Scion of Ikshvaku (36 page)

‘Ouch!’ protested Ram, as his head was jerked back.

‘Sorry,’ said Sita.

Ram smiled.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Sita, as she gingerly untangled another knot.

‘Well, they say the jungles are dangerous and it is the cities where you find comfort and security. It has been exactly the other way round for me. I have never been more relaxed and happy in my life than in the
Dandakaranya
.’

Sita murmured in agreement.

Ram turned his head to look at his wife. ‘I know that you suffered, too, in the world of the “civilised”…’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Sita, shrugging. ‘They say it takes immense pressure to create diamonds.’

Ram laughed softly. ‘You know, Guru Vashishta had said to me, when I was a child, that compassion is sometimes an overrated virtue. He told me the story of the butterfly emerging from the hard pupa. Its life begins as an “ugly” caterpillar. When the time is right, it forms a pupa and retreats behind its hard walls. Within its shell, it transforms into a butterfly, unseen, unheard. When ready, it uses its tiny, sharp claws at the base of its forewings to crack a small opening in the hard, protective outer shell. It squeezes through this tiny opening and struggles to make its way out. This is a difficult, painful and prolonged process. Misguided compassion may make us want to enlarge the hole in the pupa, imagining that it would ease the butterfly’s task. But that struggle is necessary; as the butterfly squeezes its body out of the tiny hole, it secretes fluids within its swollen body. This fluid goes to its wings, strengthening them; once they’ve emerged, as the fluid dries, the delicate creatures are able to take flight. Making the hole bigger to “help” the butterfly and ease its struggle will only debilitate it. Without the struggle, its wings would never gain strength. It would never fly.’

Sita nodded and smiled. ‘I was told a different story. Of small birds being pushed out of their nests by their parents so that they are forced to fly. But yes, the point was the same.’

Ram smiled. ‘Well, wife! This struggle has made us stronger.’

Sita picked up the wooden comb and began running it through Ram’s hair.

‘Who told you about the little birds? Your guru?’ asked Ram.

Since Ram was looking ahead, he didn’t see the split-second of hesitation that flitted across her face. ‘I’ve learnt from many people, Ram. But none was as great as your guru, Vashishta
ji
.’

Ram smiled. ‘I was lucky to have him as my guru.’

‘Yes, you were. He has trained you well. You will be a good Vishnu.’

Ram felt a flush of embarrassment. While he was certainly willing to shoulder any responsibility for the sake of his people, the great title that Vashishta felt certain Ram would achieve left him humbled. He doubted his capability, and wondered if he was even ready for it. He had shared these doubts with his wife.

‘You will be ready,’ said Sita, smiling, almost reading her husband’s mind. ‘Trust me. You don’t know how rare a person you are.’

Ram turned to Sita and touched her cheek gently as he looked deep into her eyes. He smiled faintly as he turned his attention back to the river. She tied a knot on top of his head, the way he always liked it, then wrapped threaded beads around the knot to hold it in place. ‘Done!’

FlyLeaf.ORG

Chapter 30
FlyLeaf.ORG

Ram and Sita had returned from a hunt with the body of a deer tied to a long wooden pole. They balanced the pole on their shoulders. Lakshman had stayed behind, it being his turn to cook. They had lived outside the Sapt Sindhu for thirteen years now.

‘Just one more year, Ram,’ said Sita, as the pair walked into the compound of their camp.

‘Yes,’ said Ram. They set down the pole. ‘That’s when our real battle begins.’

Lakshman walked up as he unsheathed a long knife from the scabbard tied horizontally across the small of his back. ‘The two of you can begin your philosophy and strategy discussions while I attend to some womanly chores!’

Sita gently tapped Lakshman on his cheek. ‘Men are also counted among the best chefs in India, so what’s so womanly about cooking? Everyone should be able to cook!’

Lakshman bowed theatrically, laughing. ‘Yeessss,
Bhabhi
!’

Ram and Sita laughed as well.

‘The sky is beautiful this evening, isn’t it?’ remarked Sita, admiring the handiwork of
Dhyauspita,
the
Sky Father
. Ram and Sita lay on the floor outside the main hut.

It was the fifth hour of the third
prahar
. The chariot of
Surya
, the Sun God, had left a trail of vivid colours behind as he blazed though the sky. A cool evening breeze blew in from the west, giving respite at the end of an unseasonal, oppressively hot day. The monsoon months had ended, heralding the beginning of winter.

‘Yes,’ smiled Ram, as he reached for her hand, pulled it close to his lips and kissed her fingers, gently.

Sita turned towards Ram and smiled. ‘What’s on your mind, husband?’

‘Very husbandly things, wife…’

A loud clearing of the throat was heard. Sita and Ram looked up to find an amused Lakshman standing before them. They stared at him with mock irritation.

‘What?’ shrugged Lakshman. ‘You’re blocking the entry into the hut. I need my sword. I have to go for a practice session with Atulya.’

Ram shifted to the right and made room for Lakshman. Lakshman walked in. ‘I’ll be gone soon…’

No sooner had he stepped into the hut than he stopped in his tracks. The flock of birds in the cage linked to the alarm had suddenly fluttered noisily. Lakshman whirled around as Ram and Sita sprang to their feet.

‘What was that?’ asked Lakshman.

Ram’s instincts told him that the intruders were not animals.

‘Weapons,’ ordered Ram calmly.

Sita and Lakshman tied their sword scabbards around their waist. Lakshman handed Ram his bow, before picking up his own. The brothers quickly strung their bows. Jatayu and his men rushed in, armed and ready, just as Ram and Lakshman tied quivers full of arrows to their backs. Sita picked up a long spear, as Ram tied his sword scabbard to his waist. They already wore a smaller knife scabbard, tied horizontally across the small of their backs; a weapon they kept on their person at all times.

‘Who could they be?’ asked Jatayu.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ram.

‘Lakshman’s Wall?’ asked Sita.

Lakshman’s Wall was an ingenious defensive feature designed by him to the east of the main hut. It was five feet in height; it covered three sides of a small square completely, leaving the inner side facing the main hut partially open; like a cubicle. The entire structure gave the impression that it was an enclosed kitchen. In actual fact, the cubicle was bare, providing adequate mobility to warriors — though they would have to be on their knees — unseen by enemies on the other side of the wall. A small
tandoor,
a
cooking platform
, emerged on the outside from the south-facing wall. Half the enclosure was roof-covered, completing the camouflage of a cooking area; it afforded protection from enemy arrows. The south, east and north-facing walls were drilled with well-spaced holes. These holes were narrow on the inner side and broad on the outer side, giving the impression of ventilation required for cooking. Their actual purpose was to give those on the inside a good view of the approaching enemy, while preventing those on the outside from looking in. The holes could also be used to fire arrows.

Made from mud, it was not strong enough to withstand a sustained assault by a large force. Having said that, it was good enough for defence against small bands sent on assassination bids, which is what Lakshman suspected they would face. Designed by Lakshman, it had been built by everyone in the camp; Makrant had named it ‘Lakshman’s Wall’.

‘Yes,’ said Ram.

Everyone rushed to the wall and crouched low, keeping their weapons ready; they waited.

Lakshman hunched over and peeped through a hole in the south-facing wall. As he strained his eye, he detected a small band of ten people marching into the camp premises, led by a man and a woman.

The man in the lead was of average height and unusually fair-skinned. His reed-thin physique was that of a runner; this man was no warrior. Despite his frail shoulders and thin arms, he walked as if he had boils in his armpits, pretending to accommodate impressive biceps. Like most Indian men, he had long, jet black hair that was tied in a knot at the back of his head. His full beard was neatly-trimmed, interestingly coloured a deep brown. He wore a classic brown
dhoti
and an
angvastram
that was a shade lighter. His jewellery was rich but understated: pearl ear studs and a thin, copper bracelet. He looked dishevelled right now, as though he had been on the road for too long, without a change of clothes.

The woman beside him faintly resembled the man, but was bewitching; she was possibly his sister. Almost as short as Urmila, her skin was as white as snow; it should have made her look pale and sickly, instead, she was distractingly beautiful. Her sharp, slightly upturned nose and high cheekbones made her look like a Parihan. Unlike them, though, her hair was blonde, a most unusual colour; every strand of it was in place. Her eyes were magnetic. Perhaps she was the child of
Hiranyaloman Mlechchas
;
fair-skinned, light-eyed and light-haired foreigners who lived half a world away towards the north-west
; their violent ways and incomprehensible speech had led to the Indians calling them barbarians. But this lady was no barbarian. Quite the contrary, she was elegant, slim and petite, except for breasts that were disproportionately large for her body. She wore a classic, expensively-dyed purple
dhoti,
which shone like the waters of the Sarayu. Perhaps it was the legendary silk cloth from the east, one that only the richest could afford. The
dhoti
was tied fashionably low, exposing her flat tummy and slim, curvaceous waist. Her blouse, also made of silk, was a tiny sliver of cloth, affording a generous view of her cleavage. Her
angvastram
had deliberately been left hanging loose from a shoulder, instead of across the body. Extravagant jewellery completed the picture of excess. The only incongruity was the knife scabbard tied to her waist. She was a vision to behold.

Ram cast a quick glance at Sita. ‘Who are they?’

Sita shrugged.

‘Lankans,’ whispered Jatayu.

Ram turned to Jatayu, crouching a few feet away. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. The man is Raavan’s younger half-brother Vibhishan, and the woman is his half-sister Shurpanakha.’

‘What are they doing here?’ asked Sita.

Atulya had been observing the approaching party through a hole in the wall. He turned towards Ram. ‘I don’t think they have come to make war. Look…’ He gestured towards the hole.

Everyone looked through the peepholes. A soldier next to Vibhishan held aloft a white flag, the colour of peace. They obviously wanted to parley. The mystery was: what did they want to talk about?

‘Why the hell would Raavan want to speak with us?’ asked Lakshman, ever suspicious.

‘According to my sources, Vibhishan and Shurpanakha don’t always see eye to eye with Raavan,’ said Jatayu. ‘We shouldn’t assume that Raavan has sent them.’

Atulya cut in. ‘Apologies for disagreeing with you, Jatayu
ji
. But I cannot imagine Prince Vibhishan or Princess Shurpanakha having the courage to do something like this on their own. We must assume that they have been sent by Lord Raavan.’

‘Time to stop wondering and start asking some questions,’ said Lakshman. ‘
Dada?
’

Ram looked through the hole again, and then turned towards his people. ‘We will all step out together. It will stop them from attempting something stupid.’

‘That is wise,’ said Jatayu.

‘Come on,’ said Ram, as he stepped out from behind the protective wall with his right hand raised, signifying that he meant no harm. Everyone else followed Ram’s example and trooped out to meet the half-siblings of Raavan.

Vibhishan nervously stopped in his tracks the moment his eyes fell on Ram, Sita, Lakshman, and their soldiers. He looked sideways at his sister, as if uncertain as to the next course of action. But Shurpanakha had eyes only for Ram. She stared at him, unashamedly. A look of recognition flashed across a surprised Vibhishan’s face when he saw Jatayu.

Ram, Lakshman and Sita walked in the lead, with Jatayu and his soldiers following close behind. As the forest-dwellers reached the Lankans, Vibhishan straightened his back, puffed up his chest, and spoke with an air of self-importance. ‘We come in peace, King of Ayodhya.’

‘We want peace as well,’ said Ram, lowering his right hand. His people did the same. He made no comment on the ‘King of Ayodhya’ greeting. ‘What brings you here, Prince of Lanka?’

Vibhishan preened at being recognised. ‘It seems Sapt Sindhuans are not as ignorant of the world as many of us like to imagine.’

Ram smiled politely. Meanwhile, Shurpanakha pulled out a small violet kerchief and covered her nose delicately.

‘Well, even I respect and understand the ways of the Sapt Sindhuans,’ said Vibhishan.

Sita watched Shurpanakha, hawk-eyed, as the lady continued to stare at her husband unabashedly. Up close, it was clear that the magic of Shurpanakha’s eyes lay in their startling colour: bright blue. She almost certainly had some
Hiranyaloman Mlechcha
blood. Practically nobody, east of Egypt, had blue eyes. She was bathed in fragrant perfume that overpowered the rustic, animal smell of the Panchavati camp; at least for those in her vicinity. Not overpowering enough for her, evidently. She continued to hold the stench of her surroundings at bay, with the kerchief pressed against her nose.

‘Would you like to come inside, to our humble abode?’ asked Ram, gesturing towards the hut.

‘No, thank you, Your Highness,’ said Vibhishan. ‘I’m comfortable here.’

Jatayu’s presence had thrown him off-guard. Vibhishan was unwilling to encounter other surprises that may lay in store for them, within the closed confines of the hut, before they had come to some negotiated terms. He
was
the brother of the enemy of the Sapt Sindhu, after all. It was safer here, out in the open; for now.

‘All right then,’ said Ram. ‘To what do we owe the honour of a visit from the prince of golden Lanka?’

Shurpanakha spoke in a husky, alluring voice. ‘Handsome one, we come to seek refuge.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Ram, momentarily flummoxed by the allusion to his good looks by a woman he did not know. ‘I don’t think we are capable of helping the relatives of…’

‘Who else can we go to, O Great One?’ asked Vibhishan. ‘We will never be accepted in the Sapt Sindhu because we are Raavan’s siblings. But we also know that there are many in the Sapt Sindhu who will not deny you. My sister and I have suffered Raavan’s brutal oppression for too long. We needed to escape.’

Ram remained silent, contemplative.

‘King of Ayodhya,’ continued Vibhishan, ‘I may be from Lanka but I am, in fact, like one of your own. I honour your ways, follow your path. I’m not like the other Lankans, blinded by Raavan’s immense wealth into following his demonic path. And Shurpanakha is just like me. Don’t you think you have a duty towards us, too?’

Sita cut in. ‘An ancient poet once remarked, “When the axe entered the forest, the trees said to each other: do not worry, the handle in that axe is one of us”.’