Breaking the Bow: Speculative Fiction Inspired by the Ramayana (12 page)

Sooner or later, Zero would be safe and dry and taken
care of. If not, if the dice did not behave as it ought and if she never made it to Earth Mother Square, there was always the comforting thought of the rope that lay coiled and twisted in the depths of her rucksack.

It was an unbeatably sexy, roller- coaster ride of a game. A game with a last square. Or a rope. A game that ended. A story that never did.

Notes:

Quotes are from
(respectively):

1. Chinnaswami Sastrigal and V.H. Subrahmanyam eds.
   Srimad Valmiki Ramayana
   (Madras: N. Ramaratnam, 1958) 118. 2–5.
   
2. Kopala Kirusnamacariyar Vai. Mu
   Kamparamayanam.
   VI. 37. 62. Madras. 1971.
   

Day of the Deer
Lavanya Karthik

On her last day in hiding, she steps out of the hut she has called home for eleven years, to find Lakshmana weeping in his sleep. He lies by the threshold on a thin reed mat, arms folded close to his body, his face wet with tears. What does he see, she wonders; what demons
confront him?

Outside, the forest celebrates dawn. Birds go about their noisy business, monkeys chatter overhead. A cool breeze makes the tree spirits hum in contentment, and the air holds the promise of rain. Inside, Rama seems happy, a smile grazing his lips as he sleeps. She gazes at this face she has loved for so long, these arms that have held her these long hard years, this chest that
has cradled her head, and thinks of the war that is to come.

It begins with a deer.

She is five on that hot day in grishma, and alone in the Dandaka forest, where her father has brought her on his annual visit to the hermitage. She has endured a day of discourses, meditation and lessons, and finds herself rewarded with momentary freedom as the heat and the midday meal take their toll
on everyone. In quick succession, her father, the sages and even her maids slip into slumber. When the deer appears, she is ready.

Its pelt is a glimmer of gold between the trees as it leads her deep into the forest. Does she notice how the trees lean towards
her as she passes, caressing her gently with their limbs? Does she know that the forest creatures flock to the trees along her path
just to watch her? Does she know that the man who waits for her under the ancient banyan is rumoured to have ten heads and is feared in three worlds?

“Greetings, devi,” Ravana says, rising to meet her. “I know who you really are.”

What do you do when you are five and a complete stranger tells you that your whole life is a lie? That your parents are not your own, your history mere fiction,
your very appearance an illusion? And what do you do when he tells you of the subterfuge he will help you maintain for the first half of your life?

You smile in relief that someone finally shares your secret.

Someone stirs behind her. It is Lakshmana, already washed and cleansed of the night’s grime.

She watches him go through the rigours of his morning exercise, then complete the
chores he has set for himself—the collecting of firewood, the milking of the cow, the weeding of the vegetable garden he lovingly tends behind the hut. Then, when he is bathed and his brother beside him—only then will he eat his morning meal.

This boy I will miss, she thinks. This man who has been like a son to me.

But what of his brother?

Now she is married. She stays with her adoptive
parents until she is of age, then moves to Ayodhya. She likes this boy she must call husband—Prince Rama, beautiful as the forest in spring, calm as the afternoon sea. And she worries for what she must do now.

“I am afraid,” she whimpers.

“I will be alone.”

“You will not,” Ravana smiles. “We have our allies everywhere.”

“But
you
won’t be there!” she whines. “How will you train me
for battle? How will I know what to do when the time comes?”

“Be patient, devi,” says Ravana. “Time is like the ocean. Stay steady on the shore, and your destiny will be washed right to your feet.”

She is dutiful wife and cherished daughter-in-law, adored by the kingdom and blessed by the gods. She learns the ways of the people she now belongs to, listens in on conversations and waits. Most
of all, she studies the man she is meant to vanquish in battle.

Her mothers-in-law—for she has three—love her. It is in one of them that she finds an ally, one who tells her the old stories, of a time when the earth was a free- spirited young woman and the sky and sea vied for her attention. She tells of a time when the forest folk—the true people—shepherded the earth, tending to her forests
and waters, in return for her generous bounty.

“But then the invaders came,” the woman says. “With their brick cities, their armies and their crafty gods. And they pillaged the earth—razed her forests, sullied her waters, and drove the forest folk out of their homes.”

She recounts the story of the Samudra Manthan—the great churning of the ocean to draw forth nectar. “It was supposed to have
been shared by their gods and ours, as a symbol of their equality. But again—trickery. Our people were turned away, cheated of what was rightfully theirs.”

“Why didn’t the earth help?” She is indignant. “Why didn’t the sky and the sea and the tree spirits gather together and drive out these invaders?”

“Because war was not—is not—in their nature. Nor the cunning that the invaders’ gods possess.”
The woman stops and smiles. “Until now.”

“Tell me the story again.”

“The earth has gifted a saviour to her true people, one who will lead them in victory against the invaders. Only she knows better than to make this gift openly, in front of the scheming pantheon that they cherish. No, this is a gift that will stay in safekeeping, waiting and learning, until it is ready to fulfill its destiny.
“

“Where?” How she loves this story, its well-worn strands her only tie to the rich and mysterious—yet fragile -legacy she has been sent to defend.

“The last place the invaders will think to look for her. Among their own kind.”

She prepares their mid day meal, though she knows it will stay un eaten. She sweeps the house and courtyard, mends a crack in the mud wall and feeds the chickens.

She waits.

She cannot help but wonder if she is mistaken.

“He is gentle and wise, mother,” she confides. “He does not share the cruel nature of his people. What if we are wrong? What if we could change his mind, and that of his people without war?”

“Give him time, devi. His true nature will surface when called upon.”

“What then? I am far from prepared. You expect me to lead
my people against him in battle? How?”

A year later, she finds herself banished from the kingdom with Rama and Lakshmana, so that their brother might rule.

“Thank you, mother,” she says to her friend, who has single-handedly orchestrated this move. “But people will hate you for this. And your son will never forgive you.”

“I do it for you, devi,” mother Kaikeyi replies. “For you and our
mother, and all her true children.”

Rama seems happy today. He sits in the courtyard, stringing his bow and humming to himself. He talks of the fruit trees he plans for the backyard, of the rain he smells in the air, the bear cubs he saw the other day on his way back from the hermitage.

He catches her watching him and smiles. “I dreamt of Ayodhya,” he says. “I saw her become the mightiest
kingdom in the world, her roads paved with gold, her boundaries stretching from the mountains to the sea.” He looks out across the courtyard at the magnificent vision he describes. “I shall make it my dharma to make this dream come true.”

She turns away, unable to bear what lurks in his face.

They are a great team, the two brothers and she; they set up house in Dandaka with enthusiasm,
and begin the long wait for their exile to end.

The forest welcomes her. She feels renewed, replenished, as she has ever been in the city. She finds, in the steady hum of the earth, the unvarying rhythms of the seasons, the clockwork lives of the forest creatures, a reaffirmation of her ties to the earth.

One night, as her companions sleep, a golden deer leads her back to her teacher.

“You fight like a girl,” he teases after their first session. “Didn’t I teach you anything?”

“I am softened by the palace, Ravana” she complains as her body resists the rigors of martial training.

“Combat,” he replies, “is as much
here
as here.” He points to his forehead, then his arm. “Now lift that elbow, devi, plant your foot square and try not to trip on your sword again.”

This becomes
her life, this unending sequence of placid days and furtive nights and she enjoys it at first. She slips a sleeping draught into the brothers’ food each evening before she sets out to meet her teacher. She understands her role in this great game
that she is a part of; plays it well, covers her tracks with ease. She reminds herself of the oppression she will end, the destruction she will stem.
She looks at Rama and sees the ones who came before—Manu, maker of laws that had made her people all but invisible; Ikshvaku, crazed marauder and slayer of rakshasas; Dasaratha. Invaders.

Yet, there are moments—when Rama smiles into her eyes or laughs his boyish laugh; when the two brothers banter or play pranks on her; when Rama sits up all night with her head in his lap as she fights a fever—yes,
there are moments when she wants to be wrong.

“Your love is your only hurdle,” Ravana observes when she voices her doubts. “But it is a hurdle you must cross alone.”

“He is no monster.”

“Give him time and reason,” he says, eerily echoing Kaikeyi. “He will be.”

Lakshmana seems pensive. He keeps to himself; perhaps his dream troubles him. Any other day, she would have coaxed his
worries out of him, teased, cajoled and bullied him until he broke into a smile. Today, she desists.

It happens slowly. She sees it first when the sages of the hermitage come to visit and talk of their plans for expansion. “Help us,” they urge Rama. “The rakshasas refuse to cede the land we need. They call it their sacred ground and expect us—us!—to move!” She is amused as she listens
to their shrill complaints, until Rama replies.

The very next day, he slays four rakshasas who refuse to let the sages clear some forest land for a temple. The day after that, a few more.

“You are jealous of my dharma,” he smiles when she questions him. “As any good wife should be.”

“How can this be dharma?” she asks. “Is it not a violation of its principles to hurt people who have done
you no harm? The rakshasas fight for what is theirs, after all. You pledge allegiance with people who are trespassers.”

“Harsh words, my lady,” he laughs. “But these ‘trespassers’ are people of god.”

“Whose?”

When she looks up at him, she finds a stranger.

“You are ready,” Ravana says. “You have hid long enough. Come, it is time.” He looks closely at her face. “But you are not free
of him, are you?”

She is appalled at how she dithers. Where is her devotion to her dharma, she wonders, when Rama has so little trouble finding his? Why, after a lifetime spent learning to be like her adversary, must she now yearn to be different? What use a saviour drowning in her own indecision?

Then she meets an invisible woman and learns to swim.

The woman has lurked in the forest
for as long as she can remember. She hovers, little more than a wraith, at the edge of the clearing while she and Ravana spar. When they attempt to talk to her, she melts into the night.

“Ahalya,” he explains. “A sage’s wife, cursed with invisibility after being tricked into bed by a god.”

Gods and trickery, she notes. Yet again.

“She has wandered in the forest a thousand years. But she
isn’t alone; our people have looked after her.”

“Invisible? I can see her.”

“Our kind has always seen her, devi. But her people prefer being blinkered. Yet, the sages decided to be generous. They had your Rama place his foot on her as purification, and then told her she could return to serve her husband again.”

When she obliquely remarks on this clemency, Rama is
defensive. “Dharma,
my dear,” he begins, and she watches the stranger emerge again. “A man’s dharma lies in upholding his honour, and punishing the one who sullies it. It is no less than his duty to turn away a woman tainted by another, however blameless she may claim to be.”

He enjoys these talks, she can see, this man who was once her Rama.

“This cleansing is a beautiful reminder of the importance of dharma,
both a husband’s and a wife’s. What a great pity Ahalya could not remember hers.”

She weighs his words against Ravana’s—”Perhaps she prefers invisibility. Perhaps we all will, when Rama rules the world”

She makes her choice.

It ends with a deer. Her old friend appears on the edge of the clearing, its pelt still that astonishing shade of gold. “Look!” Rama exclaims. He is on his feet
already. “I will bring you its hide!” he laughs as he seizes his bow and bounds after the mirage.

Goodbye, she thinks as he dissolves out of the light. Goodbye, my love.

“Why?” She whirls around to face Lakshmana.

“What?”

“You are leaving us. I can see it. Why?”

Silence shrouds the hut. High overhead, a lone hawk glides through the clouds, weaving a pattern in the sky. The forest
seems to hold its breath, waiting for her to answer.

“How long have you known?”

“I have seen it in your face these last few days,” he says. “I see it every time you look at him. I know it, when you look away from him, at the forest.” His face crumples. “Don’t you know that it will break him?”

“His dharma will keep him whole,” she replies, and he hears
the sorrow in her voice. Hears it,
runs his hands down its sinuous stem to the roots that tether it, only to turn away. He has always known, she sees. He has felt her anger, seen the cruelty for what it is, but stayed bound by his love for his brother.