Sita: Warrior of Mithila

by Amish Tripathi

  The Hall of Dharma was in a circular building, built of stone and mortar, with a massive dome. The delicate elegance of the dome was believed to represent the feminine, while the typical temple spire represented the masculine. The hall was also 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. 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. The spectator stands were already packed when Ram and Lakshman were led in by Arishtanemi. Most contestants too had taken their seats. Few recognised the two princes of Ayodhya, dressed as hermits. A guard gestured for them to move towards the base platform of a three-tiered stand, occupied by the nobility and rich merchants of Mithila.

  Arishtanemi informed the guard that he was accompanying a competitor. The guard was surprised. He had recognised Arishtanemi, the lieutenant of the great Vishwamitra, but not Ram and Lakshman. But he stepped aside to let them proceed. After all, it would not be unusual for the devout King Janak to invite even Brahmin rishis, not just Kshatriya kings, for his daughter’s swayamvar.

  Ram followed Arishtanemi to the allotted seat. He seated himself, as Lakshman and Arishtanemi stood behind him. All eyes turned to them. Many contestants wondered who these simple mendicants were, who hoped to compete with them for Princess Sita’s hand. A few, though, recognised the princes of Ayodhya. A conspiratorial buzz was heard from a section of the contestants.

  ‘Ayodhya …’

  ‘Why does Ayodhya want an alliance with Mithila?’

  Ram, however, was oblivious to the stares and whispers of the assembly.

  He looked towards the centre of the hall; to the Pinaka bow placed on a table. The legendary bow was unstrung. An array of arrows placed by its side. Next to the table, at ground level, was a large copper-plated basin.

  A competitor was first required to pick up the bow and string it. Itself no mean task. Then he would move to the copper-plated basin. It was filled with water, with additional drops trickling in steadily into the basin through a thin tube. Excess water was drained out by another thin tube, attached to the other side. This created subtle ripples within the bowl, spreading out from the centre towards the edge. Troublingly, the drops of water were released at irregular intervals, making the ripples unpredictable.

  A hilsa fish was nailed to a wheel, fixed to an axle that was suspended from the top of the dome. A hundred metres above the ground. The wheel, thankfully, revolved at a constant speed.

  The contestant was required to look at the reflection of the fish in the unstill water below, disturbed by ripples generated at irregular intervals, and use the Pinaka bow to fire an arrow into the eye of the fish, fixed on the revolving wheel high above. The first to succeed would win the hand of the bride.

  Sita sat in a room on the second floor adjoining the Hall of Dharma, directly above the royal Mithilan thrones, hidden behind a latticed window. She looked at Ram, seated in the circle of contestants.

  The eldest prince of Ayodhya looked around. Sita felt as though he was seeking her out. She smiled. ‘I’m here, Ram. I’m waiting for you. Waiting for you to win …’

  She noticed Samichi standing with a posse of policemen a short distance from the entrance. Samichi was staring at Ram. She looked up at the latticed window where Sita sat hidden from view. She had a look of utter disapproval.

  Sita sighed with irritation. Samichi needs to relax. I can handle the situation. Ram’s life is not in danger.

  She turned her attention back to the princes of Ayodhya. She saw Lakshman bend close to his elder brother and whisper something. The expression on his face mischievous. Ram looked at his brother and glared. Lakshman grinned, said something more, and stepped back.

  Sita smiled. The brothers really love each other. Surprising, given the politics of their family.

  Her attention was drawn away by the court announcer.

  ‘The Lord of the Mithi clan, the wisest of the wise, beloved of the rishis, King Janak!’

  The court arose to welcome their host, Janak, the king of Mithila. He walked in from the far end of the hall. In a deviation from courtly tradition, he followed the great Malayaputra chief, Vishwamitra, who was in the lead. Janak had always honoured men and women of knowledge. He followed his own personal tradition on this special day as well. Behind Janak was his younger brother, Kushadhwaj, the king of Sankashya. Those aware of the strained relations between Janak and his younger brother, were impressed by the graciousness of the king of Mithila. He had let bygones be bygones and included the entire extended family in this celebration. Unfortunately, Kushadhwaj felt otherwise. He felt his brother had been naive as usual. Besides, Kushadhwaj had just played his own cards …

  Janak requested Vishwamitra to occupy the main throne of Mithila, as he moved towards the smaller throne to the right. Kushadhwaj walked towards the seat on the left of the great Maharishi. This was exactly two floors below the room Sita was in, hidden behind a latticed window. A flurry of officials scuttled all over the place, for this was an unexpected breach of protocol. The king had offered his own throne to another.

  A loud buzz ran through the hall at this unorthodox seating arrangement, but Sita was distracted by something else.

  Where is Raavan?

  She smiled.

  So the Malayaputras have handled the king of Lanka. He won’t be coming. Good.

  The court crier banged his staff against the large bell at the entrance of the hall, signalling a call for silence.

  Vishwamitra cleared his throat and spoke loudly. The superb acoustics of the Hall of Dharma carried his voice clearly to all those present. ‘Welcome to this august gathering called by the wisest and most spiritual of rulers in India, King Janak.’

  Janak smiled genially.

  Vishwamitra continued. ‘The princess of Mithila, Sita, has decided to make this a gupt swayamvar. She will not join us in the hall. The great kings and princes will, on her bidding, compete —’

  The Maharishi was interrupted by the ear-splitting sounds of numerous conch shells; surprising, for conch shells were usually melodious and pleasant. Everyone turned to the source of the sound: the entrance of the great hall. Fifteen tall, muscular warriors strode into the room holding black flags, with the image of the head of a roaring lion emerging from a profusion of fiery flames. The warriors marched with splendid discipline.

  Behind them were two formidable men. One was a giant, even taller than Lakshman. He was corpulent but muscular, with a massive potbelly that jiggled with every step. His whole body was unusually hirsute — he looked more like a giant bear than human. Most troubling for all those present, were the strange outgrowths on his ears and shoulders. He was a Naga. He was also Raavan’s younger brother, Kumbhakarna.

  Walking proudly beside him was Raavan, his head held high. He moved with a minor stoop; perhaps a sign of advancing age. Despite the stoop, Raavan’s great height and rippling musculature were obvious. The muscles may have sagged a bit and the skin may have wrinkled, but the strength that remained in them was palpable. His battle-worn, swarthy skin was pockmarked, probably by a childhood disease. A thick beard, with an equal sprinkling of black and white hair, valiantly attempted to cover his ugly marks while a handlebar moustache set off his menacing features. He was wearing a violet-coloured dhoti and angvastram; only the most expensive colour-dye in the world. His headgear was intimidating, with two threatening six-inch-long horns reaching out from the top on either side.

  Fifteen more warriors followed the two men.

  Raavan’s en
tourage moved to the centre and halted next to the bow of Lord Rudra. The lead bodyguard made a loud announcement. ‘The king of kings, the emperor of emperors, the ruler of the three worlds, the beloved of the Gods, Lord Raavan!’

  Raavan turned to a minor king who sat closest to the Pinaka. He made a soft grunting sound and flicked his head to the right, a casual gesture which clearly communicated what he expected. The king immediately rose and scurried away, coming to a standstill behind another competitor. Raavan walked to the chair, but did not sit. He placed his right foot on the seat and rested his hand on his knee. His bodyguards, including the giant bear-like Kumbhakarna, fell in line behind him.

  Raavan finally cast a casual glance at Vishwamitra. ‘Continue, great Malayaputra.’

  Vishwamitra, the chief of the Malayaputras, was furious. He had never been treated so disrespectfully. ‘Raavan …’ he growled.

  Raavan stared at Vishwamitra with lazy arrogance.

  The Maharishi managed to rein in his temper; he had an important task at hand. He would deal with Raavan later. ‘Princess Sita has decreed the sequence in which the great kings and princes will compete.’

  Raavan began to walk towards the Pinaka while Vishwamitra was still speaking. The chief of the Malayaputras completed his announcement just as Raavan was about to reach for the bow. ‘The first man to compete is not you, Raavan. It is Ram, the prince of Ayodhya.’

  Raavan’s hand stopped a few inches from the bow. He looked at Vishwamitra, and then turned around to see who had responded to the sage. He saw a young man, dressed in the simple white clothes of a hermit. Behind him stood another young, though gigantic, man, next to whom was Arishtanemi.

  Raavan glared first at Arishtanemi, and then at Ram. If looks could kill, Raavan would have certainly felled a few today. He turned towards Vishwamitra, Janak, and Kushadhwaj, his fingers wrapped around the macabre finger-bones pendant that hung around his neck. His body was shaking in utter fury. He growled in a loud and booming voice, ‘I have been insulted! Why was I invited at all if you planned to make unskilled boys compete ahead of me?!’

  Janak looked at Kushadhwaj before turning to Raavan and interjecting weakly, ‘These are the rules of the swayamvar, Great King of Lanka …’

  A voice that sounded more like the rumble of thunder was finally heard. The voice of Kumbhakarna. ‘Enough of this nonsense!’ He turned towards Raavan, his elder brother. ‘Dada, let’s go.’

  Raavan suddenly bent and picked up the Pinaka. Before anyone could react, he had strung it and nocked an arrow on the string. Everyone sat paralysed as he pointed the arrow directly at Vishwamitra.

  Vishwamitra stood up, threw his angvastram aside, and banged his chest with his closed fist. ‘Shoot, Raavan!’ The sage’s voice resounded in the great hall. ‘Come on! Shoot, if you have the guts!’

  The crowd gasped collectively. In horror.

  Sita was shocked beyond words. Guruji!

  Raavan released the arrow. It slammed into the statue of Mithi behind Vishwamitra, breaking off the nose of the ancient king, the founder of Mithila. An unimaginable insult.

  Sita was livid. How dare he?

  ‘Raavan!’ growled Sita, as she got up and whirled around, simultaneously reaching for her sword. She was stopped by her Mithilan maids, who held her back from rushing towards the stairs.

  ‘No, Lady Sita!’

  ‘Raavan is a monster …’

  ‘You will die …’

  ‘Look, he’s leaving …’ said another maid.

  Sita rushed back to the latticed window. She saw Raavan throw the bow, the holy Pinaka, on the table and begin to walk towards the door. He was followed by his guards. In all this commotion, Kumbhakarna quickly stepped up to the table, unstrung the Pinaka, and reverentially brought it to his head. Holding it with both hands. Almost like he was apologising to the bow. Placing the Pinaka back on the table, he turned around and briskly walked out of the hall. Behind Raavan.

  As the last of the Lankans exited, the people within the hall turned in unison from the doorway to those seated at the other end of the room: Vishwamitra, Janak and Kushadhwaj.

  Vishwamitra spoke as if nothing had happened. ‘Let the competition begin.’

  The people in the room sat still, as if they had turned to stone. En masse. Vishwamitra spoke once again, louder this time. ‘Let the competition begin. Prince Ram, please step up.’

  Ram rose from his chair and walked up to the Pinaka. He bowed with reverence and folded his hands together into a Namaste. Sita thought she saw his lips move in a chant. But she couldn’t be sure from the distance.

  He raised his right wrist and touched both his eyes with the red thread tied around it.

  Sita smiled. May the Kanyakumari bless you, Ram. And, may she bless me with your hand in marriage.

  Ram touched the bow and tarried a while. He then brought his head down and placed it on the bow; as if asking to be blessed by the great weapon. He breathed steadily as he lifted the bow with ease. Sita looked at Ram intently. With bated breath.

  Ram placed one arm of the bow on a wooden stand placed on the ground. His shoulders, back and arms strained visibly as he pulled down the upper limb of the Pinaka, simultaneously pulling up the bowstring. His body laboured at the task. But his face was serene. He bent the upper limb farther with a slight increase in effort, and tied the bowstring. His muscles relaxed as he let go of the upper limb and held the bow at the grip. He brought the bowstring close to his ear and plucked; his expression showed that the twang was right.

  He picked up an arrow and walked to the copper-plated basin. Deliberate footsteps. Unhurried. He went down on one knee and held the bow horizontally above his head. He looked down at the water. At the reflection of the fish that moved in a circle above him. The rippling water in the basin danced as if to tantalise his mind. Ram focused on the image of the fish to the exclusion of all else. He nocked the arrow on the string of the bow and pulled slowly with his right hand. His back erect. The core muscles activated with ideal tension. His breathing steady and rhythmic.

  Calmly, without any hint of nervousness or anxiety, he pulled the string all the way back and released the arrow. It shot up. As did the vision of each person in the room. The unmistakable sound of a furiously speeding arrow crashing into wood reverberated in the great hall. It had pierced the right eye of the fish, and lodged itself into the wooden wheel. The wheel swirled rhythmically as the shaft of the arrow drew circles in the air.

  Sita smiled in relief. All the tension of the last few days was forgotten. The anger of the last few minutes, forgotten. Her eyes were pinned on Ram, who knelt near the basin with his head bowed, studying the rippling water; a calm smile on his face.

  A part of Sita that had died years ago, when she had lost her mother, slowly sputtered to life once again.

  I am not alone anymore.

  She felt a bittersweet ache as she thought of her mother. That she wasn’t around to see Sita find her man.

  For the first time since her mother’s death, she could think of her without crying.

  Grief overwhelms you when you are alone. But when you find your soulmate, you can handle anything.

  What was a painful, unbearable memory had now been transformed into bittersweet nostalgia. A source of sadness, yes. But also, a source of strength and happiness.

  She pictured her mother standing before her. Smiling. Nurturing. Warm. Maternal. Like Mother Nature herself.

  Sita was whole once again.

  After a long, long time, she felt like whispering words that lay buried deep in her consciousness. Words that she thought she would have no use for once her mother had died.

  She looked at Ram in the distance and whispered, ‘I love you.’

  Chapter 22

  ‘Thank you, Arishtanemiji,’ said Sita. ‘The Malayaputras stood by me. Guruji put his own life at risk. I am grateful.’

  It had been announced that the wedding of Ram and Sita would be carried out in a simple set of rituals that
very afternoon. To Ram’s surprise, Sita had suggested that Lakshman and Urmila get married in the same auspicious hour of the day. To Ram’s further disbelief, Lakshman had enthusiastically agreed. It was decided that while both the couples would be wed in Mithila — to allow Sita and Urmila to travel with Ram and Lakshman to Ayodhya — a set of grand ceremonies would be held in Ayodhya as well. Befitting the descendants of the noble Ikshvaku.

  In the midst of the preparations for the wedding ceremonies, Arishtanemi had sought a meeting with Sita.

  ‘I hope this puts to rest any suspicions about where the Malayaputra loyalties lie,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘We have always been, and always will be, with the Vishnu.’

  You will be with the Vishnu only as long as I do what you want me to do. Not when I do something that does not fit in with your plans.

  Sita smiled. ‘My apologies for having doubted you, Arishtanemiji.’

  Arishtanemi smiled. ‘Misunderstandings can occur within the closest of families. All’s well that ends well.’

  ‘Where is Guru Vishwamitra?’

  ‘Where do you think?’

  Raavan.

  ‘How is the demon king taking it?’ asked Sita.

  Vishwamitra had gone out on a limb to aggressively stop Raavan during the swayamvar. The King of Lanka had felt insulted. There could be consequences. Raavan’s almighty ego was as legendary as his warrior spirit and cruelty. But would he take on the formidable Malayaputras?

  Arishtanemi looked down thoughtfully before returning his gaze to Sita. ‘Raavan is a cold and ruthless man, who makes decisions based on hard calculations. But his ego … His ego gets in the way sometimes.’

  ‘Cold and ruthless calculations would tell him not to take on the Malayaputras,’ said Sita. ‘He needs whatever it is we give him from the cavern of the Thamiravaruni.’