SITA’S SISTER (4 page)

Urmila was reassured but just for a short while.

‘Presumed innocent,’ riposted Mandavi sweetly. ‘But thus we got to meet the young princes at last. They are both fine looking…’ she paused dramatically. ‘But did you happen to notice it too, Kirti, that there was this…ahem, little something unfurling right under our noses? And our sisters here actually believe we didn’t notice anything amiss!’

There lingered a long silence in the room, with each expecting the other to start talking. Finally, Sita broke the uncomfortable stillness, stifling the room. ‘I really don’t think I want to confer about the princes,’ she said stiltedly. ‘The fact that they are still here makes it clear that they have been invited by father for my swayamvar. This means they are my suitors; so it’s best I do not discuss them,’ she enunciated each word with a certain forcefulness uncharacteristic of her. But she laced it so beautifully with dignity and elegance that they were shorn of any aggressiveness. That was the magic Sita had, Urmila thought, marvelling at her sister’s composure when she knew she was breaking from within. She watched her quietly leave the room, leaving a trail of another painful silence.

‘What’s with her?’ asked Kirti quietly. ‘And Urmi, please don’t tell us it is prenuptial nerves. Besides, Sita is too composed and well-behaved to throw tantrums.’

Urmila remained silent, her lips thinned in a stubborn line. She would not talk for Sita. Mandavi immediately recognized her mood.

‘Don’t say it, Urmi,’ she said. ‘But I think I know what Sita is going through. She’s clearly upset about her wedding…and her feelings. We shall not intrude. If she wants to confide in us, she will.’

‘She will…but only to Urmi,’ nodded Kirti astutely.

‘So that’s that!’ Mandavi commented wryly.

‘So that’s not that!’ retorted her younger sister. ‘I am sure we shall meet the two princes again on our way to the temple tomorrow. So, is Sita planning to stop visiting the temple till her wedding day?’

Urmila knew the reply to Kirti’s sardonic question but she had no answer to the uneasy feelings kindled at the mere mention of the word ‘princes’. And that one prince in particular with his intense, blazing eyes.

Sita was in a worse state than the last time when they had had a similar conversation. But this time Urmila had her private fear to deal with, too, and it would take an effort on her part not to reveal her feelings to her sister. But the spin was, Urmila thought with dry humour, that now she just might be able to identify with her sister better in their common emotional affliction. Sita, anyway, had worked herself into such a state that she would not have noticed her younger sister’s turmoil.

‘Did the others guess?’ she asked frantically, the moment Urmila stepped inside the room. ‘Did you tell them anything?’

‘I think they are getting a fair idea…’ Urmila started slowly, ‘…and they will eventually make an intelligent inference but I assure you, I haven’t and will not divulge anything,’ she promised.

‘I know you won’t! You are so fiercely loyal and honourable! But right now my feelings are neither…and I hate myself for being so transparent about it,’ cried Sita. ‘But with each passing day, I so dread the day of my swayamvar! I have fallen in love with a man whom I know nothing about! And what if I were to marry some other stranger who manages to lift that heavy bow? I tremble at the thought…how can I marry some man when I love another?’

‘Is that why you are getting so hysterical with worry?’ Urmila laughed dismissively and went up to her older sister. ‘Now listen to me carefully. The man you have fallen in love with at first sight is no stranger—he is the prince of Ayodhya and the world is singing praises of his feats, his valour, his goodness and his good looks, of course!’ she teased, hoping to bring a smile on her sister’s worried face. Sita dimpled engagingly. ‘Think clearly, Sita. There must be a reason why Rishi Vishwamitra got him to Mithila. And now, since he has been invited to stay on for your swayamvar, I am sure he is the suitor who will win your hand; he is the one who will break that bow! He is
your
prince, princess!’

‘Is he? Will he be mine?’ Sita smiled tremulously. ‘Will your words really come true? I don’t know what I’ll do if…’

‘Shh!’ Urmila placated her elder sister reassuringly. ‘My words will come true…you will watch them happen! So, enjoy this day and the days to come—they are going to be the best!’

Urmila noticed her words were having the desired effect on Sita. She looked a lot calmer. Urmila was taken aback when a pair of slim arms was flung around her and she was folded in a close embrace. Sita was rarely effusive about her feelings; and she never cried.

‘O Urmi, what will I do without you?’ sobbed Sita, the words flowing as swiftly as the tears down her cheeks. ‘You have an answer for everything…’

Sita could not go on as the enormity of the circumstances slowly dawned on her. For the first time, she was aware of a new harsh reality—that she would be separated from her younger sister and she would be leaving her soon for a different world. Urmila might have been the younger sister, younger just by a year, but for Sita, she was her anchor who secured her to a comforting veracity of her own existence. Urmila was her lifeline, she was her soulmate.

As their adopted daughter, Janak and Sunaina had fawned on Sita to the point of being slavish. She had been embarrassed by it, squirming uneasily at the gratuitous affection lavished unduly upon her. Her upbringing had not been normal; she could not recall a single instance when she had been scolded or frowned upon. Urmila had suffered all of that and taken it with a brave smile on a trembling chin. Sita had been hailed as Janaki, Janak’s daughter, when it was Urmila who was his daughter and the sole proprietor of that name. Sita was Maithili, the princess of Mithila, when it was Urmila who should have been crowned with that title. But never had Sita seen Urmila resentful about all the favours showered upon her, when she was deprived of them. Sita had never dared to discuss this with Urmila as she might not have liked it. She had kept quiet and taken in all the outpouring of love and adoration without letting anyone know how she felt—that it still did not make her one of their own. It left her, instead, feeling like an outsider. She could never forget that she was a foundling; and that she was indebted to them forever. That feeling of obligation was enormous; a burden she silently carried and could never shrug off. However, Sita could not remember even one instance when either her parents or her sisters had ever made her feel unloved.

Instead, by bestowing too much, they had made her feel too special. All of them but Urmila; she was the only one who treated Sita ‘normally’—like a sister would another. Urmila had screamed at her, pulled her hair, pinched her, argued bitterly and each time, it had been Urmila who had earned the ire of her parents. Praise was reserved for Sita, though it was invariably Urmila who picked up the Vedic verses more quickly than her sisters.

Sita recalled each of these moments and they made her angry—all of them had been undeniably unfair on her younger sister. Her younger sister…Sita repeated the words in her mind with renewed fondness; Urmila had always been the veritable older sister all through their growing years—strong, fiercely protective like a tigress shielding her from everything, guiding her, helping her, consoling her. Her parents’ love had been smothering and the sweetest memories she carried was of her younger sister. Each tender gesture was like a picture painted lovingly in her mind—Urmila hugging her tightly each night before going to sleep to dispel her nightmares, kissing her tears away when she had fallen from a branch or like this moment, trying to show her a better world than she could ever imagine. Sita wondered in sudden despair how she would be able to disengage herself from her sister’s comforting existence, her rooted reality which she would have to extricate herself from.

Urmila was close to tears herself, but she kept them in check, refusing to crumple. Sita suddenly seemed to have realized the enormity of the situation but for Urmila, her sister’s impending marriage had been a torturous thought, an unpleasant eventuality. Her sister was going to get married; she couldn’t find herself feeling gorgeously happy about it. That dull ache in her heart would not let go of her. The thought of parting was more excruciating than the happiness of the occasion. Was she being selfish? No, she was just so dejected, Urmila quickly self-analysed. She was having an agonizingly bittersweet time: excited yet secretly sorrowful while she prepared for her sister’s grand wedding. But the presence of the intruding prince was mercifully distracting.

For five successive days, it happened the way Kirti had shrewdly envisioned—they kept meeting the two princes at the garden each morning. But conversation expanded into nothingness, filled instead with the customary silent greeting and cursory smiles; and evocative looks. Each time Ram smiled, Sita bowed her head to hide the rising colour. Was it bashfulness, discomfiture or plain guilt of the secret love she harboured for this man?

Urmila was feeling similarly wretched. She tried to hide the awkwardness by bowing her head lower in courtesy but each time, she hated herself for trying to steal a furtive glance at the younger brother. And each time, she found his hard eyes on her, his open, unblinking gaze, washing her in a flood of mixed emotions. Urmila was proud of the fact that she was not shy but she found her nerves suddenly failing her and the intended words freezing in her mouth. She felt her throat and mouth go dry and her tongue instinctively moving sensuously on the parched lips. What was she doing, she thought desperately, watching his expressions change. Her face flaming, she moved away, turning her face from him and from a new, overpowering reality she was finding difficult to assimilate.

She felt a reassuring grip on her upper arm. She turned to meet Mandavi’s steady gaze. She knew.

‘Isn’t Prince Ram wonderful? He is so kind and courteous!’ gushed one of the maids.

‘Yes, but why does the younger prince frown constantly? He seems to be always angry and scowling,’ giggled another.

Mandavi’s stern look silenced their chatter immediately and forbade further talk. Urmila could feel his eyes boring into her retreating figure and she felt a frenzied urge to turn around and look at him. But she did not. She found herself waiting for the next morning to see him again.

Urmila’s words seemed to have worked their magic on Sita; she looked neither impassive nor morose, the twin emotions that had been afflicting the bride-to-be the previous week. She was her expected composed, collected self, wearing a bright smile.

She was sitting down, her slim hands resting on her lap, her eyebrows slightly raised in expectation, her self-assured smile in place. She tugged at Urmila’s hand and whispered, ‘Urmi, as you always do, you promised me a new hope.’ And her eyes, discreetly through her long lashes, travelled to where Ram was sitting in the huge raj sabha where the swayamvar was being organized.

The hall was exactly the same as Urmila remembered it. Long and stretched as she had found it when she had dared to enter the forbidden place so many years ago. Urmila hadn’t had the courage to step inside it ever again. Even now, through adult eyes, the hall appeared vast and overwhelming. The long rows of high columns, the high domed ceiling from which dropped down a most exquisite, huge chandelier flickering the side walls with strange shadows, even as the late morning light entered the room through a series of long windows in the aisles. And in the middle of the long hall, was the Shiv dhanush—worshipped by her father—the divine bow of Lord Shiv given by Sage Parshuram to one of her father’s ancestors to look after while the famous rishi performed his penance. Rishi Parshuram was known to be very fond of the Rudra bow as it was presented by Lord Shiv himself to the rishi for his penance and devotion. Keeping this in mind, Urmila’s ancestor and many after him had vigilantly kept the bow in safe-keeping for many decades. That bow remained locked in a strong iron casket in a latched armoury room where no one was allowed to enter—a rule that Sita and she had dared to break once and had never been able to forget their reckless temerity ever since. It was eight and a half feet long and had to be carried on an eight-wheeled carriage and dragged like a temple chariot even if it had to be moved within the hall. Today it had been displayed in public and King Janak had declared that whoever could string this bow of Rudra would marry his elder daughter, Sita. The sight of the great dhanush still made Urmila wonder how Sita had managed to lift it using her tiny, ten-year-old wrist. The sight had been blinding and Urmila shivered at the memory.