‘And, one day, we will return from the south to drive the regeneration of India.’ Saying so, Sita held out two cups made of dried clay. They contained a bubbly milk-white liquid. She handed one to Lakshman and the other to Ram.
‘What is it, Bhabhi?’ asked Lakshman.
‘It’s for your regeneration,’ said Sita. ‘Drink it.’
Lakshman took a sip and grimaced. ‘Yuck!’
‘Just drink it, Lakshman,’ ordered Sita.
He held his nose as he drained the liquid. He walked to the river and rinsed his mouth as well as the cup.
Ram looked at Sita. ‘I know what this is. Where did you get it from?’
‘From the people who protect us.’
‘Sita…’
‘You are important to India, Ram. You have to remain healthy. You have to stay alive. We have a lot to do when we return, fourteen years from now. You cannot be allowed to age. Please drink it.’
‘Sita,’ laughed Ram, ‘one cup of Somras is not going to achieve much. We need to drink it regularly for years for it to be effective. And you know how difficult it is to procure Somras. There will never be enough.’
‘Leave that to me.’
‘I’m not drinking it without you. What’s the point of my long life, if I don’t have you to share it with?’
Sita smiled. ‘I have already had mine, Ram. I had to, as one normally falls ill the first time one drinks the Somras.’
‘Is that why you were ill last week?’
‘Yes. If all three of us were to fall ill at the same time, it would be difficult to manage, right? You looked after me when I was unwell. And I will take care of Lakshman and you now.’
‘I wonder why the Somras makes one fall ill the first time.’
Sita shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That is a question for Lord Brahma and the Saptrishis. But don’t worry about the illness; I have enough medicines in my bag.’
Sita and Ram were both poised on one knee, staring intently at the wild boar. Ram held his bow with the arrow nocked, ready to fire.
‘Sita,’ whispered Ram, ‘I have the animal in perfect sight. I can finish it immediately. Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Sita. ‘Bows and arrows are your thing. Swords and spears are mine. I need the practice.’
Ram, Sita and Lakshman had been in exile for eighteen months now. Sita had finally introduced Jatayu to Ram some months back. Trusting Sita, Ram had accepted the Malayaputra and his fifteen soldiers as members of his team. Together they were one short of twenty now; more defendable than a group of three. Ram understood this, as well as the importance of allies in the situation they were in. But he remained wary of the Malayaputras.
Admittedly, Jatayu had given him no reason to be suspicious, but Ram could not ignore the fact that he and his people were followers of Guru Vishwamitra. Ram shared his guru Vashishta’s misgivings about the chief of the Malayaputras; he baulked at the ease with which Vishwamitra had been willing to use the Asuraastra, with little regard for the law.
The members of the party had settled into established routines as they moved deeper into the forests of Dandak. Still not having found a suitable enough permanent camp, they usually stayed in one place for around two to three weeks before moving on. Standard perimeter and security formations had been agreed upon. Cooking and cleaning duties were shared by rotation, as was the task of hunting. But since not everyone in the camp ate meat, hunting wasn’t something that was required often.
‘These beasts are dangerous when they charge,’ warned Ram, looking at Sita with concern.
Sita smiled at her husband’s protectiveness as she drew her sword. ‘Which is why I want you to stay behind me once you fire the arrow,’ she teased.
Ram smiled in return. He focused his attention on the wild boar as he took aim. He pulled the bowstring back and released the arrow. The missile flew in a neat arc, brushed past its head and landed to its left. The animal jerked its head in the direction of the intruders who had dared to disturb its peace. It grunted aggressively but did not move.
‘Once more,’ said Sita as she slowly rose, her knees slightly bent, her feet spread wide, the sword held to the side.
Ram quickly nocked another arrow and fired. It whizzed past the boar’s ear and buried itself into the ground.
Another belligerent grunt was accompanied by a stomping of its feet, this time. It lowered its head threateningly as it stared in the direction that the arrow had come from. Its curved tusks projected from below the snout, like two long knives, ready to strike.
‘Now, get behind me,’ whispered Sita.
Ram dropped his bow, quickly slipped a few feet behind her, and drew his sword as well; he wouldn’t lose a second if she needed his help.
Sita screamed loudly as she jumped into view. The beast immediately took up the challenge that was thrown. It charged towards her with fearsome speed, its head low, its tusks jutting out like menacing swords. Sita stood her ground, breathing steadily as the wild boar speedily moved towards her. At the last second, when it appeared that it was upon her and would gore her to death, Sita took a few quick steps and leapt high into the air; an exquisite leap with which she flew horizontally above the charging boar. As she did, she struck her sword vertically down, stabbing the animal’s neck. Her suspended body-weight made the blade sink deep into the neck, shattering the cervical vertebrae. She superbly leveraged the sword hilt to flip forward and land on her feet, just as the boar collapsed, dead, in front of Ram.
Ram’s eyes widened with wonder. Sita strode back to the boar, breathing hard. ‘The sword needs to simply break the neck and the animal dies instantly. No pain.’
‘Clearly,’ said Ram, sheathing his sword.
Sita bent down, touched the boar’s head, and whispered, ‘Forgive me for killing you, O noble beast. May your soul find purpose again, while your body sustains my soul.’
Ram held the hilt of Sita’s sword in a firm grip and attempted to prise the blade out of the beast’s body. It was stuck. He looked at Sita. ‘It has gone in deep!’
Sita smiled. ‘Let me retrieve your arrows while you pull it out.’
Ram began the delicate operation of extracting Sita’s sword from the boar’s neck. He needed to make sure that the blade didn’t get damaged by rubbing against the hard bone. After extricating it he sat on his haunches and wiped it clean with some leaves; he checked the edges; they remained sharp; there was no damage. He looked up to see Sita approaching him from the distance, with the arrows that he had fired in the beginning. He pointed at her sword and raised his thumb, signalling that it was still in fine fettle. Sita smiled. She was still some distance away from him.
‘My Lady!’
A loud shout rang through the jungle. Ram’s eyes flew towards Makrant, a Malayaputra, as he raced towards Sita. Ram looked in the direction that the man was pointing. His heart jumped into his mouth as he saw two wild boars emerge from the thick of the woods, charging straight at Sita. Her sword was with him. All she had was her knife. Ram sprang to his feet and sprinted towards his wife. ‘Sita!’
Alerted by the panic in his voice, Sita whirled around. The boars were almost upon her. She drew her knife and faced the animals. It would have been suicidal to make a dash for it, away from them; she could not outrun them; better to look them in the eye. Sita stood steady, took quick deep breaths and waited.
‘My Lady!’ shouted Makrant, as he leapt in front of Sita just in time, swinging his sword as he successfully deflected the first attack. The first boar swerved away but the second charged in, even as Makrant struggled to regain his balance. Its tusk pierced his upper thigh.
‘Sita!’ screamed Ram, as he threw her sword to her, drawing his own as he rushed towards Makrant.
Sita caught the sword deftly and turned to the first beast, which had turned around now and was charging down at her again. Makrant, impaled momentarily on the other boar’s tusk, had been flung into the air by its fearsome momentum. But the weight
of his body had thrown the boar off balance as well, making him tip to the right, exposing its underbelly. Ram chose that moment to stab it viciously. The blade sank into the beast’s chest, right through to its heart. It collapsed to the ground, dead.
Meanwhile, the first boar swung its head fiercely as it closed in on Sita. She jumped up high, tucking her feet up, neatly avoiding the boar. On her way down, she swung her sword, partially decapitating the beast. It wasn’t clean, but was enough to incapacitate the animal; it fell to the ground. Sita yanked her sword out as she landed. She went down on one knee and struck hard again, beheading the beast completely, putting it out of its misery.
She turned around to see that Ram was rushing towards her, his sword held to the side.
‘I’m all right!’ she reassured him.
He nodded and headed towards Makrant as Sita also ran to the injured Malayaputra. Ram hastily tied the soldier’s angvastram around the injury, barely staunching the blood that continued to gush out. He quickly came to his feet and picked up Makrant.
‘We have to get back to the camp right away!’ Ram said.
The wild boar’s tusk had cut through his upper quadriceps, piercing the femoral artery. Fortunately, the tusk had come into contact with the hard pelvic bone, flinging him off as the beast’s jangled nerves made it shake its head on impact. This had probably saved his life, for if the tusk had pushed through and penetrated deeper, it would have ruptured his intestines. The resultant infection would have been impossible to treat in the jungle; it would have meant certain death. The man had lost a lot of blood, though, and was not yet out of danger.
Ram, mindful that Makrant had unselfishly risked his life to save his wife, worked tirelessly to nurse the soldier back to health, ably assisted by Sita. For Ram, it was the most natural thing to do. But it surprised the Malayaputras to see a Sapt Sindhu royal willingly doing work that was not, customarily, his domain.
‘He is a good man,’ said Jatayu.
Jatayu and two Malayaputra soldiers were outside the camp’s main tent, cooking the evening meal.
‘I’m surprised that, despite being a prince, he is willing to do the work that mere soldiers and medical assistants should be doing,’ said one of the Malayaputras, stirring the contents of a pot on a low flame.
‘I have always found him impressive,’ said the other soldier, chopping some herbs on a wooden block. ‘He has absolutely no airs, unlike the other royal Sapt Sindhu brats.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jatayu. ‘I have also heard how he effectively saved Makrant’s life by acting quickly. If he had not killed the boar immediately, it could have gored Makrant again, possibly killing him, apart from harming Lady Sita
as well.’
‘He’s always been a great warrior. We have seen and heard enough instances of that,’ said the second soldier. ‘But he is also a good man.’
‘Yes, he treats his wife well. He is calm and clear-headed. He leads well. He is a good warrior. But most importantly, it is clear that he has a heart of gold,’ said the first Malayaputra soldier, full of praise. ‘I think Guru Vashishta probably chose well.’
Jatayu glared at the soldier, almost daring him to say another word. The poor man knew that he had gone too far. He immediately fell silent as he shifted his attention to the task of stirring the pot.
Jatayu understood that he could not afford any doubts among his men regarding this issue. Their loyalty was to lie exclusively with the Malayaputra goal. ‘No matter how trustworthy Prince Ram may appear, always remember, we are the followers of Guru Vishwamitra. We have to do what he has ordered us to do. He is our chief and he knows best.’
The two Malayaputra soldiers nodded.
‘Of course, we can trust him,’ said Jatayu. ‘And it is good that he also appears to trust us now. But do not forget where our loyalties lie. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ said both the soldiers simultaneously.
Six years had lapsed since Ram, Sita and Lakshman had left Ayodhya.
The band of nineteen had finally settled along the western banks of the early course of the mighty Godavari River, at Panchavati, or the place with five banyan trees. The river provided natural protection to the small, rustic, yet comfortable camp. The main mud hut at the centre of the camp had two rooms—one for Ram and Sita, and the other for Lakshman—and an open clearing for exercise and assembly. A rudimentary alarm system had been set around the far perimeter as warning against wild animals.
The perimeter of this camp was made of two circular fences. The one on the outside was covered with poisonous creepers to keep animals out. The fence on the inside comprised nagavalli creepers, rigged with an alarm system consisting of a continuous string that ran all the way to a very large wooden cage, filled with birds. The birds were well looked after, and replaced every month with new ones that were caught, as the old ones were released. If anyone made it past the outer fence and attempted to enter the nagavalli hedge, the alarm system would trigger the opening of the birdcage roof. The noisy flutter of the escaping birds would offer a few precious minutes of warning to the inmates of the camp.
Another cluster of huts to the east housed Jatayu and his band of soldiers. Despite Ram’s trust in Jatayu, Lakshman remained suspicious of the Malayaputra. Like most Indians, he held strong superstitions about the Nagas. He simply could not bring himself to trust the ‘vulture-man’, the name Lakshman had given to Jatayu behind his back.
They had faced dangers, no doubt, in these six years, but these had not been due to any human intervention. The occasional scars served as reminders of their adventures in the jungle, but the Somras had ensured that they looked and felt as young as the day they had left Ayodhya. Exposure to the harsh sun had darkened their skin. Ram had always been dark-skinned, but even the fair-skinned Sita and Lakshman had acquired a dusky appearance. Ram and Lakshman had grown beards and moustaches, making them look like warrior-sages.
Life had fallen into a predictable pattern. Ram and Sita liked to go to the Godavari River in the early morning hours, to bathe and spend some private time together. It was their favourite time of the day.
This was one such day. They washed their hair in the clear waters of the Godavari, and then sat on the banks of the river, indulging themselves with conversation over an array of fresh berries, as they dried their hair in the early morning breeze. Ram combed Sita’s hair and braided it. Sita then moved behind her husband and ran her fingers through his half-dry hair, untangling the strands.
‘Ouch!’ protested Ram, as his head was jerked back.
‘Sorry,’ said Sita.
Ram smiled.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Sita, as she gingerly untangled another knot.
‘Well, they say the jungles are dangerous and it is the cities where you find comfort and security. It has been exactly the other way round for me. I have never been more relaxed and happy in my life than in the Dandakaranya.’
Sita murmured in agreement.
Ram turned his head to look at his wife. ‘I know that you suffered, too, in the world of the “civilised”…’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Sita, shrugging. ‘They say it takes immense pressure to create diamonds.’
Ram laughed softly. ‘You know, Guru Vashishta had said to me, when I was a child, that compassion is sometimes an overrated virtue. He told me the story of the butterfly emerging from the hard pupa. Its life begins as an “ugly” caterpillar. When the time is right, it forms a pupa and retreats behind its hard walls. Within its shell, it transforms into a butterfly, unseen, unheard. When ready, it uses its tiny, sharp claws at the base of its forewings to crack a small opening in the hard, protective outer shell. It squeezes through this tiny opening and struggles to make its way out. This is a difficult, painful and prolonged process. Misguided compassion may make us want to enlarge the hole in the pupa, imagining that it would ease the butterfly’s task. But that struggle is necessary; as the butterfly squeezes its body out of the tiny hole, it secretes fluids w
ithin its swollen body. This fluid goes to its wings, strengthening them; once they’ve emerged, as the fluid dries, the delicate creatures are able to take flight. Making the hole bigger to “help” the butterfly and ease its struggle will only debilitate it. Without the struggle, its wings would never gain strength. It would never fly.’
Sita nodded and smiled. ‘I was told a different story. Of small birds being pushed out of their nests by their parents so that they are forced to fly. But yes, the point was the same.’
Ram smiled. ‘Well, wife! This struggle has made us stronger.’
Sita picked up the wooden comb and began running it through Ram’s hair.
‘Who told you about the little birds? Your guru?’ asked Ram.
Since Ram was looking ahead, he didn’t see the split-second of hesitation that flitted across her face. ‘I’ve learnt from many people, Ram. But none was as great as your guru, Vashishtaji.’
Ram smiled. ‘I was lucky to have him as my guru.’
‘Yes, you were. He has trained you well. You will be a good Vishnu.’
Ram felt a flush of embarrassment. While he was certainly willing to shoulder any responsibility for the sake of his people, the great title that Vashishta felt certain Ram would achieve left him humbled. He doubted his capability, and wondered if he was even ready for it. He had shared these doubts with his wife.
‘You will be ready,’ said Sita, smiling, almost reading her husband’s mind. ‘Trust me. You don’t know how rare a person you are.’
Ram turned to Sita and touched her cheek gently as he looked deep into her eyes. He smiled faintly as he turned his attention back to the river. She tied a knot on top of his head, the way he always liked it, then wrapped threaded beads around the knot to hold it in place. ‘Done!’
FlyLeaf.ORG
Chapter 30
FlyLeaf.ORG
Ram and Sita had returned from a hunt with the body of a deer tied to a long wooden pole. They balanced the pole on their shoulders. Lakshman had stayed behind, it being his turn to cook. They had lived outside the Sapt Sindhu for thirteen years now.