SITA’S SISTER (5 page)

The image of her father bowing and looking up reverently at the little Sita flashed through her mind and Urmila felt a strange knot within her. Was Sita special? Or more specifically, did she have special powers? Urmila had not been able to clear this doubt which had bothered her all through her growing years and today, she was again faced with the same question. Her parents had resolutely considered Sita unique and extraordinary but Urmila had always assumed it was because Sita had been an adopted child and hence the shower of ceaseless attention and affection. But their love had always been deferential—it was almost close to worship. That is why Urmila was never jealous or angry; she simply felt awe at her parents’ veneration for her elder sister. Urmila found this distinctly odd coming from her parents who were in other ways the most intelligent, sensible beings, devoid of any superior airs or fatuous truculence, often associated with royal hauteur.

Her father Seeradhwaj Janak was, besides being powerful, a hugely popular king and was affectionately called simply King Janak—the family name of the dynasty which had been ruling Videha for so many centuries from Mithila, the beautiful capital city. Urmila still found his popularity quite overwhelming and as a child she used to beam with a certain smugness when the crowds cheered and bowed their heads in collective homage wherever he went. But her parents had reigned in her pride by teaching her lessons in humility. Privileged did not mean special; just fortunate. And fortunes could change in a flash, they warned.

Janak was a striking personality—tall, thin, aristocratic with a long, hooked nose and a neatly trimmed silver beard which showed his age truthfully. His face was creased, not with worry, but with light age lines marking years of wisdom. Janak was no ordinary king; he was a renowned rishi as well, the favourite pupil of the famous sage Yajñavalkya, the author of
Shukla Yajurveda
, as also Sage Ashtavakra, from whom he learnt about the soul and the true nature of the self. Janak was the royal sage, rajrishi, who was well-versed in the Vedas and shastras and as spiritually advanced as other rishis. He was a king who believed in the discipline of action and selfless philanthropic service to mankind. He never turned away from his responsibility of administrating the kingdom of Videha with kindness and humility. And today, while the yagna was still going on, Janak was hosting a different ceremony—the swayamvar of Sita, graced with the presence of the bravest and most famous kings of the country.

Urmila looked at her sister more closely, trying to recognize the special powers within her. She was sitting with her arms folded, her head tilted to one side, as she often did. Not in her favoured light pastel shades today, she was instead attired in rich, deep yellow silks, adding a golden glaze to her etherealness. Unlike most princesses who looked lost and weighed down by the heavy, elaborate, glittering gem-studded jewels at their wedding, Sita, with her delicate gold-filigreed ornaments, was the very embodiment of earthy elegance. This was the swayamvar of the princess for whose hand kings, emperors and princes from within the country and even outside were competing against each other.

Thinking of faraway lands, Urmila’s eyes sought out a tall, strapping, lumbering figure amongst the host of kings present in the hall. It was that of Ravan, the emperor of Lanka, whose presence had created a furore in the raj sabha. She spotted him soon enough, sitting close to her father. She wondered what he was talking about so seriously with her father. But he was supposed to be an exemplary scholar too, Urmila acknowledged, having done her homework well, with valued inputs from Mandavi as well, on all the suitors vying for Sita’s hand in marriage.

Ravan was an accomplished scholar, keenly knowledgeable in the Vedas, music—he played the veena splendidly it seemed—and abstruse subjects as assorted as astrology, architecture, Ayurveda and political science. He was said to be the mightiest of all kings and it showed lavishly. From the sparkling jewels, dripping about him and his resplendent crown which dwarfed her father’s simple one to ignominy, Ravan looked as dazzling as all the gems he was splattered with. He was immensely tall, almost gigantic, dwarfing all those around him. He looked and seemed powerful, his massive shoulders magnifying the effect. He was handsome, Urmila acknowledged with a discerning eye, but not regularly good looking. It was his overpowering personality that was so arresting that set him apart from the others. He was renowned—he knew it, he looked it and amply showed it. He had brazenly announced that he would be the first one to string the bow, silencing any protests and ruling out any opposition or contest.

Urmila heard Sita gasp and she patted her hand reassuringly. She saw Sita’s eyes wander towards Ram, sitting at the opposite end, between Vishwamitra and his younger brother. Urmila had promised herself that she would not glance at Lakshman, hardening her heart and her resolve to keep her eyes away from the brooding prince throughout the swayamvar but she had broken her self-imposed decree in just a matter of minutes.

‘When will the ceremony start?’ she mumbled, her edginess escalating.

Beside her, Sita appeared serene and poised, but her hands were clenching hers hard as they watched Ravan amble towards the bow. Ravan, like Ram, was an unanticipated visitor and her father and the other kings and princes had been none too pleased at his arrival. But courteous civility prevailed and protocol followed. Ravan was given the first chance to string the mighty bow.

He sauntered across with an air of aggressive defiance and unconcealed arrogance. But he bowed chivalrously before her father and Sita, before he folded his hand in silent veneration. With eyes peacefully shut, his hand folded and his head bowed, Urmila saw him murmuring a mantra. He must be praying to Shiv, she thought. Ravan considered himself Shiv’s most faithful devotee.

Saying his brief prayer, Ravan bent down to lift the mighty bow, clasping it firmly in his big hands. It did not move an inch. There was a thick silence. He gripped it more firmly this time and tried to heave it; it did not budge. He tried yet again; he could not nudge it. The most powerful king in the raj sabha could not believe his eyes. He gave a roar of rage and used both his hands to haul it up but he was left grabbing hard at the bow instead.

To Urmila’s flamboyant mind, it was a rather funny sight to see such a big, conceited king with his massive frame and his gems-blazing crown bent low on his knees, grappling ineffectually with an inert, horizontal bow that refused to be moved around.

Urmila bit her lip, enjoying the sight of the fallen king. Her dancing eyes went over to the others in the hall. Most looked perturbed. Ram, she noticed, was watching silently, his face composed, a slight frown furrowing his eyebrows. His companions, though, looked evidently amused. Vishwamitra had a small grim smile while the younger prince was suppressing a devilish grin, his eyes for once sparkling, not with jaded annoyance, but with unconcealed laughter. It changed him completely, making him look younger and amiable, flooding his face with unmitigated charm and a glowing cheeriness, wiping out any trace of his characteristic frown. Urmila was mesmerised at the transformation.

Mandavi nudged her warningly. Urmila looked down, her face scarlet, the bubbling smile immediately drying up. Had she been staring at him too long? Ravan was apoplectic with unbridled anger by now. He was still struggling with the bow and after another agonizing hour-long minute, he finally surrendered. He looked up, and had the grace to look regretful but his next words tainted the fleeting graciousness.

‘With folded hands, I admit defeat that I cannot move the sacred Shiv dhanush,’ he said superciliously. ‘I must have fallen short in my penance to Lord Shiv that I could not do what I was asked to. But this I do know, that if I cannot move it, none present in this room can. So, King Janak, do you wish your daughter to remain unmarried? Because no one in this room will be able to string the bow—it is impossible to even shift it. What sort of a suicidal condition have you laid for your daughter? Do you want her to remain a spinster?’ he sneered. ‘I would not wish that, sir, and despite everything, am ready to marry her.’

His sheer conceit took her breath away, as a tide of anger overtook Urmila. How dare Ravan insult her father and sister? Furious, she watched her mother’s face go ashen in fear and worry. Her father remained calm.

‘I regret that you were not able to string Rudra’s bow, O king! But as a Shiv devotee you would know that I shall have to continue with the condition I have placed,’ he said firmly, his face tranquil and his eyes looking evenly back at Ravan. ‘Have no fear, sir; my daughter will not remain unmarried and lonely as it would be truly an extraordinary man who will eventually wed her. I shall wait for such a man to string the bow.’

The anger in Ravana’s glittering eyes suddenly died down and was replaced with contempt. ‘You might have to wait for eternity or till your daughter grows old!’ he snorted. ‘We shall soon see…and I have no time now though I shall wait and watch till infinity for your daughter Sita to get married to some precious man who fulfils your impossible condition. Meanwhile, since I would hate wasting this visit, I would not mind marrying your other daughter; she is as ravishingly beautiful as the world claims her to be!’

Even her mild-mannered father was shocked at the words; he stood speechless with horror. Ravan had clearly uttered those insulting words to salvage his broken pride. They were the defeated words of a crushed man who had lost his esteem and ego in harsh public glare.

Urmila felt his lascivious gaze on her. His eyes glittered wolfishly in his cruel, dark face. His open, blatant look made Urmila cringe but she lifted up her chin fiercely. She looked squarely up at him, her eyes sparkling with unsuppressed fury and loathing. It was a long, livid moment. And from the corner of her eyes, she thought she saw an angry movement. It was Lakshman, being restrained by Ram. Sita moved toward her sister protectively. Ravan’s eyes turned to Sita.

‘This humiliation has happened because of you. I shall never forget this day, fair lady. I will remember this…’ He said softly, the tone menacing.

And saying his last, lingering words, he stormed out, leaving behind a pall of gloom. The mighty Ravan having been defeated, many disheartened kings followed suit and quietly left the raj sabha without daring a chance.

‘Shall we begin again?’ said Janak, requesting the others to be seated. ‘The man who strings this extraordinary bow shall win my daughter’s hand in marriage. Only then…’ There was a stern note of warning in his words.

Many kings, princes and nobles obliged and attempted lifting the bow. None could push it even an inch. All returned to their seats, mortified and defeated. ‘I have been saying this over and over again that the terms of this swayamvar are simply unattainable!’ Mandavi broke in agitatedly. ‘By now at least thirty princes must have tried their luck…even the powerful Ravan couldn’t do it!’

‘Mercifully,’ retorted Kirti. ‘Did you see how he looked at Sita? And Urmila? He is an ogre, that man!’

‘But that doesn’t moderate our predicament, does it?’ snapped Mandavi. ‘Who on earth will be able to lift that bow?’

‘The lucky man,’ Urmila said sharply. ‘And he will be able to do the impossible. Don’t worry, just watch on…’

Her assurances were principally for her mother whose eyes turned bleaker as each defeated suitor walked wearily back to his seat. Sunaina’s worst fears were getting confirmed—there was no one good enough to marry her daughter.

There was a mounting sense of anger and frustration in the raj sabha as well. ‘Is your daughter so unique that you have set upon us this impossible task?’ asked one prince, heatedly. ‘I agree to what Ravan claimed—that if not Princess Sita, we are ready to marry your other daughter!’

‘…or the nieces.’

‘O king, your stipulation for this swayamvar is absolutely hopeless and you well knew it was certain to fail. You are insulting our pride, our respect, our capability! If not your elder daughter, we demand that we be allowed to choose the other princesses in marriage instead!’

‘Yes!’ yelled another in agreement.

‘I want to marry Princess Urmila!’ a shout was heard from the crowd.

The strident voices joined as a furious refrain, the uproar deafening.

Urmila felt a cold shiver run down her spine; the situation was fast getting critical. She could think of no way of diffusing the latent hostility; nor any measure to protect herself from the antagonistic suitors. How was she going to save herself from this impending predicament? But seeing her father’s wan face, her trepidation was replaced by swift indignation. She knew she would have to battle it alone—for herself and her sisters.

There was a rush of movement and Urmila saw the man who had occupied her heart, thoughts, passion and emotion for all these days getting up slowly, his hand at the scabbard of his sword, his face a dark mask of cold fury—Lakshman.

‘What sort of a swayamvar is this where the princesses are being humiliated at every step?’ he started heatedly. He walked forward, turning on each king who had chorused the hostile din earlier. He looked like a prowling lion, circling his victims.

‘O kings and princes, you are honoured guests invited by King Janak for his elder daughter’s swayamwar. But where is your sense of honour that you speak so disrespectfully, so rashly? And before you declare anything, there is still another suitor who has not had a chance to show his skills yet. Pray, kings, let me introduce all of you to my brother, Prince Ram of Ayodhya, the eldest son of King Dashratha!’

There was an abrupt silence and the irate protests of the kings died down suddenly as Ram stood up. He bowed to Vishwamitra to seek his blessings and walked towards the bow. He saluted Janak to obtain his permission and finally he bowed to the queen and the princesses.

The room was eerily still with all eyes on the young prince in hopeful anticipation. Ram peered into the iron case and touched the bow reverently. With his right hand, he clasped the bow at the centre and gently pulled and picked it up as if it were a delicate garland of flowers. An immediate image of the slight, small Sita holding the bow in her right hand flashed through Urmila’s elated mind.