Scion of Ikshvaku (27 page)

Ram stepped aside, but she had already whizzed past, dragging the boy-thief along.

Lakshman immediately stepped up and touched Ram on his back. ‘
Dada
…’

Ram hadn’t turned to see Sita walking away. He stood mystified, almost as if his disciplined mind was trying to analyse what had just happened; what his heart had just done to him. He seemed surprised beyond measure; by himself.

‘Umm,
Dada
…’ said Lakshman, smiling broadly now.

‘Hmm?’

‘
Dada
, she’s gone. I think you can raise your head now.’

Ram finally looked at Lakshman, a hint of a smile on his face.

‘
Dada!
’ Lakshman gave a loud laugh, stepped forward and embraced his brother. Ram patted him on his back. But his mind was preoccupied.

Lakshman stepped back and said, ‘She’ll make a great
bhabhi
!’

Ram frowned, refusing to acknowledge his brother’s unbridled enthusiasm in referring to the princess as his
sister-in-law
.

‘I guess we will be going to the
swayamvar
now,’ said Lakshman, winking.

‘Let’s go back to our room for now,’ said Ram, his expression calm again.

‘Right!’ said Lakshman, still laughing. ‘Of course, we should behave maturely about this! Mature! Calm! Stoic! Controlled! Have I forgotten any word,
Dada
?!’

Ram tried to keep his face expressionless but it was obviously a bigger struggle than usual. He finally surrendered to his inner joy and his face lit up with a dazzling smile.

The brothers began to walk back to the Bees Quarter.

‘We must tell Arishtanemi
ji
that you will, after all, be participating in the
swayamvar
willingly!’ said Lakshman.

As Ram fell a few steps behind Lakshman, he allowed himself another full smile. His mind had probably begun to understand what had just happened to him. What his heart had done to him.

‘This is good news,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘I’m delighted that you have decided to obey the law.’

Ram maintained a calm demeanour. Lakshman couldn’t seem to control his smile.

‘Yes, of course, Arishtanemi
ji
,’ said Lakshman. ‘How can we disregard the law? Especially one that has been recorded in two
Smritis
!’

Arishtanemi frowned, not really understanding Lakshman’s sudden about-turn. He shrugged and turned to address Ram. ‘I will inform Guru
ji
right away that you are willing to participate in the
swayamvar
.’

‘
Dada!
’ said Lakshman, rushing into their room.

It had been just five days since Ram had seen Sita. And there were less than two days to go for the
swayamvar
.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ram, putting down the palm-leaf book he had been reading.

‘Just come with me,
Dada
,’ insisted Lakshman, as he grabbed Ram by the hand.

‘What is it, Lakshman?’ asked Ram once again.

They were on top of the Bees Quarter, walking down the streets. They moved in the direction away from the city. This section of the Bees Quarter actually merged with the inner fort wall, making it a fantastic lookout point to see the fields up to the outer wall and beyond at the land outside the city. A massive crowd had gathered, many of them pointing and gesticulating wildly as they spoke to each other.

‘Lakshman… Where are you taking me?’

He did not get an answer.

‘Move aside,’ said Lakshman harshly as he pushed his way through the throng, leading Ram by the hand. People got out of the way at the sight of the muscular giant, and soon the brothers were at the wall.

As soon as they reached the edge, Ram’s attention was caught by what he saw. Beyond the second wall and the lake-moat, in the clearing ahead of the forest line, a small army seemed to be gathering with devastating precision and discipline. There were ten standard bearers at regular intervals, holding their flags high. Waves of soldiers emerged from the forest in neat rows and, within a few minutes, they were all in formation, approximately a thousand behind each standard. Intriguingly, they had left a large area clear, right in the centre of their formation.

Ram noticed that the colour of the
dhotis
that the soldiers wore was the same as their standards. He estimated that there must be ten thousand soldiers. Not a very large number, but enough to cause serious trouble to a city like Mithila, which was not a garrison city.

‘Which kingdom has sent this army?’ asked Ram.

‘It’s apparently not an army,’ remarked the man standing next to Lakshman. ‘It’s a bodyguard corps.’

Ram was about to pose another question to the man when they were all distracted by the reverberating sounds of conch shells being blown by the soldiers in the clearing. A moment later, even this sound was drowned out by one that Ram had not heard before. It almost seemed like a giant demon was slicing through the air with quick strokes from a gigantic sword.

Lakshman looked up, tracing the source of the sound. ‘What the…’

The crowd watched in awe. It must be the legendary flying vehicle that was the proud possession of Lanka, the
Pushpak Vimaan
. It was a giant conical craft, made of some strange, unknown metal. Massive rotors attached to the top of the vehicle, right at its pointed end, were swinging with a powerful force in a right to left, circular motion. A few smaller rotors were attached close to the base, on all sides. The body of the craft had many portholes, each of which was covered with thick glass.

The vehicle made a noise that could overpower that of trumpeting elephants in hot pursuit. It appeared to intensify as it hovered above the trees for a bit. As it did so, small circular metal screens descended over the portholes, covering them completely, blocking any view of the insides of the
Vimaan
. The crowd gaped in unison at this outlandish sight as they covered their ears. So did Lakshman. But Ram did not. He stared at the craft with a visceral anger welling up deep inside him. He knew whom it belonged to. He knew who was in there. The man responsible for having destroyed all possibilities of a happy childhood before Ram was even born. He stood amidst the throng as if he was alone. His eyes burned with fearsome intensity.

The sound of the rotors suddenly dipped as the craft began its descent. The
Pushpak Vimaan
landed perfectly in the clearing designated for it, in the centre of the formations of the Lankan soldiers. The Mithilans of the Bees Quarter spontaneously broke into applause. For the soldiers of Lanka though, they may not have existed at all. They stood absolutely straight, rooted to their positions, in a remarkable display of raw discipline.

A few minutes later, a section of the conical
Vimaan
swung open, revealing a perfectly concealed door. The door slid aside and a giant of a man filled the doorway. He stepped out and surveyed the ground before him. A Lankan officer ran up to him and gave him a crisp salute. They exchanged some quick words and the giant looked intently towards the wall, at the avid spectators. He abruptly turned around and walked back into the
Vimaan
. After a while, he appeared again, this time walking out, followed by another man.

The second man was distinctly shorter than the first, and yet taller than the average Mithilan; probably of the same height as Ram. But unlike Ram’s lean muscular physique, this Lankan was of gigantic proportions. His swarthy skin, handlebar moustache, thick beard and pock-marked face lent him an intimidating air. He wore a violet
dhoti
and
angvastram
, a colour-dye that was among the most expensive in the Sapt Sindhu. He wore a large headgear with two threatening six-inch curved horns stretching out from either side. He stooped a bit as he walked.

‘Raavan…’ whispered Lakshman.

Ram did not respond.

Lakshman looked at Ram. ‘
Dada
…’

Ram remained silent, looking intently at the king of Lanka in the distance.

‘
Dada
,’ said Lakshman. ‘We should leave.’

Ram looked at Lakshman. There was fire in his eyes. He then turned back to look at the Lankans beyond the second wall of Mithila; to
the
Lankan beyond the second wall of Mithila.

FlyLeaf.ORG

Chapter 22
FlyLeaf.ORG

‘Please don’t leave,’ pleaded Arishtanemi. ‘Guru
ji
is as troubled as you are. We don’t know how or why Raavan landed up here. But Guru
ji
thinks it’s safer for the two of you to remain within the fort walls.’

Ram and Lakshman sat in their room in the Bees Quarter. Arishtanemi had returned with a plea from Vishwamitra to the princes of Ayodhya:
please do not leave
. Raavan had set up camp outside the walls of Mithila. He had not entered the city, though a few of his emissaries had. They had gone straight to the main palace to speak to King Janak and his younger brother King Kushadhwaj; the latter had newly arrived in the city to attend the
swayamvar
.

‘Why should I bother about what Guru Vishwamitra thinks?’ asked Lakshman aggressively. ‘I only care about my elder brother! Nobody can guess what this demon from Lanka will do! We have to leave!
Now!
’

‘Please think about this with a calm mind. How will you be safe all alone in the jungle? You are better off within the walls of the city. The Malayaputras are here for your defence.’

‘We cannot just sit here, waiting for events to unfold. I am leaving with my brother. You Malayaputras can do whatever the hell you want to!’

‘Prince Ram,’ Arishtanemi turned to Ram, ‘please, trust me. What I am advising is the best course of action. Do not withdraw from the
swayamvar
. Do not leave the city.’

Ram’s external demeanour was calm as usual, and yet Arishtanemi sensed a different energy; the inner serenity, so typical of Ram, was missing.

Had Ram been truly honest with himself, he would admit that there were many who had hurt him, who he should have at least resented, if not hated, with equal ferocity. Raavan, after all, had simply done his job; he had won a battle that he had fought. However, the child that Ram had once been was incapable of such rationalisation. That lonely and hurt child had focused all his frustration and anger at the injustices that he had faced on the iconic, invisible demon who had wrought such a devastating change in his father, turning him into a bitter man who constantly put his eldest son down and neglected him. As a child, he had convinced himself that Raavan had triggered all his misfortunes; that if Raavan had not won that battle on that terrible day in Karachapa, Ram would not have suffered so.

The anger that Ram reserved for Raavan stemmed from that childhood memory — it was overwhelming and beyond reason.

Arishtanemi had left for Vishwamitra’s guest quarters, leaving Ram and Lakshman to themselves.

‘
Dada
, trust me, let’s just escape from here,’ said Lakshman. ‘There are ten thousand Lankans; we’re only two. I’m telling you, if push comes to shove, even the Mithilans and Malayaputras will side with Raavan.’

Ram stared at the garden beyond, through the only window in the room.

‘
Dada
,’ said Lakshman, insistent. ‘We need to make a run for it. I’ve been told there’s a second gate at the other end of the city-wall. Nobody, except for the Malayaputras, knows who we are. We can escape quietly and return with the Ayodhya army. We will teach the damned Lankans a lesson, but for now, we need to run.’

Ram turned to Lakshman and spoke with eerie calm. ‘We are the descendants of Ikshvaku, the descendants of Raghu. We will not run away.’

‘
Dada
…’

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. He cast a quick look at Ram and drew his sword. Ram frowned. ‘Lakshman, if someone wanted to assassinate us, he wouldn’t knock. He would just barge in. There is no place to hide in here.’

Lakshman continued to stare at the door, unsure whether he should sheath his sword.

‘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 into:
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.