Prince of Dharma (117 page)

‘So don’t you see the point? She’s specified an impossible task because she doesn’t want anyone to succeed. She isn’t interested in getting married, Rama. Not today, and if you ask my opinion, not any day. Nobody in the three worlds can lift the Bow of Shiva. Let alone anyone in this room!’ 

FIVE 

It took five hundred men the better part of an hour to drag the bow on a wheeled platform into the assembly hall. The crowd of citizens gathered on the avenue outside had swelled to over a hundred thousand as word of the rajkumari’s test spread through the city. They watched in awed silence as the entire palace guard strained and sweated to drag the wheeled platform across the fifty yards separating the armoury museum from the assembly hall. 

Finally, the platform was in the hall. And the Bow of Shiva stood in the centre of the chamber, its lustreless arc gleaming dully in the afternoon sunlight. It was close to two hours past noon and the assembled suitors were already sweating profusely in their heavy rich garments and jewellery. None of them had left the hall, not because they thought they could lift the bow but because nobody wanted to be remembered as the first to leave. So until one of them had the courage to stand up, admit defeat and walk out, they would all remain. They were the sons and brothers of the greatest houses in the kingdom, heroes of countless contests and champions of various sports. To walk out without even attempting the test, however impossible, would be humiliating. And to these proud sons of Arya, failure was acceptable; humiliation was not. 

A strapping young Kshatriya took first try. A court crier called out the suitor’s name as he stepped up to the platform and walked around it, examining the bow from every angle. It was huge, no doubt about that, at least twice the length and width of any normal bow. Its double-ribbed design was in the fashion of ancient bows from the early days of the Arya nations. Apart from that, it didn’t look extraordinary. There was no polish, no shine, no gleaming jewels embedded in it. Just a seven-foot-long curved shape cast from solid iron. 

The courageous—or foolishly deluded—suitor stepped up to the bow, arching his back in anticipation of its weight, and bent down. Laying his right hand on the centre of the bow, he heaved with all his strength. 

Nothing happened. 

Sweat began to pop out on his forehead, then on his neck and back. His muscles strained and stood out as sharply as bamboos beneath an upraised tent. He gripped his right forearm with his left hand, bracing it while keeping only one hand on the bow as the rajkumari’s rule demanded. 

After an eternity of straining, he let go and fell back on the ground, panting heavily. 

The watching assembly released a huge sigh. Word of the failed attempt rippled through the public spectators to the crowd on the avenue outside. The suitor rose slowly to his feet, head bowed, and looked around at his rivals, eyes shining wetly with frustration. 

‘It’s impossible, my brothers,’ he cried out. ‘I can lift three hundred kilos with one hand, yet that bow didn’t move a fraction of an inch. I tell you, no mortal can move it!’ 

He left the hall amid a pandemonium of cries, catcalls and renewed complaints. 

The rest went much the same way. 

After the first dozen or so failures, the others barely made an effort. Several left the assembly hall then, unable to stand the humiliation any longer. At the outset, the crowd had started placing bets with city bookmakers on the odds of individual suitors. The bets had dwindled to almost nil by the tenth attempt. Now, the bookmakers themselves had stopped accepting further wagers, on the grounds that it wasn’t fair to take people’s money for impossible odds. 

Maharaja Janak rose to his feet and addressed the assembly. There were still about two dozen suitors left, perhaps hoping that some miracle would save them from having to lose face by walking out as failures. They were from the twenty biggest houses in Videha, fiercely loyal to the maharaja. Most of them had grown up watching Sita and had dreamed of winning one of them as a wife some day. They sat silently, sullenly, waiting for something to happen. 

‘Good Mithilans,’ the maharaja said brightly. His manner seemed undimmed by the crushing failure of the suitors or by the obvious impossibility of the task. ‘Take heart from this news. The brahmarishi Vishwamitra, whom I introduced to you at the start of this function, spoke to me before we began. The good sage, with his infinite knowledge of all things past, present and future, predicted that today’s swayamvara will have a successful conclusion. He predicted that not only will my daughter Sita choose a suitable husband, but her sisters will find husbands as well before the fall of sunset this evening.’ 

Amazed murmurs met the maharaja’s announcement. Janak looked around at the few seats that remained occupied, greeting each suitor with a smile. ‘I believe implicitly in the seer’s prediction. The man who is destined to wed my daughter is in this very hall today. Let him step forward and try his hand at the bow, and I am certain he will succeed. The might of dharma itself will give him the strength he requires to lift it. Come forward then, and show yourself.’ 

In the silence that followed, the remaining suitors looked around at one another. Each was thinking the same thing: Is it true? And if it is, then who is the chosen one? Is it me? 

Before anyone else could say another word, a solitary suitor rose to his feet. It was the man seated in the first throne on the right hand of the rajkumari Sita. He strode forward, his handsome face creasing with a confident smile. 

‘I am the man chosen to be your son-in-law, raje. I am the one destined to lift the bow. Give me your blessing now and let me fulfil my destiny.’ 

Janak’s smile could hardly be brighter or more intense. ‘Well said, Arya-putra! It would be my pleasure to bless you. May Shiva himself give you strength.’ 

The man accepted the maharaja’s ashirwaad. He walked to the platform and approached the bow. Without so much as an intake of breath, he reached down and clutched it with his left hand. 

Flexing his arm, he lifted the bow above his head in a single smooth motion. 

*** 

Sita watched in amazement as the handsome suitor lifted Shiva’s bow single-handedly. The strain was evident; she could see the young man’s jaw clench with the effort. But he had done it! He had completed the first part of the task she had set. 

A stunned silence fell across the assembly hall. It spread like a fire to the crowd outside, hushing them. Over a hundred and fifty thousand people now watched and waited with bated breath as the young man in the assembly hall attempted the next part of the test. 

Taking up the end of the leather cord wound around the head of the bow, the suitor unwound it slowly, using his right hand. All the while, he kept the bow suspended overhead with his left hand. Sweat poured down his face and arms, but his grip never yielded for an instant. His concentration was absolute, his focus impressive. Sita watched with growing disbelief as the man finished unwinding the cord and pulled it across to the other end of the bow. 

The man strung the bow tight and wound the end of the cord around the pointed horn at the tip of the curve. He tested the stretched cord with a flick of his right forefinger. It twanged audibly, the reverberations echoing through the vast hall. 

Eyes widened, hands flew to open mouths. 

Sita couldn’t believe what she was seeing. 

The man picked up one of the arrows provided, a perfect longbow arrow with a peacock feather trim at the end. It was dwarfed by the size of the bow, reduced to looking like an ordinary shortbow arrow, but it fitted, just. He set it on the bow, fixed its end to the cord and pulled tight. 

Then he turned the bow slowly around, seeking a suitable target, and loosed the arrow. 

Brahmarishi Vishwamitra didn’t blink an eye as the arrow struck a crossbeam a yard over his head and embedded itself a foot deep, shuddering. 

The roar of exultation from the spectators was deafening. The people went wild with ecstasy. They had just watched the impossible being done. It was a feat that would be talked about to the end of their days. They would tell their grandchildren about this amazing day. Nay. Their grandchildren would tell their grandchildren about it! Word spread through Mithila like a fire out of control. The town criers galloped to the farthest corners of the city carrying the news. 

In the assembly hall, Maharaja Janak stared at the arrow embedded in the beam above the brahmarishi. The maharaja turned to the suitor, who was still holding the bow in one hand. The smile on his face was still as smug and confident as before; he seemed to have grown accustomed to the strain of the bow, but the crinkles around his eyes and the straining muscles of his arm suggested that it still took all his strength to keep it aloft. 

His eyes sought out and fixed on the rajkumari Sita. Janak glanced at his daughter. Her face was as white as chalk. 

‘Young man,’ the maharaja said, ‘you have accomplished what nobody thought possible. Not even my strongest Kshatriyas were able to lift the Bow of Shiva. Yet you did so single-handedly, strung it, and fired an arrow from it as easily as other men might fire from any ordinary longbow.’ 

The maharaja gestured uncertainly at the beam. ‘I assume you did not mean the brahmarishi any disrespect by aiming the arrow in his direction. No doubt your aim is excellent and you knew you would not endanger the esteemed sage in the slightest degree. Still, a brief apology would be in order. If you could merely offer your regret to the sage and take his forgiveness, we can proceed with the rest of the ceremony.’ 

The young man reached down to the quiver provided for the test and pulled out another arrow. He strung this one as well, and aimed the bow once more at Vishwamitra. 

‘I would rather put an arrow through the seer’s heart than apologise to him,’ he said. 

Janak stared at the man as if he had just spoken in a foreign tongue. ‘Arya-putra,’ the maharaja said sharply, ‘I will not condone an insult to a Brahmin in my kingdom. Apologise to the seer at once!’ 

The young man insolently released the cord and dropped the arrow on the floor. Then, with a loud crash, he let the bow fall on to the platform. The platform shattered and sank to the floor, its two-inch-thick wooden planks splintered by the impact. 

‘I have passed your daughter’s test,’ the suitor said, his tone arrogant and demanding. ‘Now I demand her hand in marriage. Fulfil your promise, Janak of Mithila! Give me Sita!’ 

Janak frowned down at the suitor. ‘Arya-putra, it is true that you have passed the test, and displayed amazing talent. Yet that is no excuse for speaking thus. First you insult my honoured visitor, now you speak to me arrogantly. Mind your tone, young …’ The maharaja glanced at the crier deputed with calling out the names of suitors. ‘What is this man’s name?’ 

‘Maharaj,’ the crier said nervously, ‘he refused to give his name at the start of the swayamvara.’ 

‘My name is Jay,’ the man said, striding up to the edge of the dais. He leapt up on to it with a single bound. 

Maharaja Janak stepped back, surprised at the suitor’s boldness. Both Nakhudi and Bejoo, as well as the other guards posted by the dais, started for the man, their weapons drawn. The maharaja shook his head, gesturing to them to stay back. Nakhudi retreated reluctantly, staring balefully at the arrogant young man. 

The maharaja pointed sternly at the suitor. 

‘Young Jay, I do not know from which part of our kingdom your family hails, but if you are to be my son-in-law, I suggest you learn how to conduct yourself in the presence of—’ 

‘I am not from your kingdom,’ the man said. There was menace in his tone now, and a challenge in his eyes. He swung around, addressing the entire assembly. ‘I am not a Videhan and I would be ashamed if I were one!’ 

Janak’s face coloured at that. ‘That is enough insolence. How dare you insult our proud nation?’ 

Jay turned back to the maharaja. ‘I am not an Arya either,’ he said. ‘Do you understand now? I am not one of you!’ 

Janak stared at the suitor with irritated incomprehension. ‘What do you mean? If you are not Arya, then who are you? Where are you from?’ 

The suitor shrugged carelessly. ‘Originally I am of Vaikunta. But presently I call Lanka my home.’ 

‘Lanka?’ The maharaja looked around, as if to confirm whether he had heard correctly. ‘You make a poor jest, young Jay. There are no mortals in Lanka. Only asuras.’ 

The man was silent. Only his smile spoke. 

Janak’s voice faltered. ‘What manner of story is this? Where are you from really, boy? What is your family crest? Who are your parents?’ 

Brahmarishi Vishwamitra stepped forward, his staff thumping the wooden dais. ‘He speaks the truth, Mithila-naresh. His birth-name is indeed Jay, although it is millennia since he used that name. He was originally of Vaikunta, celestial home of Lord Vishnu Deva, and his present residence is Lanka. But you are right as well, raje. There are no mortals in Lanka, only asuras. Behold then, the lord of asuras himself!’ 

And the sage threw his staff at the young suitor as hard as he could. The man named Jay had no choice but to catch it to avoid being struck. The instant the staff touched his hand, a blinding flash of brilliant blue exploded, dazzling everybody. 

When Sita was able to see clearly again, she looked at the spot where the handsome young suitor had stood.