‘Just open the door, Lakshman,’ said Ram.
Lakshman crept up the stairs to the horizontal door on the roof. He held his sword to his side, ready to strike if the need so arose. There was another knock, more insistent this time. Lakshman pushed the door open to find Samichi, the police and protocol chief of Mithila, peering down at him. She was a short-haired, tall, dark-skinned and muscular woman, and her soldier’s body bore scars of honour from battles well fought. She wore a blouse and dhoti made from the same green cloth. She had on leather armbands and a leather under-blouse; a sheathed long sword hung by
her waist.
Lakshman gripped his sword tight. ‘Namaste, Chief Samichi. To what do we owe this visit?’ he asked gruffly.
Samichi grinned disarmingly. ‘Put your sword back in the scabbard, young man.’
‘Let me decide what I should or should not do. What is your business here?’
‘The prime minister wants to meet your elder brother.’
Lakshman was taken aback. He turned to Ram, who signalled his brother to let them in. He immediately slipped his sword in its scabbard and backed up against the wall, making room for the party to enter. Samichi stepped in and descended the stairs, followed by Sita. As Sita stepped down through the door hole, she gestured behind her. ‘Stay there, Urmila.’
Lakshman instinctively looked up to see Urmila, even as Ram stood up to receive the prime minister of Mithila. The two women climbed down swiftly but Lakshman remained rooted, entranced by the vision above. Urmila was shorter than her elder sister Sita, much shorter. She was also fairer; so fair that she was almost the colour of milk. She probably remained indoors most of the time, keeping away from the sun. Her round, baby face was dominated by her large eyes, which betrayed a sweet, childlike innocence. Unlike her warrior-like elder sister, Urmila was clearly a very delicate creature, aware of her beauty, yet childlike in her ways. Her hair was arranged in a bun with every strand neatly in place. The kaajal in her eyes accentuated their exquisiteness; the lips were enhanced with some beet extract. Her clothes were fashionable, yet demure: a bright pink blouse was complemented by a deep red dhoti which was longer than usual — it reached below her knees. A neatly pressed angvastram hung from her shoulders. Anklets and toe-rings drew attention to her lovely feet, while rings and bracelets decorated her delicate hands. Lakshman was mesmerised. The lady sensed it, smiled genially, and looked away with shy confusion.
Sita turned and saw Lakshman looking at Urmila. She had noticed something that Ram had missed.
‘Shut the door, Lakshman,’ said Ram.
Lakshman reluctantly did as ordered.
Ram turned towards Sita. ‘How may I help you, princess?’
Sita smiled. ‘Excuse me for a minute, prince.’ She looked at Samichi. ‘I’d like to speak to the prince alone.’
‘Of course,’ said Samichi, immediately climbing out of the room.
Ram was surprised by Sita’s knowledge of their identity. He revealed nothing as he nodded at Lakshman, who turned to leave with alacrity. Ram and Sita were alone in no time.
Sita smiled and pointed towards a chair in the room. ‘Please sit, Prince Ram.’
‘I’m all right.’
Is it Guru Vishwamitra himself who revealed my identity to her? Why is he so hell-bent on this alliance?
‘I insist,’ said Sita, as she sat down herself.
Ram sat on a chair facing Sita. There was an awkward silence for some time before Sita spoke up. ‘I believe you were tricked into coming here.’
Ram remained silent, but his eyes gave the answer away.
‘Then why haven’t you left?’ asked Sita.
‘Because it would be against the law.’
Sita smiled. ‘And is it the law that will make you participate in the swayamvar day after tomorrow?’
Ram chose silence, for he would not lie.
‘You are Ayodhya, the overlord of Sapt Sindhu. I am only Mithila, a small kingdom with little power. What purpose can possibly be served by this alliance?’
‘Marriage has a higher purpose; it can be more than just a political alliance.’
Sita smiled enigmatically. Ram felt like he was being interviewed; this, strangely enough, did not stop him from noticing that an impertinent strand had slipped out of Sita’s neatly braided hair. The gentle breeze wafting in from the window lifted the wisp of hair playfully. His attention shifted seamlessly to the perfect curve of her neck. He noticed his heart begin to race. He smiled to himself ruefully and tried to restore his inner calm as he admonished himself. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I control myself?!
‘Prince Ram?’
‘Excuse me?’ asked Ram, bringing his focus back to what she was saying.
‘I asked, if marriage is not a political alliance, then what is it?’
‘Well, to begin with, it is not a necessity; there should be no compulsion to get married. There’s nothing worse than being married to the wrong person. You should only get married if you find someone you admire, who will help you understand and fulfil your life’s purpose. And you, in turn, can help her fulfil her life’s purpose. If you’re able to find that one person, then marry her.’
Sita raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you advocating just one wife? Not many? Most people think differently.’
‘Even if all people think polygamy is right, it doesn’t make it so.’
‘But most men take many wives; especially the nobility.’
‘I won’t. You insult your wife by taking another.’
Sita drew back her head, raising her chin in contemplation; as though she was assessing him. Her eyes softened in admiration. A charged silence filled the room. As she gazed at him, her expression changed with sudden recognition.
‘Wasn’t it you at the market place the other day?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you step in to help me?’
‘You had the situation under control.’
Sita smiled slightly.
It was Ram’s turn to ask questions. ‘What is Raavan doing here?’
‘I don’t know. But it makes the swayamvar more personal for me.’
Ram was shocked, but his expression remained impassive. ‘Has he come to participate in your swayamvar?’
‘So I have been told.’
‘And?’
‘And, I have come here.’
Ram waited for her to continue.
‘How good are you with a bow and arrow?’ asked Sita.
Ram allowed himself a faint smile.
Sita raised her eyebrows. ‘That good?’
Sita arose from her chair, as did Ram. The prime minister of Mithila folded her hands into a namaste. ‘May Lord Rudra continue to bless you, prince.’
Ram returned Sita’s namaste. ‘And may He bless you, princess.’
Ram’s eyes fell on the bracelet made of Rudraaksh beads that Sita wore on her wrists; she was a fellow Lord Rudra devotee. His eyes involuntarily strayed from the beads to her perfectly formed, artistically long fingers. They could have belonged to a surgeon. The battle scar on her left hand suggested, though, that Sita’s hands used tools other than scalpels.
‘Prince Ram,’ said Sita, ‘I asked—’
‘I’m sorry, can you repeat that?’ asked Ram, refocusing on the here and now, on what Sita was saying.
‘Can I meet with you and your brother in the private royal garden tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good,’ said Sita, as she turned to leave. Then she stopped, as if remembering something. She reached into the pouch tied to her waistband and pulled out a red thread. ‘It would be nice if you could wear this. It’s for good luck. It is a representation of…’
But Ram’s attention was seized by another thought; his mind wandering once again, drowning out what Sita was saying. He remembered a couplet; one he had heard at a wedding ceremony long ago.
Maangalyatantunaanena bhava jeevanahetuh may. A line from old Sanskrit, it translated i
nto: With this holy thread that I offer to you, please become the purpose of my life…
‘Prince Ram…’ said Sita, loudly.
Ram suddenly straightened up as the wedding hymn playing in his mind went silent. ‘I’m sorry. What?’
Sita smiled politely, ‘I was saying…’ She stopped just as suddenly. ‘Never mind. I’ll leave the thread here. Please wear it if it pleases you.’
Placing the thread on the table, Sita began to climb up the stairs. As she reached the door, she turned around for a last look. Ram was holding the thread in the palm of his right hand, gazing at it reverentially, as if it was the most sacred thing in the world.
The city of Mithila became increasingly more visually appealing as one moved beyond the main market to the enclaves of the upper classes. This was where Ram and Lakshman had decided to walk, late the following evening.
‘It’s pretty, isn’t it, Dada?’ remarked Lakshman, as he looked around in appreciation.
Ram had been noting the sudden change in Lakshman’s attitude towards Mithila since the previous day. The road they were on was relatively broad but meandering, much like village roads. Trees and flower beds lined dividers made of stone and mortar, around three to four feet in height. Beyond the road edge were an array of trees, gardens and the stately mansions of the wealthy. Idols of various personal and family deities were placed above the boundary walls of the mansions. Incense sticks and fresh flowers were placed as offerings to the deities, indicating the spiritual inclinations of the citizens; Mithila was a bastion of the devout.
‘Here we are,’ pointed Lakshman.
Ram followed his brother into a narrow, circuitous lane on the right. The sidewalls being higher, it was difficult to see what lay beyond.
‘Should we just jump over?’ asked Lakshman, grinning mischievously.
Ram frowned at him and continued walking. A few metres ahead lay an ornate wrought-iron gate. Two soldiers stood at the entrance.
‘We have come to meet the prime minister,’ said Lakshman, handing over a ring that had been given to him by Samichi.
The guard examined the ring, was seemingly satisfied, and signalled to the other to help him open the gates.
Ram and Lakshman quickly walked into the resplendent garden. Unlike the royal gardens of Ayodhya, this one was less variegated; it only contained local trees, plants and flower beds. It was a garden whose beauty could be attributed more to the ministrations of talented gardeners than to the impressive infusion of funds. The layout was symmetrical and well-manicured. The thick green carpet of grass was thrown into visual relief by the profusion of flowers and trees of all shapes and colours. Nature expressed itself in ordered harmony.
‘Prince Ram,’ Samichi walked up to them from the shadows behind a tree. She bowed low with a respectful namaste.
‘Namaste,’ said Ram, as he folded his hands together.
Lakshman too returned Samichi’s greeting and then handed the ring back to her. ‘The guards recognise your mark.’
‘As they should,’ said the police chief, before turning to Ram. ‘Princesses Sita and Urmila await you. Follow me, princes.’
Lakshman beamed with delight as he followed Ram and Samichi.
Ram and Lakshman were led into a clearing at the back of the garden; below their feet was plush grass, above them the open evening sky.
‘Namaste, princess,’ said Ram to Sita.
‘Namaste, prince,’ replied Sita, before turning to her sister. ‘May I introduce my younger sister, Urmila?’ Gesturing towards Ram and Lakshman, Sita continued, ‘Urmila, meet Prince Ram and Prince Lakshman of Ayodhya.’
‘I had occasion to meet her yesterday,’ said Lakshman, grinning from ear to ear.
Urmila smiled politely at Lakshman, with her hands folded in a namaste, then turned towards Ram and greeted him.
‘I would like to speak with the prince privately, once again,’ said Sita.
‘Of course,’ said Samichi immediately. ‘May I have a private word before that?’
Samichi took Sita aside and whispered in her ear. Then she cast a quick look at Ram before walking away, leading Urmila by the hand. Lakshman followed Urmila.
Ram felt as if his interview from yesterday would proceed from where they had left off. ‘Why did you want to meet me, princess?’
Sita made sure that Samichi and the rest had indeed left. She was about to begin when her eyes fell on the red thread tied around Ram’s right wrist. She smiled. ‘Please give me a minute, prince.’
Sita went behind a tree, bent and picked up a very long package covered in cloth. She walked back to Ram. He frowned, intrigued. Sita pulled the cloth back to reveal an intricately carved, unusually long bow. An exquisite piece of weaponry, it was a composite bow with recurved ends, which must give it a very long range. Ram carefully examined the carvings on the inside face of the limbs, both above and below the grip of the bow. It was the image of a flame, representative of Agni, the God of Fire. The first hymn of the first chapter of the Rig Veda was dedicated to the deeply revered deity. However, the shape of this particular flame seemed familiar to Ram, in the way its edges leapt out.
Sita pulled a flat wooden base platform out of the cloth bag and placed it on the ground ceremonially. She looked up at Ram. ‘This bow cannot be allowed to touch the ground.’
Ram frowned, wondering what made it so important. Sita placed the lower limb of the bow on the platform, steadying it with her foot. She used her right hand to pull down the other end with force. Judging by the strain on her shoulder and biceps, Ram knew it was a very strong bow with tremendous resistance. With her left hand, Sita pulled the bowstring up and quickly strung it. She let the upper limb extend up and relaxed as she let out a long breath. The mighty bow adjusted to the constraints of the potent bowstring. She held the bow with her left hand and pulled the bowstring with her fingers, letting it go with a loud twang.
Ram knew from the sound of the string that this bow was special. It was the strongest he had ever heard. ‘Wow. That’s a good bow.’
‘It’s the best.’
‘Is it yours?’
‘I cannot own a bow like this. I am only its caretaker, for now. When I die, someone else will be deputed to take care of it.’
Ram narrowed his eyes as he closely examined the image of the flames around the grip of the bow. ‘These flames look a little like—’
Sita interrupted him. ‘This bow once belonged to the one whom we both worship. It still belongs to him.’
Ram stared at the bow with a mixture of shock and awe, his suspicion confirmed.
Sita smiled. ‘Yes, it is the Pinaka.’
The Pinaka was the legendary bow of the previous Mahadev, Lord Rudra, considered the strongest bow ever made. Legend held that it was a composite, a mix of many materials, which had been given a succession of specific treatments to arrest its degeneration. It was also believed that maintaining this bow was not an easy task. The grip, the limbs and the recurved ends needed regular lubrication with special oil. Sita was obviously up to the task, for the bow was as good as new.
‘How did Mithila come into the possession of the Pinaka?’ asked Ram, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful weapon.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Sita, ‘but I want you to practice with it. This is the bow which will be used for the swayamvar competition tomorrow.’
Ram took an involuntary step back. There were many ways in which a swayamvar was conducted, two of them being: either the bride could directly select her groom; or she could mandate a competition. The winner would marry the bride. But this was unorthodox, to say the least: for a groom to be given advance notice and help. In fact, it was against the rules.
Ram shook his head. ‘It would be an honour to even touch the Pinaka, much less hold the bow that Lord Rudra himself graced with his touch. But I will only do so tomorrow. Not today.’
Sita frowned. ‘I thought you intended to win my hand.’
‘I do. But I will win it the right wa
y. I will win according to the rules.’
Sita smiled, shaking her head as she experienced a peculiar sense of fear mixed with elation.
‘Do you disagree?’ asked Ram, seeming a bit disappointed.
‘No, I don’t. I’m just impressed. You are a special man, Prince Ram.’
Ram blushed. His heart, despite his mental admonishments, picked up pace once again.
‘I look forward to seeing you fire an arrow tomorrow morning,’ said Sita.
FlyLeaf.ORG
Chapter 23
FlyLeaf.ORG
The swayamvar was held in the Hall of Dharma instead of the royal court. This was simply because the royal court was not the biggest hall in Mithila. The main building in the palace complex, which housed the Hall of Dharma, had been donated by King Janak to the Mithila University. The hall hosted regular debates and discussions on various esoteric topics: the nature of dharma, karma’s interaction with dharma, the nature of the divine, the purpose of the human journey… King Janak was a philosopher-king who focused all his kingdom’s resources on matters that were spiritual and intellectual.
The Hall of Dharma was in a circular building, built of stone and mortar, with a massive dome; quite rare in India. The delicate elegance of the dome was believed to represent the feminine, while the typical temple spire represented the masculine. The Hall of Dharma embodied King Janak’s approach to governance: an intellectual love of wisdom and respectful equality accorded to all points of view. The hall, therefore, was circular. All rishis sat as equals, without a moderating ‘head’, debating issues openly and without fear; freedom of expression at its zenith.
However, today was different. There were no manuscripts lying on low tables, or rishis moving to the centre in a disciplined sequence, to deliver speeches or debate their points. The Hall of Dharma was set to host a swayamvar.
Temporary three-tiered spectator stands stood near the entrance. At the other end, on a wooden platform, was placed the king’s throne. A statue of the great King Mithi, the founder of Mithila, stood on a raised pedestal behind the throne. Two thrones, only marginally less grand, were placed to the left and right of the king’s throne. A circle of comfortable seats lined the middle section of the great hall, where kings and princes, the potential suitors, would sit.