SITA’S SISTER (39 page)

‘I cannot say, dear,’ said Kaikeyi, her face composed but Urmila saw her eyes as troubled as the others. ‘Because she is Ram’s wife and the fact that she went with them was meant for a purpose. If Ram is to kill Ravan, then yes, it is because of Sita. And if that is so, then there is no cause for worry, no reason for anxiety. Ram will win her back and she will return with them safely, a warrior herself to have braved all the hardship.’

The mention of Ravan sent a chill through her as Urmila remembered him raging at Sita’s swayamvar. She recalled his raking eyes, his leering grin and his softly spoken threat—
‘I shall never forget this day, fair lady, I will remember this…!
’

Was revenge on Ram and Surpanakha’s defence just a pretext and was it this humiliation, this lust for Sita the reason for him having forcibly snatched her? Was it the revenge of a jilted man who could not face rejection? Was it his revenge or lust? Or both? The doubt made Urmila tremble. What would he do to her? Urmila squeezed her eyes shut to blot out the conjured horror. She did not dare to open her eyes…would this endless nightmare ever wake up to the light of a shining day of hope and happiness?

An arrow was coming towards her. She looked at it in speechless horror, as it approached… It swished past her and sped straight—straight into Lakshman’s heart, tearing into his chest, flinging him sideways. She saw him falling, his head thrown back, his arms stretched, a scream torn from his throat, bringing the war to a standstill…but before he could fall, someone grabbed his body and started dragging it away from the battlefield. Ram snatched it back, cradling his limp brother in his arms. He was lying still and motionless, his weapons strewn by his side. There were thousands of snakes around him, over him, wriggling, slithering, moving sinuously all over the dead bodies on the battlefield. Ram was next to him, his head on his lap, crying disconsolately, the tears falling fast and thick, dripping on Lakshman’s cold, white face, his face drained of blood, of life…

Urmila’s stricken eyes flew open. She was staring at the ornate ceiling, the image of him lying limp and lifeless still imprinted on her mind. She heard a loud, thudding sound. It was her heart thrumming. She got up slowly, trembling, straightening herself and her thoughts. It was just a bad dream, she kept repeating to herself. He would come back to her.

The last fourteen years had been a wanton infliction of misery but these last two months had been even more agonizing. The news kept trickling in…how after Sita’s abduction by Ravan, Ram, mad with grief, had searched for weeks for Sita and through Kabandha, the one-eyed demon, they were led to Pampa where Sugriva, the exiled king of Kishkindha, was hiding from his brother with his associate Hanuman and a handful of the vanara army. They had found some of Sita’s jewels on the forest floor after she had thrown them from the flying chariot. As Sugriva gave him the bundle, there grew a new bond of friendship between Ram and Sugriva. Ram promised to help him regain his lost kingdom and wife from his brother Vali and in return, Sugriva offered his help and the entire army to invade Lanka if need be. Ram killed Vali when the two brothers were in a duel and having his kingdom returned, Sugriva sent Hanuman to search for Sita. Hanuman discovered her in Lanka, in the Ashok garden to be precise, guarded by all the womenfolk of Ravan’s family and a host of female guards. Sita refused to go back with Hanuman as she wanted Ram to come to Lanka like a hero to rescue her from the clutches of the arrogant king. But before heading back, Hanuman managed to burn down most of the city of Lanka and openly challenged Ravan in his court that the day would arrive where Ram would kill Ravan in his own country. A bridge was built over the wide expanse of the sea separating Lanka from the mainland by Nala, the son of Vishwakarma, the architect of the gods. After having finally reached the shores of Lanka, Ram had declared war on Ravan.

Ram would kill Ravan as was destined, Urmila was sure, but why was she troubled chronically by these dreams? The prophecy had been about Ram, not Sita or Lakshman, a small voice kept haranguing her. Were they not safe? What harm would befall them? Urmila had no answers and she found herself praying for the first time. She had never been devout like Sita or deeply religious like her cousins. She found herself fervently, silently, calling upon in supplication, communing, entreating, imploring, with a higher force which would keep them both unharmed. When you are without hope, all you have is to will, to pray for a miracle.

Urmila was surprised when she was informed by Sumitra that Bharat had come to visit her. Bharat again, Urmila wondered with a frown. What news had he got now which had made him rush to Ayodhya again? She felt a stab of apprehension—What was he going to tell about Sita? Had Ram killed Ravan? Was Sita finally free?

The thought that Sita was back with Ram brought a smile to her lips but it slipped the moment she saw the expression on the others’ faces. All of them were there, all wearing the same stricken look.

Bharat stepped forward, his face ashen, his eyes moist. He finally seemed to gather some courage to break the news. ‘Lakshman has been fatally injured by a deadly arrow of Indrajit, the son of Ravan. Shot near the heart, he lies unconscious on the battlefield, and his life is in danger. He can survive only till sunrise…so says Hanuman whom I met just now. What are we to do now?!’ he was crying openly, his face wet with tears, his shoulders heaving.

The image of Lakshman lying in the battlefield swiftly erupted through her mind and Urmila understood the import of the dream. That had been a dream; this was for real. Physical danger has a particular tinge to it—sharp-edged, premonition-scented. She had known it was coming her way. The deepest recesses of her brain had screamed in pain and alarm, pounding her heart and flooding the body with a sense of fear needed for fight or flight. But she could do neither. And in that single, slow, unhurried moment, she saw before her eyes her life with him in a flash—her first glimpse of him in the garden, him at the swayamvar drawing his sword out to protect her, he talking about his innermost fears with Ram, he imploring her not to marry him, he teasing her at their wedding, he in her arms, he rubbing his thumb on the inside of her wrist, he removing her hair clip and watching her hair tumble down with smouldering eyes, his last kiss still burning an imprint on her parched lips, he laughing at her at Chitrakoot…and finally he lying still on the battlefield…all of it was real, pulsating with a life gone by. She felt a hot, tearing wrench in her heart, her blood curdling. Was it her heart breaking? Her mind could not take it—swinging tiredly back and forth, from believing to forgetting, from hoping to die to wishing to live. No, it could not be happening. She had waited for him too long. He could not betray her love and her faith. Not now, not ever. He was to return in a few days and he would—her victorious warrior, her faithful lover. He would come back to her…

Encompassed by a sudden sense of calm, Urmila looked in quick concern at Sumitra. She must be devastated. Sumitra was holding on gallantly, leaning heavily on her other son Shatrughna but Urmila could see in both their tortured eyes, the intense grief they were grappling with.

She rushed to her. ‘No, Mother, don’t be afraid. Your son’s heart is filled with the name of Ram. You had said so. So how will Ram ever allow any danger to befall him? He is perhaps sleeping peacefully due to the injury. He will gain consciousness again and will get up and fight! Your Soumitra can come to no harm: he will always remain safe. It must be Ram who would be inconsolable, suffering in pain and worry.’

Bharat looked surprised. ‘Yes, he is. He is beyond comforting! He has gone beserk with grief. He has surrendered his weapons and given up hope, accepting defeat. He refuses to pick up his arms and fight the war, claiming what use is victory for him now when he has lost that one person he loves most. He despairs with what face he will meet Ma Sumitra and you and has refused to return to Ayodhya. He sits with the head of Lakshman on his lap and weeps in disconsolate anguish and says he has nothing to live for anymore.’

‘No! But he has to save Sita!’ gasped Urmila in dread. ‘Ram cannot lose hope and give up. Is there no one to assure him that Lakshman will rise and get up? Nothing can happen to Lakshman! I know it! He is a warrior who will not accept defeat. He will win for his brother. He lives for his brother!’

‘And will die for Ram too,’ said Sumitra softly, her slight shoulders sagging wearily.

‘Mother, no, don’t believe the worst! Nor should Ram!’ said Urmila, trying to pacify the older woman. ‘Bharat, you go to Lanka and be with Ram; he needs your help and reassurance.’

‘He does not need me, sister,’ responded Bharat. ‘He has loyalists like Vibhishan, Ravan’s estranged brother, and Hanuman. I saw Hanuman flying over Ayodhya holding something dark in his hand and thinking he was a demon, I shot him with my arrow. He alighted and came close and told me he was Hanuman. He was carrying the hill with him as he had been told by Sushena, the vanara doctor, to search for the Sanjeevani herb grown on the Himalayan mountain called Gandhamadan. It is that magic herb which might restore Lakshman to good health before sunrise. The vegetation was too profuse and he could not identify the herb and, running short of time, Hanuman picked up the entire hill and was flying back to Lanka when I forced him down,’ said Bharat. ‘He too feared for Lakshman’s life and was rushing to Lanka…’ his voice quivered with fear and the certainty of approaching death.

Urmila calmly shook her head. ‘If he could fly to the Himalayas for the magic herb and collect a hill, murmuring Ram’s name all the while, nothing can stop him now,’ she said, her face serene, without a trace of worry. ‘He shall reach on time and save Lakshman. And Lakshman will regain his strength and purpose. He will fight and they will win the war, kill Ravan and shall return home soon with Sita. That is how it will be.’

The icy calm in her voice was both frightening and impressive. That was how Urmila was in the worst of crises—collected and assuring, thought Kirti, overwhelmed with wonder. But she was apprehensive too, if anything untoward was to happen to Lakshman—as was happening now—how long would Urmila be able to hold herself? She loved him too much; she would not be able to live without him. Urmila had lived through these fourteen years only on that thin sliver of hope—that he would come back to her, later, if not sooner. But return he would. But what if he did not make it? The dread smothered Kirti’s heart. Lakshman was fast sinking: Kirti knew that from all that Bharat had told them, the poison spreading slow, sure and surreptitious. But Urmila refused to cave in to any horror or hysteria. Was she in denial? Kirti was getting increasingly worried about her sister.

Kausalya was sobbing but trying to give Sumitra some reassurance. She clung to a pale-faced Shatrughna. Kaikeyi looked unusually fearful; was she, too, dreading the worst? Would Lakshman die? Kirti was again struck by Urmila’s unnatural placidity but she knew her sister was breaking inside.

‘Urmi, I am going to the temple…to pray.’

Urmila gently shook her head. ‘Ma Sumitra needs me,’ she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Kirti gave Mandavi a nod and left the room.

Mandavi looked searchingly at Urmila, troubled by her dispassionate serenity. She had seen Urmila going almost berserk when she had heard of Sita being kidnapped and that, too, had been an unusual reaction. Urmila never lost her wits. And now this remarkable show of self-possession: it was unnerving. Urmila was oscillating between two extremes.

Mandavi had observed her sister through these trying years; she had endured all what Mandavi could not. They had both suffered similar tribulations but it was Mandavi who had preferred to live in her island, surrounded by bitter waters of pain and disillusionment. While she had wilted and withered, Urmila’s unshakeable self-belief had made her bloom and blossom, weathering the worst of times.

And each time Mandavi saw Bharat, she was struck by a bittersweet pain. Happy to see him and sad that he could not give her his all. But Urmila could not have even these small moments. Or live in the assurance that her husband was safe and unharmed. In the forest, he was living in danger; here, she was living through danger, dreading and fearing for him, fearful if he would ever return to her. But she never showed it. She hid it well, masking every emotion. Urmila now seemed frozen. Mandavi wanted to rush to her and shake her out of her stupor, make her understand that her husband was dying, force her to face the brutality of that eventuality but her sister seemed to have gone far, far away, living again in her land of everlasting hope. And love. Love knows no fear.