by Amish
‘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.
The word on the handle was written in a common script from the upper reaches of the Saraswati River. Sita recognised it.
The symbols represented Parshu Ram.
‘Not that side, Sita,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘Turn it around.’
Sita flipped the knife. Her eyes widened with shock.
The fish was the most common symbol across all scripts in India. A giant fish had helped Lord Manu and his band escape when the sea had devastated their land. Lord Manu had decreed that the great fish would be honoured with the title of Lord Matsya, the first Vishnu. The symbol of the fish represented a follower of the Vishnu. This was the symbol on Vishwamitra’s knife handle.
But the symbol on Sita’s handle was a modified version. It was a fish, no doubt, but it also had a crown on top.
The fish symbol minus the crown on it meant that you were a follower of the Vishnu. But if the fish symbol had a crown on top, it meant that you were the Vishnu.
Sita looked at Vishwamitra, bewildered.
‘This knife is yours, Sita,’ said Vishwamitra softly.
Chapter 9
The student quarters in Shvetaketu’s gurukul were frugal. In keeping with the general atmosphere of the place. Each student occupied a small windowless mud hut, barely large enough to accommodate a single bed, some clothes pegs and a place for study materials. The huts had no doors, just doorways.
Sita was lying in bed, recalling the events of the previous day on the Malayaputra ship.
She held the knife in her hand. She was in no danger of getting cut since the blade was safely in the scabbard. Again and again, her eyes were drawn to the knife handle. And the beautiful symbol etched on its surface.
Vishnu?
Me?
Vishwamitra had said that her training would begin soon. She would be old enough to leave the gurukul in a few months. She would then take a trip to Agastyakootam, the capital of the Malayaputras, deep in the south of India. After that, she would travel across India, incognito. Vishwamitra wanted her to understand the land that she would redeem and lead one day. Along with his Malayaputras, he would guide her through this. In the interim, she and Vishwamitra would prepare a blueprint for the task ahead. For a new way of life.
It was all quite overwhelming.
‘My Lady.’
Sita slipped out of bed and came to the doorway. Jatayu was standing at some distance.
‘My Lady,’ he repeated.
Sita folded her hands into a Namaste. ‘I am like your younger sister, Jatayuji. Please don’t embarrass me. Just call me by my name.’
‘No, I can’t do that, My Lady. You are the …’
Jatayu fell silent. Strict instructions had been given to the Malayaputras. Nobody was to speak of Sita as the next Vishnu. It would be announced at the right time. Even Sita had been prohibited from speaking about it with anyone. Not that she would have, in any case. She felt anxious, almost afraid, of what the title implied.
‘Well then, you can call me your sister.’
Jatayu smiled. ‘That is fair, my sister.’
‘What did you want to talk about, Jatayuji?’
‘How is your hand now?’
Sita grinned as she touched the neem-leaf bandage with her other hand. ‘I was a little too enthusiastic about drawing blood.’
‘Yes.’
‘I am all right now.’
‘That is good to hear,’ said Jatayu. He was a shy man. Taking a slow, long breath in, he softly continued, ‘You are one of the very few people, besides the Malayaputras, who have shown kindness towards me. Even though Lord Vishwamitra had not ordered you to do so.’
All those months ago, Sita had served Jatayu some food simply because his face reminded her of the noble vulture who had saved her life. But she kept that to herself.
‘You are probably unsure about this new situation,’ said Jatayu. ‘It’s natural to feel overwhelmed.’
What he didn’t tell her was that even some Malayaputras had their doubts about the choice of Sita as a Vishnu, but wouldn’t dare openly challenge their formidable chief.
Sita nodded silently.
‘It must be even more difficult because you cannot talk to anyone other than a Malayaputra about this.’
‘Yes,’ Sita smiled.
‘If you ever need any advice, or even someone to talk to, you always have me. It is my duty to protect you from now onwards. My platoon and I will always be nearby,’ said Jatayu, gesturing behind him.
Around fifteen men stood quietly at a distance.
‘I will not embarrass you by revealing myself in public, in Mithila or anywhere else,’ said Jatayu. ‘I understand that I am a Naga. But I will never be more than a few hours’ ride away. My people and I will always be your shadow from now on.’
‘You could never embarrass me, Jatayuji,’ said Sita.
‘Sita!’
The princess of Mithila looked to her left. It was Arishtanemi.
‘Sita,’ said Arishtanemi, ‘Guruji would like to have a word with you.’
‘Excuse me, Jatayuji,’ said Sita, as she folded her hands into a polite Namaste.
Jatayu returned her salutation and Sita walked away, trailing Arishtanemi. As she faded into the distance, Jatayu bent down, picked up some dust from her footprint, and touched it respectfully to his forehead. He then turned in the direction that Sita had walked.
She is such a good soul …
I hope Lady Sita does not become a pawn in the battle between Guru Vishwamitra and Guru Vashishtha.
Two months had passed. The Malayaputras had left for their capital, Agastyakootam. As instructed, Sita spent most of her free time reading texts that the chief of the Malayaputras had given her. They chronicled the lives of some of the previous Vishnus: Lord Narsimha, Lord Vaaman, Lord Parshu Ram, among others. He wanted her to learn from their lives, their challenges; and, how to overcome them and establish a new path that led to the Propagation of Good.
She took up this task with utmost seriousness and conducted it in privacy. Today, she sat by a tiny pond not frequented by other students. It was therefore with irritation that she reacted to the disturbance.
‘Bhoomi, you need to come to the main gurukul clearing right away,’ said Radhika, using Sita’s gurukul name. ‘Someone from your home is here.’
Sita waved her hand in annoyance. ‘I’ll be there, soon.’
‘Sita!’ said Radhika loudly.
Sita turned around. Her friend looked and sounded agitated.
‘Your mother is here. You need to go. Now.’
Sita walked slowly towards the main gurukul clearing. Her heart beating hard. She saw two elephants tied close to the walkway, which led to the gurukul jetty. She knew her mother liked bringing her elephants along. On Sunaina’s visits, Sita and she would go on elephant rides deep into the jungle. Sunaina loved to educate her daughter on animals in their natural habitat.
Sunaina knew more about animals than anyone Sita had met. The trip
s into the jungle were among Sita’s most cherished memories. For they involved the two most important entities in her life: Mother Earth and her own mother.
Pain shot through her heart.
Because of her, Kushadhwaj had imposed severe restrictions on Mithila trade. Her uncle’s kingdom, Sankashya, was the main conduit for trade with her father’s kingdom; and the prices of most commodities, even essentials, had shot through the roof. Most Mithilans blamed Sita for this. Everyone knew that she had broken Kushadhwaj’s royal seal. And, that retaliation was inevitable. According to ancient tradition, the royal seal was the representation of the king; breaking it was comparable to regicide.
The blame had also seamlessly passed on to her mother, Sunaina. For everyone knew that it was Sunaina’s decision to adopt Sita.
I have given her nothing but trouble. I have destroyed so much of what she spent her life building.
Maa should forget me.
Sita was even more convinced of her decision by the time she reached the clearing.
It was unusually crowded, even for a royal visit. Eight men were gathered around a heavy, empty palanquin. It was a palanquin she hadn’t seen before: longer and broader. It appeared to be designed so that the person travelling in it could lie down. To the left, she saw eight women crowding around a low platform built around an Ashok tree. She looked all over for her mother, but did not see her anywhere.
She moved towards the women, about to ask where her mother was. Just then, a few of them moved aside, revealing Queen Sunaina.
It knocked the wind out of Sita.
Her mother was a shadow of her former self. She had been reduced to bare skin and bones. Her round, moon-shaped face had turned gaunt, with cheeks sunken in. She had always been short and petite, but had never looked unhealthy. Now, her muscles had wasted away, and her body was stripped of the little fat she had once had. Her eyes looked hollow. Her lustrous, rich black hair had turned sparse and a ghostly white. She could barely hold herself up. She needed her aides to support her.
As soon as Sunaina saw her precious daughter, her face lit up. It was the same warm smile where Sita had always found comfort and sanctuary.
‘My child,’ said Sunaina, in a barely audible voice.
The queen of Mithila held out her hands, her deathly pallor temporarily reduced by the abundance of a mother’s love-filled heart.
Sita stood rooted to her spot. Hoping the earth would swallow her.
‘Come here, my child,’ said Sunaina. Her arms, too weak to be held up, fell on her sides.
Sunaina coughed. An aide rushed forward and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. Specks of red appeared on the white cloth.
Sita stumbled towards her mother. Dazed. She fell to her knees and rested her head on Sunaina’s lap. One that had always been soft, like Mother Earth immediately after the rains. It was bony and hard now, like the same earth after a series of devastating droughts.
Sunaina ran her fingers through Sita’s hair.
Sita trembled in fear and sorrow, like a little sparrow about to see the fall of the mighty Banyan tree that had sheltered not just her body but also her soul.
Continuing to run her hand through Sita’s hair, Sunaina bent down, kissed her head and whispered, ‘My child …’
Sita burst out crying.
The Mithila physician-in-attendance had vehemently opposed it. Even though severely weakened, Sunaina was still a formidable creature. She would not be denied the elephant ride into the jungle with her daughter.
The physician had played his final card. He had whispered into the queen’s ear, ‘This may well be your last elephant ride, Your Highness.’
And Sunaina had replied, ‘That is precisely why I must go.’
The queen had rested in the palanquin while the two elephants were prepared for the ride. One would carry the physician and a few attendants, while the other would carry Sunaina and Sita.
When it was time, Sunaina was carried to the howdah of the seated elephant. A maid tried to clamber aboard, next to the queen.
‘No!’ a firm Sunaina decreed.
‘But, My Lady …’ pleaded the maid, holding up a handkerchief and a small bottle. The fumes from the dissolved herbal medicine helped boost her energy for short periods of time.
‘My daughter is with me,’ said Sunaina. ‘I don’t need anyone else.’
Sita immediately took the handkerchief and bottle from the maid and climbed aboard the howdah.
Sunaina signalled the mahout, who tenderly stroked the elephant behind its ears with his foot. The elephant rose very slowly, causing the least amount of discomfort to Sunaina.
‘Let’s go,’ she ordered.
The two elephants ambled off into the jungle, accompanied by fifty armed Mithila policemen, on foot.
Chapter 10
The howdah swayed like a cradle with the animal’s gentle walk. Sita held her mother’s hand and huddled close. The mahout steered the elephants in the shade, under the trees. Nonetheless, it was dry and warm.
Sita, though, was shivering. With guilt. And fear.
Sunaina lifted her hand slightly. Sita instinctively knew what her mother wanted. She lifted Sunaina’s arm higher, and snuggled in close. And wrapped her mother’s arm around her shoulder. Sunaina smiled with satisfaction and kissed Sita on her forehead.
‘Sorry that your father couldn’t come, Sita,’ said Sunaina. ‘He had to stay back for some work.’
Sita knew her mother was lying. She did not wish to cause her daughter further pain.
Perhaps, it was just as well.
Sita had, in a fit of anger, told Janak the last time she had been in Mithila that he should stop wasting his time on spirituality and help Sunaina govern the kingdom. That it was his duty. Her outburst had angered Sunaina more than her father.
Also, little Urmila, Sita’s four-year-old younger sister, was a sickly child. Janak had probably stayed behind with her, while their mother travelled to Shvetaketu’s gurukul. In debilitating illness. To meet her troubled elder daughter. And, to make her come back home.
Sita closed her eyes, as another guilty tear rolled down her cheek.
Sunaina coughed. Sita immediately wiped her mother’s mouth with the cloth. She looked at the red stains — signs that her mother’s life was slowly slipping away.
Tears began to flow in a rush.
‘Everyone has to die someday, my darling,’ said Sunaina.
Sita continued crying.
‘But the fortunate ones die with their loved ones around them.’
The two elephants were stationary, expertly stilled by their mahouts. The fifty Mithilan guards, too, were immobile, and silent. The slightest sound could prove dangerous.
Ten minutes back, Sunaina had spotted a scene rarely witnessed by human eyes: The death of the matriarch of a large elephant herd.
Sita remembered her mother’s lessons on elephant herds. They tended to be matriarchal, led by the eldest female. Most herds comprised adult females with calves, both male and female, nurtured as common children. Male elephants were normally exiled from the herd when they came of age.
The matriarch was more than the leader of the herd. She was a mother to all.
The death of the matriarch, therefore, would be a devastating event for the herd. Or so one would imagine.
‘I think it’s the same herd that we saw a few years ago,’ whispered Sunaina.
Sita nodded.
They watched from a safe distance, hidden by the trees.
The elephants stood in a circle around the corpse of the matriarch. Solemn. Motionless. Quiet. The gentle afternoon breeze struggled to provide relief as the sun shone harshly on the assembly. Two calves stood within the circle, near the body. One was tiny, the other slightly older.
‘We saw that little one being born, Sita,’ said Sunaina.
Sita nodded in the affirmative.
She remembered the birth of the matriarch’s child. Her mother and she had witnessed it on another elephant r
ide a few years ago.
Today, that baby elephant, a male calf, was down on his knees next to his dead mother. His trunk was entwined with hers, his body shaking. Every few minutes, he would pull on the trunk of his mother’s corpse, as though trying to wake her up.
The older calf, his sister, stood next to the baby. Calm. Still. Like the other members of the herd.
‘Watch now …’ whispered Sunaina.
An adult female, perhaps the new matriarch, slowly ambled up to the corpse. She stretched her trunk and touched the forehead of the dead body with utmost respect. Then she walked around the corpse solemnly, turned and simply walked away.
The other elephants in the circle followed her lead, one by one. Doing the exact same thing — touching the forehead of the dead former matriarch with their trunks, performing a circumambulation and then walking away.
With dignity. With respect.
None of them looked back. Not once. Not once.
The little male calf, however, refused to leave. He clung to his mother. Desperately. He pulled at her with helpless ferocity. His sister stood quietly by his side.
The rest of the herd came to a halt at a distance, not once turning around. Patiently, they waited.
After some time, the sister touched her little brother with her trunk.
The male calf pushed it away. With renewed energy, he stood on his feet and wrapped his trunk around his mother’s. And pulled hard. He slipped. He got up again. Held his mother’s trunk and pulled. Harder. He cast a beseeching look at his sister, begging for her help. With a gut-wrenching cry, he turned back to his mother, willing her to get up.
But his mother had succumbed to the long sleep now. She would wake up only in her next life.
The child refused to give up. Shifting from side to side, he pulled his mother’s trunk. Repeatedly.
The sister finally walked up to her mother’s corpse, and touched the forehead with her trunk, just like the others had. She then walked around the body of her mother. She came up to her brother, held his trunk and tried to pull him away.
