Authors: Vayu Naidu
‘As he held the precious bowl,
he looked at Rishyasringa. Dasaratha did not want to do anything that would
interfere or disrespect the ritual. He was visibly trembling with excitement when he
was signalled to open it. It was payasam, the food of the gods. It tasted like the
nectar of goodness. He offered a ladle of it to his first wife, Kausalya. She tasted
it, thinking “Ummm …” and, with great dignity, ate the
payasam. He then gave another ladleful to Queen Sumitra, his second
wife—“Umm … this is out of the world,” she
couldn’t help thinking and wanted more, but Dasaratha was by then offering
a ladle of the payasam to Queen Kaikeyi, his luscious third wife. Dasaratha could
not resist the look in Queen Sumitra’s twinkling eyes and decided to give
her what was remaining in the vessel. A few more ceremonies were conducted till the
sun emerged like a vermilion dot on the forehead of the sky. The ritual would be
embedded in the memory of everyone in Kosala for generations to come. The bridge of
longing had been crossed; the king and his queens had arrived on the banks of their
fulfilment.
‘A few moments ago the Greats
were having their exclusive meeting that resulted in Vishnu going down to earth.
Just outside the Great Assembly Hall, the Great Wives—Saraswati, Lakshmi
and Parvati—were at the gathering of the gods. Brahma loved his Saraswati
for her wide knowledge, the rhythmical and clear words she chose to define things,
beings and situations. Here she was, listening to the devas and their suffering as a
result of Ravana’s masquerades. She was placing their grievances in
categories, creating arguments and labelling them with observations so that if a
trial were to be held, there would be a source of evidence of the crimes. In another
part of the gathering, some goddesses were insinuating and Parvati was defending her
Shiva. She was holding on to Ganesha, her son, so that he wouldn’t get
lost among the crowd of adult devas. He was busy rubbing his trunk and his belly.
The devas were always careful when they spoke to Parvati. She had rather extreme
means of sorting out nuisances. Without a doubt, she was loved by all as a benign
mother of humanity. But in a flash she could turn into Kali, a ferocious mother, if
she perceived any threat to Creation. She was reputed for matching a vicious asura
in terror and strength and finally killing him.
‘Ganesha suddenly saw his
favourite aunt, goddess Lakshmi. He waddled speedily to her side as she was offering
a tray of heavenly laddoos latticed with cardamom, roasted cashew nuts, ghee and
honey. Lakshmi had brought these back from the yearly ocean-of-consciousness holiday
that she and Vishnu had just been on. Ganesha took her blessings and began to pick
and eat the laddoos with the speed and skill of a juggling dancer, bringing
merriment to the gathering. Lakshmi was comforting those who had lost their health
and wealth at the hands of Ravana. She admired the humility and courage that some of
these devas showed in wanting to go down to earth as humans, animals, mountains,
herbs, in short anything, to restore safety and happiness to the world. But everyone
was waiting to hear the decision of the Greats.
‘Suddenly there was a big
Twaannngh!
It sounded like the plucking of a string
of a gigantic musical instrument. Everyone whirled around. A woman, one of
Lakshmi’s maids of honour, came running in, wailing and spluttering,
“How could he! Oh, whose face did I see this morning that such bad tidings
should be heard! Please, all you devas and devis, forgive me. I was only doing my
duty to my goddess Lakshmi by keeping trespassers out. And now, this … the
curse … what will we ever do …” and on and on she
wailed. Everyone whirled around again to see Lakshmi’s reaction. But she
wasn’t there. She had vanished.
‘On earth, in Ayodhya and all
across the kingdoms of Kosala, people talked for months on end about the Ashwamedha
that proclaimed Dasaratha King of Kings and about the fire sacrifice to the devas.
At the end of nine months there was another grand celebration to top the earlier
one. Dasaratha’s three wives gave birth to four sons. Kausalya gave birth
to Rama; Sumitra, who had twins, gave birth to Lakshmana and Shatrughana; and
Kaikeyi gave birth to Bharata.
‘Just as we live here, there
are other beings among us whom we cannot always see. They are not up there or down
here or below us, but sometimes we imagine they are. They enter our lives, they are
real and they challenge us and our convictions. It’s a game, but it is
also real. Finally, we have to work towards forgetting our little selves, while
protecting what is discovered as the secret to our happiness. The great test is in
finding a way that ushers in everyone else’s well-being and also gives us
happiness.
‘Imagine that!’
Valmiki paused. Urmilla and Lava were
enraptured by the story, each taking it at their level of comprehension. They were
completely unaware that someone was watching, waiting and listening.
It was none other than Soorpanakka. She
was Ravana’s sister. After his death she roamed across the earth, not
exactly mourning but seeing how people and values evolved after her
brother’s passing. As she happened to hear Valmiki mention Ravana in his
story, she was attracted by the power of her brother’s name and swiftly
inhabited a tree. Valmiki could sense a change in the atmosphere as a spirit now
occupied a tree not far behind him, so he chanted a mantra:
May we who listen to stories that
enchant our minds
Be ever wakeful to the shining, the glorious, the
Lotus-Eyed
Within us;
That It may shine undimmed.
Across all the
hills, forests, valleys and plains that our eyes can see
May our hearts
unfold the journey within.
May the ever-revolving disc of consciousness
splinter darkness with light
May words flow into the sound of the conch
shell
That emerges from the embryo of our being
Defining space around us
and within us to live in peace.
Shantih shantih shantih
It seemed to cast a spell like a veil
around the tree that Soorpanakka had inhabited. Entranced by his words, she began to
remember, and paused to reflect on her own encounter with Sita.
‘Life didn’t really
begin before noon for us rakshasas. The humidity and heat would make all those early
risers seek the shade. We would dwell by wells and hover around the tamarind trees
that were laden with teeth-sharpening sour fruit. The night was our time for
entertainment and revelry. On one such night we heard news about a dim and distant
place far north from ours, where a swayamvara was being held. Our customs were
different. Quite often, we rakshasa females had to seek the male, and that gave us
freedom. I, born of a royal rakshasa clan, always had the first choice. But I was
curious to delve into the world of humans. And I knew that at a swayamvara there
would be many men. More likely, young men who were not yet aware of how we rakshasas
operated and the spells we could cast on them.
‘So I arrived in Mithila,
where this great assembly of princes from kingdoms far and near was to take place. I
don’t get impressed easily, because I am particular about my comforts.
Some call it indulgence, luxury, whatever! But I have a high standard that must be
maintained. And in Mithila I was impressed. It’s a pity the bedsteads
weren’t covered with gold and precious jewels, but at least it had brocade
awnings and there were many late-night distractions. I normally like to visit
gambling dens—that’s where men are most vulnerable—and
brothels are the best place to get the real gossip about the politics of the state.
That’s where you will find the police and the politicians divulging state
secrets as they pour state money into their leisure, which they call
“privileges”.
‘In Mithila, the brothels
seemed filled with courtiers and soldiers of the visiting princes. The princes were
in their guesthouses getting ready for the great contest the next day.
“How absurd!” I thought. Here’s the time for the best
stag night, because who knows how marriage can turn out, and all these young princes
were wasting time praying and hoping that they be the chosen one. What was
so
special about the bride-to-be?
‘I was having fun shifting my
shape from a water carrier to a vegetable seller to the sugar cane juice supplier to
a fish wife to a well-paid prostitute to the madam of a brothel so I could hear a
range of news, add my little mischief, get people quarrelling and have fun watching
them try to get out of those muddles. During my role as the madam, just as I was
tucking a bag of coins into my bodice, there was a hue and cry in the street over a
grand procession. It was my beloved brother Ravana arriving in the dead of the
night. He was being carried on a grand palanquin; his chariot was too wide to fit
the roads of Mithila. He always brought his own apartments, servants and courtiers
and lived royally wherever he went. When he had settled down, I decided to go and
dine with him, and so I did in a flash.
‘“You’re
not serious about entering the ‘competition’, are you?
You’ll beat them black and blue, turn them inside out and leave them
hollow! Why waste that energy? Surely you’re above all these humans? Why
not grab the prize and fly away?” I asked my brother frankly.
‘He was sitting cross-legged,
holding his right big toe with his left hand. For a moment his body seemed still.
“This is a prize I want to win. It is boring not to have a challenge. I
want this prize to be won over by me.” That was all he said before he
entered his inner apartments to take rest before the swayamvara.
‘I couldn’t
understand what had come over him. It certainly wasn’t because the prize
was a woman. My sister-in-law Mandodari was no less. She had all the rakshasa
dignity of staging a fight with artifice and accomplishment that the opponent would
whimper away, begging her forgiveness. She was a great queen, but sometimes she was
under the cloud of that curse that humans tend to have—self-reflection.
She always felt torn and twisted when what the human civilization calls
“conscience” churned within her. Later, she began to get bouts
of trembling; her forehead would sweat profusely when she would hear the cats
calling at night. She would often say, “Oh, why is that child not being
fed with milk?” and make her maids of honour run out to see if there were
children roaming in the dark. She felt a tenderness for baby rakshasas long after
her son had grown up. Her crying really got Ravana upset. He had high regard for
her, but the outbursts became frequent before the war. I wonder if she could see
that she was going to be widowed.
‘But back to this prize
business. I was curious. So there I was, bright and early, at the contest. My word!
You should have seen all those princes; their bare upper bodies glinting with all
that jewellery and marked with sandal and vermilion. It was arousing to say the
least.
‘The city was festooned with
banners carried by the entourage of the participating princes. All banners were
embossed with images of the princes’ guardian deities—some were
embossed with a lion, some had an eagle, some an owl, another a cobra, yet another a
peacock, and on and on it went as the procession stretched beyond a mile.
‘Each entourage consisted of
the princes’ poets, masseurs, astrologists, musicians, councillors,
palmists, poison detectives, historians, portrait painters, sartorial advisers and
accompanying brahmins to invoke the respective gods of strength to win the contest.
The people of Mithila had swept and washed the roads till they gleamed in the sun.
Sugar cane juice in clay cups was offered as a welcome drink. Water carriers stood
along the roadside ready to refresh any member of the entourage. There were elephant
sheds and stables provided for each visiting principality. Food, drink and diverse
entertainments were provided by the royal courtesy of Mithila. Perhaps at any other
contest, a prince’s entourage could stir a little trouble by drinking too
much, losing at gambling or the cockfight, or because a dancing girl slapped them
too hard. But here, on this occasion, the contest and where it was being held had a
special significance.
‘It was Mithila—a
coveted city within a coveted kingdom. The princes had been waiting eagerly for the
announcement of this swayamvara for months, even a year. They had been training for
longer. Each prince wanted to exhibit his skills and show his prowess. Nothing and
nobody could cast a slur on that one ambition that filled each prince as he
journeyed to Mithila. But why?
‘Because each prince dreamed
of winning the prize of the contest. The prize was Sita. Sita’s wit and
fiery spirit had caught the attention of poets and won the praise of singers when
they had attended arts festivals at Mithila. They had created legends about her; and
when they returned to their courts and sang, each prince grew to love Sita and
wanted her as his wife.
‘The whole of Mithila was
bustling with guests and the streets hummed with languages of other kingdoms. The
kitchens were steaming with cuisines for vegetarians and meat-eaters. Stalls were
dressed with sweets of all colours and shapes, glistening with silver trimming, and
the air was heavy with the subtle scents of condiments like green cardamom, clove,
nutmeg and saffron mixing in sweetened, thickened cow’s milk. Weavers
spread out their bales of rich turquoise- and ruby-coloured silk. The stone
cutters’ chisels and hammers created early morning music as they carved
out of soapstone and alabaster statuettes of women in all forms of movement,
subliminally celebrating the vivacity of their princess Sita—not wishing
to disclose her identity for fear of staining her fiery and pure spirit by
replicating it in stone and wood. “How can we,” the master
craftsmen would cry with dismay and pride, “capture that spark that lights
her eyes?”
‘Sage Vishwamitra glided past
the crowds with his two able adjutants who wore their hair long and tied in a
topknot; I suppose it was because the aides travelled through difficult terrain
where grooming could be time-consuming. They wore dhotis made of bark and carried a
quiver of arrows slung on their backs. Their torsos were bare and they could well
have been mistaken for forest folk. Other princes dared not sneer at them as they
both had a stately presence—these were cultured and strong young men. To
undermine their dignity would’ve been reckless and betrayed the other
princes’ crassness or anxiety. The eligibility to the swayamvara was on
fair terms—anyone who had training and was recommended by an accredited
brahmin or sportsman was welcome. Vishwamitra’s adjutants were invited to
the Mithila Assembly Hall.