Sita: Warrior of Mithila

by Amish Tripathi

  ‘Hanu bhaiya!’ screamed Sita in delight, as they entered a small clearing.

  Hanuman stood next to his horse, rubbing the tired animal’s neck. The horse was tied to a tree.

  ‘My sisters!’ said Hanuman affectionately.

  The gentle giant walked up to them. He enclosed them together in a warm embrace. ‘How are the two of you doing?’

  ‘You have been away for far too long!’ Radhika complained.

  ‘I know,’ sighed Hanuman. ‘I’m sorry. I was abroad …’

  ‘Where do you keep going?’ asked Sita, who found Hanuman’s mysterious life very exciting. ‘Who sends you on these missions?’

  ‘I will tell you when the time is right, Sita … But not now.’

  Hanuman reached into the saddlebag tied to the horse and pulled out a delicate necklace made of gold, in a style that was obviously foreign.

  Radhika squealed with delight.

  ‘You guess correctly,’ smiled Hanuman, as he handed it to her. ‘This one is for you …’

  Radhika admired the necklace in detail, turning it around several times in her hands.

  ‘And for you, my serious one,’ said Hanuman to Sita. ‘I’ve got what you’ve always wanted …’

  Sita’s eyes widened. ‘An ekmukhi Rudraaksh?!’

  The word Rudraaksh literally meant the teardrop of Rudra. In reality, it was a brown elliptical seed. All who were loyal to the Mahadev, Lord Rudra, wore threaded Rudraaksh beads or kept one in their puja rooms. A common Rudraaksh seed had many grooves running across it. An ekmukhi Rudraaksh was rare, and had only one groove on its surface. Very difficult to find. Expensive too. Priceless for Sita, a staunch Lord Rudra devotee.

  Hanuman smiled as he reached into the saddlebag.

  Suddenly, the horse became fidgety and nervous, its ears flicking back and forth. Within moments its breathing was rapid and shallow. Conveying panic.

  Hanuman looked around carefully. And he caught sight of the danger.

  Very slowly, without any sign of alarm, he pulled Radhika and Sita behind him.

  The girls knew better than to talk. They, too, could sense danger. Something was seriously wrong.

  Hanuman suddenly made a loud, screeching sound; like that of an agitated monkey. The tiger hidden behind the tree immediately knew that its element of surprise was gone. It walked out slowly. Hanuman reached for the scabbard tied to his cummerbund and drew out his curved knife. Made in the style of the khukuris of the fierce Gorkhas, the blade of the knife was not straight. It thickened at mid-length, and then the thick section curved downwards. Like a sloping shoulder. At the hilt-end, the sharp side of the blade had a double-wave notch. Shaped like a cow’s foot. It served a practical purpose. It allowed the blood from the blade to drip to the ground, instead of spreading to the hilt and making the knife-hold slippery. The cow’s foot indentation also signified that the weapon could never be used to kill a holy cow. The handle was made of ivory. At the halfway mark, a protrusion emerged from all sides of the hilt. It served as a peg between the middle finger and the ring finger, making the grip secure. The khukuri had no cross-guard for a thrusting action. A less-skilled warrior’s hand could slip forward onto the blade, in a thrust. It could cause serious injury to the knife-wielder.

  But nobody in their right mind would call Hanuman less than supremely skilled.

  ‘Stay behind me,’ whispered Hanuman to the girls, as the tiger edged forward slowly.

  Hanuman spread his legs apart and bent, maintaining his balance. Waiting. For what was to follow. Keeping his breathing steady.

  With an ear-splitting roar, the tiger suddenly burst forward, going up on its hind legs, spreading its front legs out. Ready to hold the massive Hanuman in its grip. Its jaws opened wide, it headed straight for Hanuman’s throat.

  The tiger’s tactic was sound: topple the human with its massive weight, pin him to the ground with its claws, and rely on its jaws to finish the job.

  Against a lesser enemy, it would have prevailed. But, to its misfortune, it had attacked the mighty Hanuman.

  The giant Naga was almost as big as the tiger. With one foot back, he arched his spine, flexed his powerful muscles; and, remained on his feet. Using his left hand, he held the tiger by its throat, and kept its fearsome jaws away. Hanuman allowed the tiger to claw his back. It would not cause much damage. He pulled his right hand back, flexed his shoulder muscles and brutally thrust the khukuri deep into the tiger’s abdomen. Its outrageously sharp-edged blade sliced in smoothly. The beast roared in pain. Its eyes wide in shock.

  Hanuman sucked in his breath and executed a draw-cut to the right, ripping deep into the beast’s abdominal cavity. All the way from one end to the other. Vicious, but effective. Not only did most of the beast’s abdominal organs get slashed, the knife even sliced through a bit of the backbone and the nerves protected inside.

  The tiger’s slippery intestines slid out of its cleaved abdomen, its hind legs locked in paralysis. Hanuman pushed the beast back. It fell to the ground, roaring in agony as its front legs lashed out in all directions.

  Hanuman could have avoided further injury from its claws had he waited for the tiger to weaken. And let its front legs go down. But the animal was in agony. He wanted to end its suffering. Hanuman bent closer even as the tiger’s claws dug deep into his shoulders. The Naga stabbed straight into the animal’s chest. The blade cut right through, sliding deep into the beast’s heart. It struggled for a few moments and then its soul escaped its body.

  Hanuman pulled the blade out and whispered softly, ‘May your soul find purpose once again, noble beast.’

  ‘These things happen, Radhika,’ said Hanuman. ‘We’re in the middle of a jungle. What do you expect?’

  Radhika was still shaking with fear.

  Sita had quickly pulled out the medical aid kit from the saddlebag and dressed Hanuman’s injuries. They were not life-threatening but a few of them were deep. Sita stitched a couple of gaping wounds. She found some rejuvenating herbs around the clearing and made an infusion, using stones to grind the leaves with some water. She gave it to Hanuman to drink.

  As Hanuman gulped the medicine down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he watched Sita.

  She is not nervous … She didn’t get scared … This girl is special …

  ‘I would not have imagined that a tiger could be brought down with such ease,’ whispered Sita.

  ‘It helps if you’re my size!’ laughed Hanuman.

  ‘Are you sure that you can ride? Your wounds aren’t serious, but …’

  ‘I can’t stay here either. I have to get back …’

  ‘Another of your mysterious missions?’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You have to do what you have to do, Hanu bhaiya.’

  Hanuman smiled. ‘Don’t forget your Rudraaksh.’

  Sita reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a silk pouch. She opened it slowly, carefully picking up the ekmukhi Rudraaksh. She stared at it in awe. Then she held it to her forehead with reverence before slipping it into the pouch tied to her waist.

  Chapter 8

  Shvetaketu could not believe his luck. The great Vishwamitra had arrived at his gurukul for the second time this year! He rushed to the gates of the ashram as the Malayaputras marched in.

  ‘Namaste, Great One,’ said Shvetaketu, smiling broadly, his hands joined together in respect.

  ‘Namaste, Shvetaketu,’ said Vishwamitra, smiling just enough to not intimidate his host.

  ‘What an honour to have you call on our gurukul so soon after your last visit.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vishwamitra, looking around.

  ‘It is unfortunate that my students are not here to gain from your presence,’ said Shvetaketu, his expression reflecting heartfelt regret. ‘Most of them are away on vacation.’

  ‘But I believe a few have stayed back.’

  ‘Yes, Illustrious One. Sita is here … And …’

  ‘I would like to meet Sita.’


  ‘Of course.’

  Sita stood with Maharishi Vishwamitra near the balustrade at the edge of the main deck of his anchored ship, facing the far bank of the Ganga. Vishwamitra had wanted privacy, away from the curious eyes of the teachers in the gurukul. A small brick-laid yagna kund was being readied by the Malayaputra pandits on the main deck of the ship, a little distance away from Sita and Vishwamitra.

  Sita was confused. Why does the Maharishi want to speak to me?

  ‘How old are you now, Sita?’

  ‘I will turn fourteen soon, Guruji.’

  ‘That’s not too old. We can begin, I think.’

  ‘Begin what, Guruji?’

  Vishwamitra took a deep breath. ‘Have you heard of the institution of the Vishnu?’

  ‘Yes, Guruji.’

  ‘Tell me what you know.’

  ‘It is a title given to the greatest of leaders, who are Propagators of Good. They lead their people into a new way of life. There have been six Vishnus in this present Vedic age that we live in. The previous Vishnu was the great Lord Parshu Ram.’

  ‘Jai Parshu Ram.’

  ‘Jai Parshu Ram.’

  ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘The Vishnus normally work in partnership with the Mahadevs, who are Destroyers of Evil. The Mahadevs assign a tribe as their representatives once their karma in a particular life is over. The tribe of the previous Mahadev, Lord Rudra, is the Vayuputras who live in faraway Pariha. The Vishnu of our age will work in close partnership with …’

  ‘This partnership thing is not necessarily important,’ interrupted Vishwamitra.

  Sita fell silent. Surprised. This was not what she had learnt.

  ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘I know that the previous Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram, left behind a tribe as well — the Malayaputras. And you, Maharishiji, are the chief of the Malayaputras. And if a Vishnu must rise in our age, to fight the darkness that envelops us, it must be you.’

  ‘You are wrong.’

  Sita frowned. Confused.

  ‘The assumption you made in your last statement is wrong,’ clarified Vishwamitra. ‘Yes, I am the chief of the Malayaputras. But I cannot be the Vishnu. My task is to decide who the next Vishnu will be.’

  Sita nodded silently.

  ‘What do you think is the main problem corroding India today?’

  ‘Most people will say Raavan, but I won’t.’

  Vishwamitra smiled. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Raavan is only a symptom. He is not the disease. If it hadn’t been Raavan, it would have been someone else torturing us. The fault lies in us, that we allow ourselves to be dominated. Raavan may be powerful, but if we …’

  ‘Raavan is not as powerful as the people of Sapt Sindhu think he is. But he revels in this image of the monster that he has created for himself. That image intimidates others. But that image is useful for us as well,’ said Vishwamitra.

  Sita didn’t understand that last line. And, Vishwamitra chose not to explain.

  ‘So, you say that Raavan is only a symptom. Then, what is the disease afflicting the Sapt Sindhu today?’

  Sita paused to formulate her thoughts. ‘I’ve been thinking about this since you spoke to us at the gurukul last year, Guruji. You said society needs balance. It needs intellectuals, warriors, traders, and skilled workers. And that ideally, the scale should not be tipped against any group. That there should be a fair balance between all.’

  ‘And …’

  ‘So, why is it that society always moves towards imbalance? That’s what I was thinking. It gets unbalanced when people are not free to live a life that is in alignment with their innate guna, their attributes. It can happen when a group is oppressed or belittled, like the Vaishyas in Sapt Sindhu today. It makes those with Vaishya gunas frustrated and angry. It can also happen when you’re made to follow the occupation of your parents and clan, rather than what you may want to pursue. Raavan was born a Brahmin. But he clearly did not want to be a Brahmin. He is a Kshatriya by nature. It must have been the same with …’

  Sita stopped herself in time. But Vishwamitra was staring directly into her eyes, reading her thoughts. ‘Yes, it happened with me too. I was born a Kshatriya but wanted to be a Brahmin.’

  ‘People like you are rare, Guruji. Most people surrender to the pressure of society and family. But it builds terrible frustration within. These are unhappy and angry people, living unbalanced, dissatisfied lives. Furthermore, society itself suffers. It may get stuck with Kshatriyas who do not possess valour, and cannot protect their society. It may get stuck with Brahmins who prefer to be skilled Shudras like medical surgeons or sculptors, and therefore will be terrible teachers. And ultimately, society will decline.’

  ‘You have diagnosed the problem well. So, what is the solution?’

  ‘I don’t know. How does one change society? How do we break down this birth-based caste system that is destroying our noble land?’

  ‘I have a solution in mind.’

  Sita waited for an explanation.

  ‘Not now,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘I will explain one day. When you are ready. For now, we have a ceremony to conduct.’

  ‘Ceremony?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vishwamitra, as he turned towards the yagna kund, which had been built at the centre of the main deck. Seven Malayaputra pandits waited at the other end of the deck. Upon a signal from Vishwamitra, they walked up to the yagna kund.

  ‘Come,’ said Vishwamitra, as he led her forward.

  The yagna platform was built in an unorthodox manner, or at least one with which Sita was not familiar. It had a square, outer boundary, made of bricks. Encased within it was a circular inner boundary, made of metal.

  ‘This yagna kund represents a type of mandal, a symbolic representation of spiritual reality,’ Vishwamitra explained to Sita. ‘The square boundary symbolises Prithvi, the earth that we live on. The four sides of the square represent the four directions. The space inside the square represents Prakruti or nature. It is uncultured and wild. The circle within represents the path of consciousness; of the Parmatma. The task of the Vishnu is to find the Parmatma within this earthly life. The Vishnu lights a path to God. Not through detachment from the world, but through profound and spiritual attachment to this great land of ours.’

  ‘Yes, Guruji.’

  ‘You will sit on the southern side of the square.’

  Sita sat in the seat indicated by Vishwamitra. The Chief Malayaputra sat with his back to the north, facing Sita. A Malayaputra pandit lit the fire within the circular inner boundary of the yagna platform. He was chanting a hymn dedicated to Lord Agni, the God of Fire.

  A yagna signifies a sacrificial exchange: you sacrifice something that you hold dear, and receive benediction in return. Lord Agni, the purifying fire, is witness to this exchange between humans and the divine.

  Vishwamitra folded his hands together into a Namaste. So did Sita. He began chanting a hymn from the Brihadaranyak Upanishad. Sita and the seven Malayaputra pandits joined in.

  Asato mā sadgamaya

  Tamasomā jyotir gamaya

  Mrityormāamritam gamaya

  Om shāntishānti shāntih

  Lead me from untruth to truth

  Lead me from darkness to light

  Lead me from death to immortality

  For Me and the Universe, let there be peace, peace, peace

  Vishwamitra reached into a pouch tied to his waist and withdrew a small scabbard. Holding it reverentially in the palm of his hand, he pulled out a tiny silver knife. He ran his finger over the edge, bringing it to rest on the tip of the blade. Sharp. He checked the markings on the handle. It was the correct one. He reached over the fire and handed the knife to Sita. It had to be passed from the northern to the southern direction.

  ‘This yagna will be sealed in blood,’ said Vishwamitra.

  ‘Yes, Guruji,’ said Sita, accepting the knife with both hands as a mark of respect.

  Vishwamitra reached into
his pouch and retrieved another small scabbard. He pulled out the second knife and checked its blade. Perfectly sharp. He looked at Sita. ‘The blood must only drop within the circular inner boundary of the yagna kund. Under no circumstances must it spill in the space between the metal and bricks. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Guruji.’

  Two Malayaputra pandits approached them silently and handed two pieces of cloth each to Vishwamitra and Sita. Each had been doused in neem-juice disinfectants. Without waiting for further instructions, Sita placed the sharp knife-edge on her left palm and folded her hand over the blade. Then, in a swift, clean motion, she pulled the knife back, cutting open the skin from edge to edge. Blood dribbled freely into the sacred fire. She did not flinch.

  ‘Arrey, we needed just a drop of blood,’ exclaimed Vishwamitra. ‘A little nick would have been enough.’

  Sita looked at Vishwamitra, unperturbed. She pressed the disinfectant cloth into her injured hand, careful not to spill any blood.

  Vishwamitra quickly pricked his thumb with the knife edge.

  He held his hand over the inner boundary of the yagna kund, and pressed his thumb to let a drop of blood fall into the flames. Sita also held out her left hand and removed the cloth, letting her blood drip into the fire.

  Vishwamitra spoke in a clear voice. ‘With the pure Lord Agni as my witness, I swear that I will honour my promise to Lord Parshu Ram. Always. To my last breath. And beyond.’

  Sita repeated the words. Exactly.

  ‘Jai Parshu Ram,’ said Vishwamitra.

  ‘Jai Parshu Ram,’ repeated Sita.

  The Malayaputra pandits around them chimed in. ‘Jai Parshu Ram.’

  Vishwamitra smiled and withdrew his hand. Sita too pulled her hand back and covered it with the disinfectant cloth. A Malayaputra pandit walked up to her and tied the cloth tight around her hand, staunching the blood flow.

  ‘It is done,’ said Vishwamitra, looking at Sita.

  ‘Am I a Malayaputra now?’ asked Sita expectantly.

  Vishwamitra looked amused. He pointed to Sita’s knife. ‘Look at the markings on your knife.’

  Sita picked up the silver knife. Its blade-edge was stained with her blood. She examined the handle. It had three intricate letters engraved on it. Sages of yore, in their wisdom, had suggested that Old Sanskrit should not have a written script. They felt that the written word was inferior to the spoken; that it reduced the ability of the mind to understand concepts. Rishi Shvetaketu had had another explanation: the sages preferred that scriptures were not written down and remained oral so that as times changed, they could change easily as well. Writing things down brought rigidity into the scriptures. Whatever the reason, the fact was that writing was not valued in the Sapt Sindhu. As a result, there were many scripts that existed across the land. Scripts that changed from time to time and place to place. There was no serious attempt to develop a standard script.