Sita's Ascent Read online

  ‘On earth, in Ayodhya and all across the kingdoms of Kosala, people talked for months on end about the Ashwamedha that proclaimed Dasaratha King of Kings and about the fire sacrifice to the devas. At the end of nine months there was another grand celebration to top the earlier one. Dasaratha’s three wives gave birth to four sons. Kausalya gave birth to Rama; Sumitra, who had twins, gave birth to Lakshmana and Shatrughana; and Kaikeyi gave birth to Bharata.

  ‘Just as we live here, there are other beings among us whom we cannot always see. They are not up there or down here or below us, but sometimes we imagine they are. They enter our lives, they are real and they challenge us and our convictions. It’s a game, but it is also real. Finally, we have to work towards forgetting our little selves, while protecting what is discovered as the secret to our happiness. The great test is in finding a way that ushers in everyone else’s well-being and also gives us happiness.

  ‘Imagine that!’

  Valmiki paused. Urmilla and Lava were enraptured by the story, each taking it at their level of comprehension. They were completely unaware that someone was watching, waiting and listening.

  It was none other than Soorpanakka. She was Ravana’s sister. After his death she roamed across the earth, not exactly mourning but seeing how people and values evolved after her brother’s passing. As she happened to hear Valmiki mention Ravana in his story, she was attracted by the power of her brother’s name and swiftly inhabited a tree. Valmiki could sense a change in the atmosphere as a spirit now occupied a tree not far behind him, so he chanted a mantra:

  May we who listen to stories that enchant our minds

  Be ever wakeful to the shining, the glorious, the Lotus-Eyed

  Within us;

  That It may shine undimmed.

  Across all the hills, forests, valleys and plains that our eyes can see

  May our hearts unfold the journey within.

  May the ever-revolving disc of consciousness splinter darkness with light

  May words flow into the sound of the conch shell

  That emerges from the embryo of our being

  Defining space around us and within us to live in peace.

  Shantih shantih shantih

  It seemed to cast a spell like a veil around the tree that Soorpanakka had inhabited. Entranced by his words, she began to remember, and paused to reflect on her own encounter with Sita.

  ‘Life didn’t really begin before noon for us rakshasas. The humidity and heat would make all those early risers seek the shade. We would dwell by wells and hover around the tamarind trees that were laden with teeth-sharpening sour fruit. The night was our time for entertainment and revelry. On one such night we heard news about a dim and distant place far north from ours, where a swayamvara was being held. Our customs were different. Quite often, we rakshasa females had to seek the male, and that gave us freedom. I, born of a royal rakshasa clan, always had the first choice. But I was curious to delve into the world of humans. And I knew that at a swayamvara there would be many men. More likely, young men who were not yet aware of how we rakshasas operated and the spells we could cast on them.

  ‘So I arrived in Mithila, where this great assembly of princes from kingdoms far and near was to take place. I don’t get impressed easily, because I am particular about my comforts. Some call it indulgence, luxury, whatever! But I have a high standard that must be maintained. And in Mithila I was impressed. It’s a pity the bedsteads weren’t covered with gold and precious jewels, but at least it had brocade awnings and there were many late-night distractions. I normally like to visit gambling dens—that’s where men are most vulnerable—and brothels are the best place to get the real gossip about the politics of the state. That’s where you will find the police and the politicians divulging state secrets as they pour state money into their leisure, which they call “privileges”.

  ‘In Mithila, the brothels seemed filled with courtiers and soldiers of the visiting princes. The princes were in their guesthouses getting ready for the great contest the next day. “How absurd!” I thought. Here’s the time for the best stag night, because who knows how marriage can turn out, and all these young princes were wasting time praying and hoping that they be the chosen one. What was so special about the bride-to-be?

  ‘I was having fun shifting my shape from a water carrier to a vegetable seller to the sugar cane juice supplier to a fish wife to a well-paid prostitute to the madam of a brothel so I could hear a range of news, add my little mischief, get people quarrelling and have fun watching them try to get out of those muddles. During my role as the madam, just as I was tucking a bag of coins into my bodice, there was a hue and cry in the street over a grand procession. It was my beloved brother Ravana arriving in the dead of the night. He was being carried on a grand palanquin; his chariot was too wide to fit the roads of Mithila. He always brought his own apartments, servants and courtiers and lived royally wherever he went. When he had settled down, I decided to go and dine with him, and so I did in a flash.

  ‘“You’re not serious about entering the ‘competition’, are you? You’ll beat them black and blue, turn them inside out and leave them hollow! Why waste that energy? Surely you’re above all these humans? Why not grab the prize and fly away?” I asked my brother frankly.

  ‘He was sitting cross-legged, holding his right big toe with his left hand. For a moment his body seemed still. “This is a prize I want to win. It is boring not to have a challenge. I want this prize to be won over by me.” That was all he said before he entered his inner apartments to take rest before the swayamvara.

  ‘I couldn’t understand what had come over him. It certainly wasn’t because the prize was a woman. My sister-in-law Mandodari was no less. She had all the rakshasa dignity of staging a fight with artifice and accomplishment that the opponent would whimper away, begging her forgiveness. She was a great queen, but sometimes she was under the cloud of that curse that humans tend to have—self-reflection. She always felt torn and twisted when what the human civilization calls “conscience” churned within her. Later, she began to get bouts of trembling; her forehead would sweat profusely when she would hear the cats calling at night. She would often say, “Oh, why is that child not being fed with milk?” and make her maids of honour run out to see if there were children roaming in the dark. She felt a tenderness for baby rakshasas long after her son had grown up. Her crying really got Ravana upset. He had high regard for her, but the outbursts became frequent before the war. I wonder if she could see that she was going to be widowed.

  ‘But back to this prize business. I was curious. So there I was, bright and early, at the contest. My word! You should have seen all those princes; their bare upper bodies glinting with all that jewellery and marked with sandal and vermilion. It was arousing to say the least.

  ‘The city was festooned with banners carried by the entourage of the participating princes. All banners were embossed with images of the princes’ guardian deities—some were embossed with a lion, some had an eagle, some an owl, another a cobra, yet another a peacock, and on and on it went as the procession stretched beyond a mile.

  ‘Each entourage consisted of the princes’ poets, masseurs, astrologists, musicians, councillors, palmists, poison detectives, historians, portrait painters, sartorial advisers and accompanying brahmins to invoke the respective gods of strength to win the contest. The people of Mithila had swept and washed the roads till they gleamed in the sun. Sugar cane juice in clay cups was offered as a welcome drink. Water carriers stood along the roadside ready to refresh any member of the entourage. There were elephant sheds and stables provided for each visiting principality. Food, drink and diverse entertainments were provided by the royal courtesy of Mithila. Perhaps at any other contest, a prince’s entourage could stir a little trouble by drinking too much, losing at gambling or the cockfight, or because a dancing girl slapped them too hard. But here, on this occasion, the contest and where it was being held had a special significance.

  ‘It
was Mithila—a coveted city within a coveted kingdom. The princes had been waiting eagerly for the announcement of this swayamvara for months, even a year. They had been training for longer. Each prince wanted to exhibit his skills and show his prowess. Nothing and nobody could cast a slur on that one ambition that filled each prince as he journeyed to Mithila. But why?

  ‘Because each prince dreamed of winning the prize of the contest. The prize was Sita. Sita’s wit and fiery spirit had caught the attention of poets and won the praise of singers when they had attended arts festivals at Mithila. They had created legends about her; and when they returned to their courts and sang, each prince grew to love Sita and wanted her as his wife.

  ‘The whole of Mithila was bustling with guests and the streets hummed with languages of other kingdoms. The kitchens were steaming with cuisines for vegetarians and meat-eaters. Stalls were dressed with sweets of all colours and shapes, glistening with silver trimming, and the air was heavy with the subtle scents of condiments like green cardamom, clove, nutmeg and saffron mixing in sweetened, thickened cow’s milk. Weavers spread out their bales of rich turquoise- and ruby-coloured silk. The stone cutters’ chisels and hammers created early morning music as they carved out of soapstone and alabaster statuettes of women in all forms of movement, subliminally celebrating the vivacity of their princess Sita—not wishing to disclose her identity for fear of staining her fiery and pure spirit by replicating it in stone and wood. “How can we,” the master craftsmen would cry with dismay and pride, “capture that spark that lights her eyes?”

  ‘Sage Vishwamitra glided past the crowds with his two able adjutants who wore their hair long and tied in a topknot; I suppose it was because the aides travelled through difficult terrain where grooming could be time-consuming. They wore dhotis made of bark and carried a quiver of arrows slung on their backs. Their torsos were bare and they could well have been mistaken for forest folk. Other princes dared not sneer at them as they both had a stately presence—these were cultured and strong young men. To undermine their dignity would’ve been reckless and betrayed the other princes’ crassness or anxiety. The eligibility to the swayamvara was on fair terms—anyone who had training and was recommended by an accredited brahmin or sportsman was welcome. Vishwamitra’s adjutants were invited to the Mithila Assembly Hall.

  ‘It was vast. A huge gong was struck and the waves of sound reverberated through the city. First the conch shell, a symbol of the presence of Vishnu, who inhabits sound and space, was blown. Everyone—princes, entourages, courtiers and invited commoners of Mithila—was hushed. Then the liveried trumpeters announced the powerful ministers into Mithila’s court, then the brahmins, the sages, and finally King Janaka.

  ‘Another gong sounded with several chimes, and a gold-embossed screen that looked like a wall parted in two. When it had slid open, a golden chariot covered with a sapphire-blue velvet drape emerged. The chariot moved on wheels guided by eight hundred footmen. It had been timed perfectly—swift enough not to bore the spectators and steady enough so that everyone marvelled at the feat of sliding a long chariot into the even larger Assembly Hall. Another flourish of string and percussion instruments, and trapeze artists flew in from their perches at the corners of the ceiling. With bows like Kama’s, they shot hooked arrows at the edges of the drapes and pulled it up in unison in a fly-past dance. Everyone’s mouth popped open, gasping at this synchronized act. Thunderous applause greeted the sight of the drape being carried away to reveal Shiva’s giant iron bow.

  ‘It seemed as if this was the moment everyone had been waiting for. The princes had not been allowed to even look at this monster of an object as they prepared themselves. Even I was staggered. I had shape-shifted into one of the dancers so I could have a good view of the eager princes. How unfortunate that they were all set on the same object for their prize! The bow was no ordinary bow. I quickly estimated its weight, scale and size. But it was more than that. With my exquisite fine-tuning barometer I could gauge a sound emitting from it that carried vibrations. Part of the preparations, I thought, must be to block its sound emissions. They just made your brain whirr. But here were these princes, each twirling his moustache or stroking his sideburns studded with gems. As the princes flexed their muscles and slapped their bare thighs, getting ready for their turn, the look in each man’s eye, his show of power and his open sexual desire sent waves of excitement through my being. You could smell the sweat mixed with fear and courage, the fleeting scent of testosterone underneath the perfumed oils of jasmine, sandalwood, rose and musk.

  ‘I remember the whirring from the bow became bearable to my ears when Vishwamitra strode in. I was watching everything but hadn’t paid much attention to his adjutants. But now, as all the princes stood in their regalia, in walked these two youths dressed like forest folk. Had it not been for their radiance and royal bearing, they would have been smothered with ash and mistaken for ascetics. I suppose you could say that they attracted attention because they weren’t really dressed for the occasion.

  ‘It was time for the championships to begin. Four hundred and ninety-eight princes had decided to compete. It seemed an odd number. But, among them, Ravana had registered for two places as his entourage was twice as big as any other prince’s, and he wanted to have two attempts at winning Sita as his prize. The great sages, who can see beyond the realm of the physical body, often drew him in their scrolls as having ten resplendent heads and twenty arms. He was very accomplished but his complexity and ego got the better of him, time after time.

  ‘Vishwamitra stood on the sidelines with his two adjutants. Following the fanfare, the first prince was announced. Heralding him, his court singer chanted melodically, and rather pompously, about the ancestors of the prince and how worthy he was. The prince proceeded to climb five steps up to a platform where the entire gathering could see him. For the people in the city streets, a poet from the court stood on a stone above a secret passage that filtered the sound of what he recited. These proceedings were heard by the town crier at the end of the secret passage; facing the street directly, he reported the spectacle to the whole city and its visitors.

  ‘As the princes came forward—some with braided hair, others with topiaried sideburns; some with waxed whiskers embroidered with precious gems, others with bejewelled tattoos—each one wanted the chronicles to record that in his youth he had attempted to win Sita by trying to lift that impossible bow. Having had the chance, not only did they return to the arms of their masseurs, collapsing like tents in a thunderstorm, but with broken backs and hearts.

  ‘Ravana went forward. He, who had killed the serpent that had frightened the gods, now had his turn. The teeth of many princes chattered and their bones rattled; the earth trembled and juddered with each step that Ravana took towards the platform. Vishwamitra sighed. Ravana twirled his moustache. He was the only contestant in the swayamvara who was competing wearing his crown and his jewels. He stood with his left foot on a lower level as his right foot stepped higher. It was the stance of an indefatigable wrestler. He slapped his right thigh—smack! It resounded in the Assembly Hall like a thunderclap. He bent down to touch the bow. It felt like running water, so light through his fingers. When he tried to get a grip, it felt like the weight of the universe was pulling him into the ground. His masseurs tried to deceitfully web his feet to the ground so he would not slip, but Ravana snarled with viciousness and vowed to break their legs.

  ‘Each contestant was given a specific time for his attempt at lifting the bow. Ravana had been distracted by his masseurs. Second attempt. He stretched his arms into the air and lunged to pick up the bow. The blood rushed to his head, and, as he let out the grunt and wail of weightlifters when he seized the bow, the channel of water that measured the time gong chimed loudly, setting off prisms of light so that the contestant had to stop. Phew! Ravana seemed almost relieved this ordeal was over. He would not, indeed he could not, lift that bow. Majestically, sneering at the timekeepers, he covered the wounds of his bro
ken heart with a scornful smile that indicated the challenge was not sophisticated enough for the likes of him.

  ‘He strode out of the Assembly Hall with what everyone else read as contempt. There was an uneasy silence. This was followed by the final, or the “499th”, contestant. He was a wiry fellow with a dismissive manner that could reduce anything to nothing with his cynicism. When he saw that Ravana was defeated by the task, he knew what his fate would be. He would never be able to lift Shiva’s bow in this lifetime or any other. He had never accepted humiliation; he had mingled well among the princes at the swayamvara, and decided to adopt a new tactic.

  ‘“Friends!” he proclaimed to the thousands in the Assembly Hall as well as outside. “This contest is a hoax!” There was a chorus of gasps followed by muttering. Janaka in his wisdom remained seated. Had he stood up, the guards would have taken it as a signal that the security of the kingdom was under threat. Janaka, advised by his ministers and sages, wanted to hear the claims of this contestant. “You hear me? We, all of you and I, have been cheated. We have been seduced by the glamorous hospitality of Mithila. Our senses have been dulled. What has really happened is that we have been tricked into believing that any one of us could actually lift Shiva’s bow. King Janaka does not wish to marry away his daughter Sita, so he has made us look like fools, while he will gain the status of King of Kings and retain his daughter!”