure in the list of powerful kingdoms of the Sapt Sindhu. The prospect of the overlord kingdom of Ayodhya making a marriage alliance with Mithila was remote at best. Even Ram was at a loss for words. But Lakshman had had enough by now.
‘Have we been brought here to provide security for the swayamvar?’ asked Lakshman. ‘This is even more bizarre than making us fight with those imbecile Asuras.’
Vishwamitra turned towards Lakshman and glared, but before he could say anything Ram spoke up.
‘Guruji,’ said Ram politely, although even his legendary patience was running thin, ‘I do not think that Father would want a marriage alliance with Mithila. I, too, have sworn that I will not marry for politics but for—’
Vishwamitra interrupted Ram. ‘It may be a little late to refuse participation in the swayamvar, prince.’
Ram immediately understood what had been implied. With superhuman effort, he maintained his polite tone. ‘How could you have nominated me as a suitor without checking with my father or me?’
‘Your father designated me your guru. You’re aware of the tradition, prince; a father, a mother or a guru can make the decision on a child’s marriage. Do you want to break this law?’
A stunned Ram stood rooted to the spot, his eyes blazing with anger.
‘Furthermore, if you refuse to attend the swayamvar despite your name being listed among the suitors, then you will be breaking the laws in Ushna Smriti and Haarit Smriti. Are you sure you want to do that?’
Ram did not utter a word. His body shook with fury. He had been cleverly trapped by Vishwamitra.
‘Excuse me,’ said Ram, abruptly, as he walked up the steps, lifted the roof door and climbed out. Lakshman followed his elder brother, banging the door shut behind him.
Vishwamitra laughed with satisfaction. ‘He’ll come around. He has no choice. The law is clear.’
Arishtanemi looked at the door sadly and then back at his guru, choosing silence.
FlyLeaf.ORG
Chapter 21
FlyLeaf.ORG
Ram walked down the stairway and reached the lower ‘ground’ level. He entered a public garden and sat on the first available bench, alive only to his inner turmoil. To the casual passer-by, his eyes seemed focused on the ground, his breathing slow and even, as though he was meditating deeply. But Lakshman knew his brother and his signs of anger. The deeper Dada’s anger, the calmer he appeared. Lakshman felt the pain acutely, for his brother became distant and shut him out on such occasions.
‘The hell with this, Dada!’ Lakshman lashed out. ‘Tell that pompous guru to take a hike and let’s just leave.’
Ram did not react. Not a muscle twitched to suggest that he had even heard his brother’s rant.
‘Dada,’ continued Lakshman, ‘it’s not as if you and I are particularly popular among the royal families in the Sapt Sindhu. Let Bharat Dada handle them. One of the few advantages of being disliked is that you don’t need to fret over what others think about you.’
‘I don’t care what others think of me,’ said Ram, his voice startlingly calm. ‘But it is the law.’
‘It’s not your law. It’s not our law. Forget it!’
Ram turned to look into the distance.
‘Dada…’ said Lakshman, placing his hand on Ram’s shoulder.
Ram’s body tensed in protest.
‘Dada, whatever you decide, I am with you.’
His shoulder relaxed. Ram finally looked at his woebegone brother. He smiled. ‘Let’s take a walk into the city. I need to clear my head.’
Beyond the Bees Quarter, the city of Mithila was relatively more organised, with well-laid out streets lined by luxurious buildings; luxurious in a manner of speaking, for it would be unfair to compare them to the grand architecture of Ayodhya. Dressed in the coarse, un-dyed garments of the common class, the brothers did not attract any attention.
Their aimless wandering led them into the main market area, built in a large, open square. It was lined by pucca stone-structured expensive shops, with temporary stalls occupying the centre, offering a low-cost option. The neatly numbered stalls were covered by colourful cloth awnings held up by upright bamboo poles. They were organised in a grid layout, marked by chalk lines with adequate lanes for people to walk around.
‘Dada,’ said Lakshman as he picked up a mango. He knew his brother loved the fruit. ‘These must be among the early harvests of the season. It may not be the best, but it’s still a mango!’
Ram smiled faintly. Lakshman immediately purchased two mangoes, handed one to Ram and set about devouring the other, biting and sucking the succulent pulp with gusto. It made Ram laugh.
Lakshman looked at him. ‘What’s the point of eating mangoes if you cannot make a mess of it?’
Ram set upon his own mango, joining his brother as he slurped noisily. Lakshman finished first and his brother stopped him in time from casually chucking the mango stone by the sidewalk. ‘Lakshman…’
Lakshman pretended as if nothing was amiss and, equally casually, walked up to a garbage collection pit dug next to a stall and dropped the mango stone in the rightful place. Ram followed suit. As they turned around to retrace their steps to the apartment, they heard a loud commotion from farther ahead in the same lane. They quickened their pace as they walked towards the hubbub.
They heard a loud, belligerent voice. ‘Princess Sita! Leave this boy alone!’
A firm feminine voice was heard in reply. ‘I will not!’
Ram looked at Lakshman, surprised.
‘Let’s see what’s going on,’ said Lakshman.
Ram and Lakshman pushed forward through the crowd that had gathered in a flash. As they broke through the first line of the throng, they came upon an open space, probably the centre of the square. They stood at the rear of a corner stall, beyond which their eyes fell on a little boy’s back, probably seven or eight years of age. He held a fruit in his hand, as he cowered behind a woman, also facing the other way. The woman confronted a large and visibly
angry mob.
‘That’s Princess Sita?’ asked Lakshman, his eyes widening as he turned to look at Ram. His brother’s visage knocked the breath out of him. Time seemed to inexplicably slow down, as if Lakshman was witnessing a cosmic event.
Ram stood still as he looked intently, his face calm. Lakshman detected the flush on his brother’s dark-skinned face; his heart had clearly picked up pace. Sita stood with her back towards them, but Ram could see that she was unusually tall for a Mithilan woman, almost as tall as he was. She looked like a warrior in the army of the Mother Goddess, with her lean and muscular physique. She was wheatish-complexioned; she wore a cream-coloured dhoti and a white single-cloth blouse. Her angvastram was draped over her right shoulder, with one end tucked into her dhoti and the other tied around her left hand. Ram noticed a small knife scabbard tied horizontally to the small of her back. It was empty. He had been told that Sita was a little older than he was—she was twenty-five years of age.
Ram felt a strange restlessness; he felt a strong urge to behold her face.
‘Princess Sita!’ screamed a man, possibly the leader of the mob. Their elaborate attire suggested that this crowd was made up of the well-to-do. ‘Enough of protecting these scum from the Bees Quarter! Hand him over!’
‘He will be punished by the law!’ said Sita. ‘Not by you!’