by Mukunda Rao
Shambuka picked the knife and stabbed at the fruit. ‘You know,’ he said loudly to no one in particular, ‘I’m an expert at cutting vegetables.’
‘Shambuka,’ Valmiki said gently. ‘It’s a jackfruit, not a pumpkin.’
Hugely amused, Sita started laughing softly in spite of herself, and then glanced at her Rama. He had been sitting stiffly till then, but now relaxed and smiled. Lakshman, of course, laughed heartily. It seemed to him that from Valmiki to Shambuka, almost everyone in the ashram laughed too much and too loudly, something that would have been looked upon with suspicion or consternation, or even pity, in Ayodhya. The thought provoked more laughter from Lakshman. Everyone there was laughing or smiling in good humour, except the man with shaven head, who was absorbed in recording the discussion on his scroll.
‘This is what I call the “riddle of the jackfruit and the pumpkin”,’ Shambuka declared, like one who has suddenly come upon a great insight on life. ‘The world is neither the pumpkin nor the jackfruit, and what comes in-between is the truth that can never be known.’ He pressed the knife into the fruit and carefully drew it around the body, slitting the fruit. Instantly, the room was filled with the delicious aroma of the fruit. He smiled triumphantly, dipped his hand in the oil lying in the bowl, rubbed his palms together and then dug his fingers into the luscious golden-yellow meat.
‘This doesn’t grow on the branches of trees,’ he said, as though he were explicating a complex idea, ‘but grows below the ground, like tuber, hidden from the eyes of men and beasts; when this fruit ripens, it bursts out of the earth, like the sun out of the waters.’ Tearing out a piece, he said joyfully ‘Ah, this is the truth! Rama, you must taste this and tell me what you think of it.’ He tossed a chunk of fruit at Rama. Rama, taken aback, just about managed to catch it.
Later, Rama, Sita and Lakshman sat outside their hut. Rama was immersed in deep thought, while Sita and Lakshman gazed at the fireflies hovering over the bushes. The meal at Shambuka’s home, rounded off with countless slices of jackfruit consumed between amusing yet lively palavers on food habits of communities as different from each other as dialects spoken in different regions, had been a boisterous affair. The curry had been a little pungent for Rama’s taste, and he had refused the meat.
‘It’s not cow’s meat or buffalo’s meat,’ Parvati had said. ‘It’s from well-bred sheep in the neighbouring village.’ Still, Rama was not sure if he wanted to eat meat, although he was fond of deer meat. Deer meat was taboo at the hermitage. Sita had declined the meat because Rama had. Lakshman enjoyed every bit of it though, and kept saying, ‘It tastes very different, but very good. It’s soft and delicious.’ And he had consumed an enormous quantity.
‘Rama, don’t you think these fireflies are dancing for us?’ Sita asked with all the innocence of a child.
‘Don’t be silly, Sita,’ Rama snapped.
‘Rama,’ she cried, showing her resentment, ‘why do you take everything so literally and seriously? Can’t I make a small joke about fireflies?’
Rama was surprised at Sita’s sudden retort. This was a different Sita, not the one who shrank back or turned sulky whenever Rama hurt her. ‘All right, all right; forgive me,’ he gushed. Then, after a long, thoughtful pause, he asked cautiously, ‘What were you talking with Shambuka’s wife about for such a long time in the kitchen? Is she really a Brahman?’
‘I don’t know, I didn’t care to ask her,’ Sita replied coldly.
Rama watched the winking flies keenly, and agreed that they indeed appeared to be dancing for them. ‘I wonder what kind of dance you would call it?’ he asked, trying to appease his wife.
‘There is no need to please me,’ Sita said, still annoyed.
‘No, no, I mean it,’ said Rama. ‘They look like apsaras dancing in Indra’s court!’
Rama trying to be humorous seemed bizarre. He could never be good at such things; he lacked the talent to forget himself. Sita smiled. ‘Parvati is a wonderful woman. I like her. Her knowledge of the shastras is really astounding.’
‘And you know all about the shastras?’
‘My dear husband, my father saw to it that I learnt the shastras from a wise man.’
‘A wise Brahman, eh?’
‘As a matter of fact, my guru was a weaver, sir. A truly wise one, not like the haughty pandits of your Ayodhya. And we study many shastras, not just the ones written by the Brahman scholars.’
‘Well, that explains…’
‘Yes, sir, it does.’
Sita was changing, and changing too fast. Unless she always had been like this; only, he had not cared to know or understand her. There was much to understand, a whole new world was opening up, and it was close at hand. ‘All right,’ he said eagerly, ‘tell me now, does she also reject the idea of atman?’
‘Who?’
‘I mean Shambuka’s wife. What does she think?’
‘She has a name, Rama.’
‘All right, Shambuka’s wife, Parvati. Now tell me.’
‘Rama, you don’t discuss atman in the kitchen.’ Sita sighed. It was sad he could not relax even on such a pleasant night. A cool breeze played about like a child turned loose, and high above, the naughty moon was playing hide-and-seek with indulgent clouds. But then, she had never seen him so curious about someone before. No, she didn’t want to disappoint her husband.
She began to tell Rama about her conversation with Parvati. Parvati had talked at length about her life as a young girl in Ayodhya. She was hardly sixteen when she had fallen in love with Shambuka, who was one of her father’s disciples. He was a bright student. What took several months for the other students to learn, Shambuka learnt in a few weeks. His steadfast devotion to knowledge had won her father’s admiration and love. In his twenty years as a teacher, he had not come across a student who was, if not better, at least as intelligent as the guru. Sometimes, the guru and shishya would sit up the whole night discussing some knotty problems in the texts they would have read that day.
Parvati had fallen in love with him well before she learnt about his sharp mind. Only at the end of the third year of his stay with them had he slowly started, first with suspicion, then with some hesitation, responding to her amorous looks. And it took almost another year for them to express their love for each other. It was then that her father, through a chance meeting with a temple priest from Shambuka’s village, learnt that Shambuka was not a Brahman but a Shudra. But Parvati knew. He had confessed it to her at their very first meeting. Her father felt greatly betrayed and enraged. He wanted Shambuka arrested and thrown into prison.
Yet something in him held back, and he kept the secret to himself for two whole days. Then, on the third day, during the morning class, when Shambuka raised a question on some point in the text they were studying, his teacher lost his temper and started to curse Shambuka. He had polluted the house and violated the dharma, and had to be punished with nothing less than death. The teacher ordered the other students to tie Shambuka to a tree. But after they had been told he was a Shudra, the Brahman boys didn’t want to be polluted by touching him. They were also scared because Shambuka looked strong enough to break their limbs.
Rama said, ‘So he escaped after killing his guru.’
Shocked, Sita said, ‘Why do you say that, Rama? Parvati does not know how her father died. Nobody knows. There was a great commotion when hundreds of people descended on the gurukul. And just before the soldiers arrived, both she and Shambuka hid in the field. Later, they escaped to Shambuka’s mother’s village on the outskirts of Ayodhya. I believe Shambuka was so enraged that he wanted to approach the king and argue out his case. For all his brilliance and knowledge, he was quite naive about many things in life, Parvati told me. I believe if he had gone anywhere near the royal court, he would have been instantly beheaded. Is that true, Rama? You think they would have killed him without giving him the benefit of a trial?’
‘I don’t know, Sita. Perhaps they would have,’ answered Rama, sounding vague a
nd confused. He was hardly nine or ten at that time, and had no idea of the newly passed edict that denied the Dasyus access to learning the devabhasha and religious texts. Any violation of the diktat was seen as a blasphemy and was dealt with severe punishment, even the death penalty. It was much later that he had learnt about Shambuka, and the Dharmashastra, which had been already established by then. But what his guru had told him about Shambuka did not seem to fit in with what Sita was saying.
‘Anyway,’ Sita went on, disappointed with Rama’s ambiguous response, ‘Parvati thinks she is blessed to be Shambuka’s wife. But their first few years in the village were filled with agonizing tension and the fear of the soldiers coming after them. To make things worse, they fought frequently, and the clash of egos left them drained. At times, he would become mean and cruel and even beat her. Only when the children appeared and started growing did the quarrels and violence cease. For a few years, Shambuka resumed the study of the texts he had managed to steal from her father’s house. He was in despair, troubled by doubts and questions he could not possibly discuss with anyone.
‘He continued to feel frustrated. Then, for about two years, he went into the forest to meditate. He returned a changed man, brimming with confidence, mature, wise and always smiling. And he started writing his commentaries. But soon, he was disillusioned with himself again. He thought he was wasting his time chasing a mirage. It was then that they decided to leave the village and come to this place. By then, Valmiki had already arrived and set up a small community here at the foot of the hill. For a year or so, the couple was a part of this small group who had turned their backs on Ayodhyan culture. Then they moved up the hill, because Shambuka wanted to avoid all social interactions and pursue his study and meditation in solitude.’
As Rama and Sita sat talking, music floated up to them like a flock of birds. As if in response, crickets burst into song from a nearby bush. Laughing, the moon came out of a cloud. Rama sat still, like a rock, and Sita could not discern the emotions that were flitting across his face. But she knew he was thinking of Ayodhya, and that he was suffering.
‘Rama,’ she said softly.
‘Tell me, Sita.’
‘It breaks my heart when I see you lost in thought, when I see you suffering. You must let this suffering go.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Rama, took her hands in his and pressed them to his heart. Sita nestled close to her husband and rested her head on his shoulder. In a voice charged with emotion but with a firm resolve, he said, ‘Sita, I must find out. I must know…’
‘You know something, Rama,’ she murmured to his heart.
‘I don’t know, my dear. You must tell me. You seemed to know many things I don’t know, many things I never knew existed.’
‘Stop praising me and listen to this,’ she said, her finger making imaginative circles on his chest. She then looked up to meet his eyes and said, ‘You know, at one point during our conversation, Parvati suddenly paused, put her hand on her chest and asked me very simply, “Sita, my dear, tell me, why do you want to be something other than what you are? It’s so simple and effortless to be yourself, no? Isn’t that the best? You don’t need to study the shastras or do any sadhana; all you have to do is to be honest with yourself, and that needs no time or effort, right?”’
The fireflies had now perched in the bush, and looked like so many stars at last come home to roost. Beyond the hill, the sea rose in great exuberance. Time passed in silence. So simple and effortless to be oneself. Great, but what is oneself? Rama mused and, stroking her hair, he said, ‘Sita, don’t stop, keep talking.’ Sita smiled, her face round and lucid like the moon, and then she stood up. ‘My dear Rama,’ she said, smiling shyly, ‘I think we should go to sleep.’
Rama woke up late the next morning. By then, Sita was already in the kitchen, learning to make rotis and chatting with Vasanta. As he sat up, he noticed the bowl of milk by the side of his bed. He smiled to himself, thinking of last night. He put his hand on his cheek as if to check if he still existed, and felt a strange melancholy envelope his being. Then, he picked up the bowl and drank deeply of the milk, not caring which animal had provided it. Whatever it was, he had consumed it without washing his mouth, breaking the rule he had so assiduously practised without a break since his childhood. It seemed silly, yet strangely satisfying, to do what he had just done.
He stood up now and looked out of the window. Lakshman was climbing up the hill. Where was he going so early in the morning? To meet Shambuka or to the sea? He too must get out, he told himself. Perhaps he could go and bathe in the sea. His eyes fell on the bow that stood in a corner, abandoned, but with its majestic dignity intact. Slowly, he went over and picked the bow in his left hand; with his right hand, he felt the fine engravings on the bend. His heart ached; a tear filled his eye, as if reluctant to leave its abode, like a crystallized memory of the dark past refusing to die. He unstrung the bow and went out.
The hills were aglow like a joyful bride, and the sun stood at the door, smiling brightly. Wings of varied hues flew over the animated hermitage. A cool breeze came from somewhere and kissed Rama’s magnificent body. The trees swayed, as if in a trance. Valmiki was washing. He wiped his hands on the cloth thrown over his shoulder, and turned to Rama.
‘Who is the character in your story?’ Rama asked, looking Valmiki in the eye.
‘Character?’ Valmiki screwed up his eyes in surprise. ‘Ah, you mean the hero in my story? Well, not exactly a hero, but he is one of the main characters. But why do you ask?’
‘May I know what the story is all about?’
Valmiki laughed, stroking his shaggy beard. ‘I have just started, Rama. I’m waiting.’
‘Waiting for what?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Valmiki, splaying his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘The character seems to be on to something big, going through some radical change. I don’t know how it’s going to turn out. I am watching. There are also other characters knocking on the door, demanding my attention.’ Valmiki went and sat on the stump of a tree with his pot of water, from which he drank deeply. ‘The water is sweet,’ he said. ‘We get it from a lake nearby. You must go and see it once. It’s a beautiful tree-ringed lake, trees as big as your mansions in Ayodhya.’
‘Is your character real? I mean, is he a fictitious character or is he based on a real person?’
‘Ah, Rama, who is a real person?’
‘You are not answering my question.’
‘I don’t know the answer.’
‘All right. You said the character is changing, and that you are waiting, watching. Now, what is it he is changing into? I’m sure you have an idea.’
‘How do I know? I’m not the character. And I doubt if the character knows either. That is the mystery!’
‘But he is your character, right? You must know.’
‘Rama, frankly, I don’t know,’ Valmiki said sternly, as though he wanted to put him off the subject. Then he said, ‘Who knows? Perhaps he wants to be himself; perhaps he is a fool the world has never seen before. Maybe he is a god who is less than human, or a human better than a god. He might even be a pure animal, one with the cosmos … he could be anything, Rama. Even a combination of all these aspects, if such a thing is ever possible. I really don’t know. I’m waiting.’
‘What is he?’
‘Ah!’ Valmiki frowned. ‘Presently he is just a prince.’
‘Just a prince? What do you mean?’
‘I mean he was born to a king. Nothing extraordinary about it.’
‘What is wrong with that?’
‘Did I say it is wrong?’
The conversation was leading nowhere. Perhaps the poet was saying something without saying anything in particular. But Rama was in no state of mind to stand there and excavate the hidden meaning of Valmiki’s words. The pain had come back and he could not rest until he killed it or got over it.
‘Rama,’ Valmiki said ponderously, ‘I have decided to grow some snake gourd this
time; come, let’s prepare the ground.’ Rama did not hear him or did not care; he turned and, like one possessed, started climbing the hill. Valmiki laughed, studying the figure rising with the rising hill, looking like he was on a rocky flight to the other world. ‘A wonderful fool!’ he chanted. ‘Bless the man!’
His mind like a sal tree on fire, Rama climbed and climbed, seeing nothing. Lakshman, who was coming down the hill, called out to his brother, but Rama did not hear him. He stopped abruptly, like an animal alarmed by some danger, only when Lakshman came up to him. ‘Brother, is something wrong?’ Rama stood still, staring blankly at him.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Lakshman, anxious to know what was troubling his usually composed brother.
Rama kept staring like a man without a mind. Then, suddenly, as if rudely wakened up from slumber, he asked, ‘Where have you been?’
A typical question coming from his elder brother. Lakshman was relieved. ‘The sea,’ he replied. ‘Away from curious eyes, I could exercise there freely. And the breeze there is really rejuvenating. Are you going to the sea? You want me to come with you?’
‘Why are you carrying your sword?’
It was a strange question coming from Rama. Why does a Kshatriya, a prince, carry his arms wherever he goes? It’s his badge, his vocation, his dharma. He is the protector of the world. What was happening to Rama? Beads of sweat stood out on Rama’s forehead, and he stood stiff like a drawn bow.
‘Brother, I don’t understand,’ Lakshman said, studying Rama’s face, looking for some clue to his strange behaviour.
‘Where are you going now?’
‘To the hermitage, of course. I haven’t eaten anything and I’m hungry.’
‘Go,’ said Rama impatiently and he turned and squatted on a nearby rock. ‘Go,’ he said again. ‘I just want to sit here for a while.’
It was clearly an order. Lakshman had never questioned his brother’s authority, never defied his orders, not even in his dreams. He nodded obediently, and started down the hill, puzzled and worried about Rama’s behaviour. He decided to return soon to make sure his brother was safe.
