SITA’S SISTER (6 page)

Lifting it high, Ram proceeded to rest one end of the bow against his big toe; he bent it and strung it, quickly drawing the string back. Urmila heard Sita gasp with unsuppressed delight and saw Ram throw Sita a long, exultant look. Probably he was distracted, his focus momentarily diverted or he had under-estimated his strength but with a swift, overpowering force, he pulled at the bow and it snapped like a dry branch with a booming clap like a flashing thunder streak.

Urmila could not describe the expression on Sita’s face. It was luminous; her eyes softly glowing and the small, shy smile radiating her enormous, irrepressible joy.

As the high-ceilinged raj sabha broke into a happy pandemonium, a visibly ecstatic Sunaina brought out the pooja thali.

Urmila knew her mother had been very worried for the past several weeks about Sita. She had forever had severe misgivings about the clause her husband had decided upon but she scarcely showed her growing scepticism to the girls. Was there such an exceptional man who would be able to string the intimidating Rudra bow and marry her exceptional daughter? She had got her answer at last. He was standing there in person, tall, fair and handsome. Ram, the prince of Ayodhya. Her worries had vanished and she meant to celebrate. She took the pooja thali from Urmila’s hand and smeared vermilion on Ram’s forehead.

‘God bless you,’ was all she could murmur through her glistening tears. Sunaina was not an emotional woman and the tears rushing out dispelled a disquietude that had wracked her all these long years. She had lived in the constant anxiety that Sita would be rejected because she was a foundling; that she would be spurned on social grounds. And that is why she had doubled her efforts to assimilate Sita into the royal fabric and had declared her as Janaki, the daughter of Janak, and Vaidehi, the princess of Videha. Urmila, like any jealous child, had initially been resentful of this favoured show of affection but her mother had taken her aside and explained the new reality to her. Sita was the adopted child, her elder sister and she was never to be allowed to feel socially or emotionally bereft. But she loved her as much and even more and she was never to forget that too. Urmila had been all of seven years of age when she had been so informed and from that day, she had bid goodbye to childhood and grown up suddenly to a wiser maturity. Sita was her sister, not her competitor.

As Sita placed the garland over Ram’s handsome head, there was a thunderous disruption. Swivelling her head toward the sound of the sudden interruption, Urmila saw the figure of a tall, towering man, a rishi, silhouetted against the framed doorway. Even from a distance, Urmila could guess that he was angry…rather, incensed. As he walked purposefully towards her father, each stride echoed with a violent belligerence. He was very old but his straight back and powerful arms seemed to wipe out the years. He was fearsome in appearance, with long, matted locks, a bow on one shoulder and a gleaming axe in his other hand. And when he spoke, the high-domed room seemed to tremble.

‘Welcome back, Rishi Parshuram!’said Janak, folding his hands in deep veneration. This figure of livid wrath was Parshuram, Urmila’s heart sank in dismay, the immortal chiranjeevi rishi whom no one on this earth could defeat. He was that
Brahmakshatriya
—the first warrior Brahmin—who had received a parshu, an axe, as his weapon from Shiv as a boon, and from where he had got his famous, dreaded name. The man who had triggered a genocide on twenty-one generations of kshatriyas twenty-one times over to avenge his father, Jamadagni’s senseless murder by kshatriya Kartavirya Arjun.

‘Who dared break the Shiv dhanush?’ He growled, turning his glittering eyes toward Janak. The very sight of the mystic bow pitifully broken into two pieces seemed to fuel his fury further. ‘This bow was given to me by Lord Shiv and I had handed it to your forefather, Devrata, to be kept in safe custody,’ his said in his rasping voice. ‘But today I see it splintered and smashed into pieces…Who is the culprit, Janak? He will not escape my wrath!’

‘I am the culprit, sir,’ said Janak self-effacingly, trying to propitiate the angry rishi. ‘I decided to keep this sacred bow as a test of worthiness for the suitors of my daughter Sita who were asked to lift and string the bow. None were successful, not even the mighty Ravan. But this young prince of Ayodhya, Ram, did it!’

‘But why was the bow the object of contest? Did you not know it was hallowed?’ the rishi thundered.

‘Yes I did, sir,’ her father said steadily. ‘But many years ago, Sita, then a child, while playing with her sisters, had accidentally picked it up—so easily…’

‘It otherwise took a hundred people from the palace to move it…’ her father continued in polite earnestness, ‘…and taking this incident as a good omen, I decided to make the bow the coveted prize of her swayamvar. He who could string the bow could marry her. But it would take an incomparable man to do that.’

‘And my brother is that unparallelled man, the only one to pick up the bow when others could not even move it,’ intervened Lakshman, stepping forward and bowing courteously to the enraged rishi. ‘But in the process of being strung, the bow snapped in half since it was old…’ he elaborated in explanation, attempting to make him see reason.

His remark, instead, infuriated the sage even more. His face flushed red, the blood rushing to his head and gleaming eyes. Urmila saw him flexing his fingers and re-arranging his hold over the axe. Grasping the dangerousness of the situation, she was quick to understand that this would lead to bloodshed. Parshuram would not hesitate to kill Lakshman. She had to intervene. No one dared to confront the rishi when he was an imposing inferno of rage but Lakshman had done the unthinkable.

Urmila could feel the fear leaping at her throat; she was gripped by an unknown terror for the man she loved…there, she had said it! In her most horrifying moments, she was admitting to it at last. Her heart beating wildly, Urmila knew she was ready to face the full fury of the rishi—anything to save Lakshman from the bloody fight from which he would never escape alive. Quaking inside but with unfaltering steps, she went up to Parshuram and with her head bowed, her eyes beseeching, her hands folded, she sought his blessings.

‘We are indeed blessed by your visit,’ she started softly, her eyes steady. ‘Sir, you must be tired…please take a seat and rest.’

Saying this, she bent down to touch the sage’s feet, hoping desperately her ploy had worked in distracting the angry man. The rishi instinctively murmured, ‘Bless you, princess. May your husband live in your lifetime!’

Realizing the full impact of his words, Urmila stepped back, hoping frantically Lakshman would now be safe from the rishi’s wrath and his brandishing axe.

The sight of Lakshman, with his faintly arrogant expression, though, refuelled the rishi’s rage. ‘You audacious young man, how dare you dismiss the bow so impertinently? I can easily behead you with my parshu!’ He shouted, swinging his axe.

A surprised but a likewise belligerent Lakshman retaliated and took out his sword, ready to tackle the rishi. But when the rishi turned to confront Lakshman, he was unable to lift his axe, and his arm froze. The rishi looked amazed and a sudden comprehension hit him. He was being held back by his own words. There was a frozen second of realization as the impact of his words sunk in. He turned to Urmila, but before he could say or do anything further, Ram interceded.

‘O, greatest of all rishis, I am the reason for your just anger,’ he stated, bowing before the sage. ‘Please forgive my brother, he is innocent. He is only trying to protect me as he always does, and will lay down his life, before any harm can befall me. But it was I who strung the bow, and in my carelessness, broke it in two. And by doing so, I won the fair hand of the fair princess. O sir, please forgive me for my rashness, please give us your blessings.’

The great Vishwamitra rose from his seat. Seeing him, Rishi Parshuram instantly mollified and bowed low to his grandfather, touching his feet in due reverence. ‘Yes, grandson, please pardon the young men for their recklessness for they now seek your blessings,’ entreated Vishwamitra. ‘You are a famed Brahmin. Having killed all the kshatriyas you have avenged the death of your father, my nephew, Jamadagni, my sister’s son. You went back to your tapasya, as is the natural order, to cleanse yourself from the vengeful wrath. Then, pray, why are you bloodying your hand again by proposing to kill this young prince who is much loved by all and is to be the groom of Janaki, Janak’s daughter? Please refrain!’

Parshuram folded his hands in supplication. ‘Forgive me grandsire, I now realize these princes are your protégé. You are the one who has taught them the devastras, the celestial weaponry of bal and adibal. You have trained them in philosophy and advanced religion, and guided them to kill the most fearsome of demons like Taraka and Subahu.’

‘And led them to this hall for the swayamvar of Sita. For Ram to see the Shivdhanush,’ smiled Vishwamitra gently. ‘There was a reason.’

But Parshuram’s face hardened visibly, unmoved by his grandfather’s plea. ‘I have been hearing paeans about this young prince. If this young man is so supreme and unrivalled as you insist, that he could break the Shiv bow, I challenge him now with my other bow, the Vishnu bow—the one given to my father Sage Jamadagni by Lord Vishnu. Vishwarkarma, the holy architect of the Universe, made two exactly similar bows. One was given to Lord Shiv and the other to Lord Vishnu. This is the bow as powerful as the one you just broke. I challenge you to string this bow. It will be a test of your skill and strength and if you succeed, I shall honour you by giving you a chance to fight a duel with me!’

‘I accept your challenge, sir. Please give me your bow,’ said Ram and reached out to seize the bow of Vishnu from the rishi’s unwary hands. He swiftly strung it, placed an arrow and pointed it straight at the rishi’s heart.

‘Now what will you give me as a target to this deadly arrow in exchange for your life?’ He asked calmly.

Rishi Parshuram looked stunned, his eyes incredulous, his mighty arms listless as if sapped of their strength. The mystic parshu crashed to the floor from his limp fingers with a loud clatter. And what followed was a spectacle that left all onlookers speechless.

The elderly rishi was a changed man. Bowing low, almost on his knees, paying homage to the young prince of Ayodhya, he was a subdued man, drained of his glory, arrogance and fury, and radiating from him instead was a kindly serenity now.

‘I now realize who you are. You, my lord, are my superior, my successor,’ he murmured in great deference. ‘From now on, I devote my tapasya to you. I shall return to my hermitage at Mahendra Parvat and continue my penance. Let the arrow which you have now aimed consume all my powers, my tapas, and let it all go to you.’

With these last words, Parshuram reverentially walked around the prince and left the raj sabha, a far cry from his dramatic, strident entry a little while ago. Deferentially, Ram, with the Vishnu bow still in hand, pointed the arrow up to the sky and shot it straight above, cutting a lightening swathe through the dispersing clouds.

Everyone in the hall went still. Sunaina was the first to break the strained silence.

‘Shall we continue with the ceremony?’ She said gently, a pleased smile back on her face. Taking the cue, Ram and Sita, as a couple, bent down to touch her feet and seek her blessings. Janak, the much relieved father, made a quick announcement. ‘My dearly loved child, my daughter Sita, shall be wedded to Prince Ram of Ayodhya!’ He proclaimed and the rejoicing began outside the palace walls too.

Urmila was still trembling from the close shave and darted a quick look around her, hoping none had noticed her escapade. Now that she had acted upon her mad impulse at the raj sabha, she had exposed her feelings. And while Lakshman had saved her from a violent predicament, so had she, snatching Lakshman from death. In saving each other, they had, inadvertently, professed their love for each other, a love they had denied for long, even to themselves.

Had anyone noticed this? Her father was smiling. So was her mother, and her cousins looked excited, clustering around Sita. Sita was a pretty picture of bliss. Ram stood tall and pleased, and behind him she saw a pair of smouldering eyes watching her intently. They were not furious, but fierce; they looked tormented. She could see them darkening with an indiscernible emotion; she could not figure what but she felt a curl of pleasure. Nervously, she tucked a wick of hair behind her ear, her eyes staring at him unseeingly. And in the midst of the joyful revelry, everything went still around her. They hardly spoke to each other, preferring to let silence define their association, their relationship, their love. But it wasn’t a union of silence between them; he seemed to speak to her with a look. He seemed to make love to her with his eyes.

A distant voice broke the lingering, lengthened spell. ‘Dispatch the swiftest messenger to Ayodhya to tell the good news to King Dashrath and to invite him for the wedding!’ She heard her father announce.

After a swift conference with Rishi Vishwamitra and Shatanand, the royal priest of Mithila, her father pronounced the date of the wedding. It would be the auspicious day of the Uttara Falguni nakshatra. That was just a fortnight from today.