SITA’S SISTER (13 page)

‘Not me, no, dear brother, methinks it’s the spell you have cast on your Mila! You clearly seem to be on very dear terms of endearment,’ said Shanta, pointedly looking at their hands and sailed off, smiling, to greet her other sisters-in-law.

Urmila pounced on him. ‘Oh please, stop embarrassing me!’ she hissed.

‘I think I can guess what happened… Was your artistic imagination at work again…?’ whispered back Lakshman, his eyes dancing mischievously. ‘There was this lovely woman I saw last morning in the garden…’ he began.

‘Please!’ she begged in a hoarse whisper, her face as crimson as the deep silk she was wearing.

‘…and that was you! Why the jealousy, Mila?’ he asked, his tone suddenly serious. ‘It is mostly irrational, and stems from insecurity. Are you unsure about me? Then I hope I shall never make you suffer that overriding vulnerability ever again. I am yours. Always,’ he added huskily.

Urmila was overwhelmed as she gazed into his softly burning eyes: he was giving her a promise on their wedding day. She could not turn away from the intensity of his look, the intensity of his declaration. It was only when he gently held her by her wrist and lead her toward her parents, that Urmila, seeing them, hurriedly bent down to seek their blessing. Her new husband followed suit, obediently, the expression on his face, sufficiently subdued.

The four brides had wed their four princes and the city of Mithila exploded into euphoria and festive fervour. The same would be happening in Ayodhya, thought King Dashrath, a warm feeling seeping into his tired bones. He could not have been happier. Today he would be returning home with four daughters along with his sons.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a pale Janak, accompanied by Sunaina, Vasishtha, Vishwamitra, Shatanand and his son-in-law Rishyaringa huddled in a worried cluster.

‘I have some unfavourable news,’ said the king of Mithila, looking troubled. ‘The appointed mahurat of the Uttara Falguni nakshatra has long gone, we don’t know how. There was some sort of a miscalculation.’

Dashrath’s heart sank. ‘You mean we skipped the auspicious nakshatra?’ he asked incredulously, not expecting an answer. He gathered his answer from their bleak expressions; the outcome was irrevocable. He looked at his royal priest, Vasishtha, for some solution and saw the pessimistic shake of his head.

‘It seems the gods were not in favour of the nakshatra as it would guarantee the marriage between Ram and Sita to be successful,’ explained the priest.

‘But why?’ demanded a perplexed Dashrath. ‘Why would anyone, even the gods, not want my son and daughter-in-law to have a happy married life? How have these young innocent souls harmed anyone to start their new life with such a bad omen?’ he cried in anger.

He was visibly upset and his voice had risen higher than he, and the others, would have wished. The four newly married couples overheard the old king. Watching the smiles disappear from the radiant faces of the four brides, Sunaina was aroused to an impatient anger. And the latent fear arose again within her. Her initial hesitation had proved correct; she wished she had had the power and the will to have broken off the four alliances when her intuition had prompted her to do so. And as much as she wished she had been proved wrong, Sunaina knew all she could do was pray for her four daughters whom she loved the most in the world.

‘The gods wanted to postpone the marriage of Ram and Sita because if the wedding would have taken place on the exact Uttara Falguni nakshatra, the marriage would have run smoothly, ideally blissful,’ explained Vasishtha, his face serene as if he knew what was going to happen next. ‘The irreprsible Narada suggested to the gods to send Chandra, the Moon God, as a dancing nymph—an apsara before the wedding mahurat. Transformed as an apsara, Chandra Dev attended this very wedding here and enchanted everyone with the dances. He fooled and distracted us, the weather changed and meanwhile the planets changed their positions. The gods are celebrating now that they have succeeded in what they had so meticulously planned.’

‘But why?’ repeated the bewildered Dashrath in impotent anger.

‘Because it is what Fate desires—a decree designated beforehand,’ said Rishyaringa quietly. ‘A happy marriage between Ram and Sita would not enable the events which are meant to develop. It is part of an elaborate, systematic scheme of things to unfold. Let it be, O king, and value the present moment.’

Urmila watched the solemn faces of all the four sages and knew that they knew more than what they were telling. She felt a twinge of apprehension—what was it that awaited her and her sisters? Were they all being pushed into doing things beyond their control? She felt the warm clasp of her husband’s hands and felt safe all over again. Freed from further anxiety and her confidence restored, Urmila sought out her mother. Even from a distance, she knew her mother was worried but was making a brave effort not to show it. She went up to her and touched her shoulder lightly.

‘Mother, this happy day shall not unfold an unhappy future, a braver one perhaps,’ she said softly. Her mother smiled back weakly. That’s how it had always been with the two of them. Urmila holding on as much as she could and finally rushing to her mother’s lap, seeking comfort in its warmth and the wisdom in those gentle eyes and, in turn, giving her mother all the support she could muster. They were each other’s anchor.

‘Yes, you will be able to do it, come what may,’ murmured Sunaina, and placed a soft, sad kiss on her daughter’s forehead. ‘Don’t worry about me. With you there to look after your sisters, I have no reason to fret. But there is a new life waiting for you which will test you at every step. Just be yourself—listen to what your mind says and follow your heart. They will eventually tell you the same truth. And above all, my dearest daughter, look after Sita and your cousins. Remember that the four of you are sisters, now sisters by marriage too. Let that equation never change the love and trust in your hearts. You might not know, Urmila, but you are their strength, their guiding force. Like you were, and are, for me. You have mothered me as often as you have your sisters. I shall miss you but each time with pride that I am the mother of such a daughter. Don’t look back, look forward. Go, my dearest.’

Urmila felt a lump in her throat, her lips trembled and she turned away from the warm glow of her mother’s love toward her sisters standing behind her—her eternal companions now and for ever. Sita seemed unfazed at the guru’s ominous pronouncement, a collected, small smile on her lips. The glacial, expressionless Mandavi seemed colder, and Kirti’s face had an expression of wonder and astonishment; she was stunned. The bewilderment was giving way to a sense of approaching dread. In their heady notion of love and romance, were the four sisters idealizing their future as well? Life had been easy till now, brimming with love and laughter; was their fortune going to change for the better or…Urmila shook her head firmly: she would not be discouraged.

There was an expression of inner serenity, a wisdom to face all that was to be on the faces of the four brothers. They were bound by a common belief—an immense faith in themselves. Even the otherwise volatile Lakshman looked unruffled by the portentous mutterings around them. He gave her a slight nod, his eyes fervent, consoling her in his reassuring way. It wasn’t going to be easy, he seemed to say, but they would make it.

She caught sight of the golden domes of Ayodhya from a long distance. There were four of them, like upturned lotuses, shimmering in the daylight. As it drew closer, the palace of Ayodhya glittered overpoweringly in all its brilliance, expanse and grandeur. Urmila and her sisters had never before seen an edifice of such blatant magnificence. Its imposing proportions were disconcerting. She wondered how many days it would take for her to get familiar with its vastness. It was nothing like the palace of Mithila which, in comparison, seemed like a stately villa, standing tall in the cool hills, simple and sedate in the centre of the foliaged wooded garden. And she was already missing it. It had taken more than three days to reach Ayodhya and now, dwarfed by the dazzling palace looming in front of her, she felt like a stranger in her new home. Its grandeur made her feel lost and insignificant.

It must be nervousness, Urmila chided herself but at the moment the only comfort she could draw was from the warmth of his body; she drew closer to Lakshman, her hand faintly touching his. He clasped them in silent assurance. Urmila glanced at her sisters; were they feeling as anxious as she was? She did not know but the fact that they were with her made her feel a lot better.

The welcome showered on them reflected the facade of the palace—elaborate and ostentatious—yet cold. Urmila soon found herself face to face with the three queens, each so starkly different. The first to greet them was Kaikeyi; she was evidently the chief queen. At that moment, Urmila believed those malicious rumours of King Dashrath being slavishly besotted with this queen. Kaikeyi was stunning in her beauty and youth, and her loveliness was enticing—it was difficult to take one’s eyes off her.

But there was a tiny physical flaw in her exquisiteness. The little finger of Kaikeyi’s right hand was grotesquely twisted; it seemed broken and wasted on her fair, pretty hand, but there was a story of love and valour behind it. Famously, Kaikeyi had accompanied her husband in the battlefield—a rare, unusual feat—against the powerful king Sambarasura. During that battle, Sambarasura’s arrow broke the wheel of Dashrath’s chariot and another of his arrows pierced the king’s armour and lodged in his chest, leaving him fatally wounded and bleeding profusely. The queen, acting as her husband’s charioteer, quickly repaired the broken wheel by using her little finger for the axle while manoeuvring the chariot away from the battlefield, nursed the wounded king and got him back to fight the war. The twisted finger was a constant reminder of that fateful day and the queen flaunted it proudly, not embarrassed by the deformity.

As was the correct protocol of ceremony, Ram and Sita lead the way and were the first to be greeted with the customary aarti. Kaikeyi performed it in such a way that it left Sita out. All the warmth was reserved for Ram; Sita was getting the cold shoulder.

‘Welcome home, Prince Ram, and may the sun always shine on you,’ she said warmly, her eyes shining with soft fondness. Sita was bestowed with a frosty glance. The air grew tense, robbing Sita of her smile. The sisters looked on bewildered and bemused, not knowing what to expect next.

Urmila was so shocked at this biased reception that she could only stare in disbelief. She felt Lakshman stiffening next to her, his fists clenching and she realized she was not imagining the imperious dismissal by the queen for Sita.

It was her turn next and she felt Lakshman’s warm hand in hers, gently chafing the inside of her wrist with his thumb. It was meant to be a gesture of reassurance, to abate her nervousness but it did more than that. Urmila prepared herself for the glacial treatment from the royal mother-in-law and involuntarily squared her shoulders belligerently and looked straight into the eyes of the queen. They were warm and welcoming.

‘Urmila, as your name says—you are where the heart meets the soul and what a lovely couple you both make!’ she gushed. ‘The most beautiful princess of the land, I hear. My dear, I have also heard you are as fiery as our dear Soumitra here,’ she said embracing them both with a warm smile, but glancing warily at Lakshman. She affectionately called him Soumitra, too, but was there a certain apprehensiveness or contempt in that look? ‘And that you have all the qualities deserving of a princess, nay, queen, O daughter of King Janak, Janaki, and princess of Mithila, Maithili…’

‘I am neither,’ Urmila corrected emphatically. ‘It is Sita who is called Janaki and Maithili, Mother.’ Her tone was almost defiant.

‘Perhaps, but it’s yours by right,’ said Kaikeyi smoothly and turned affectionately to Mandavi. ‘My Bharat’s bride—as fair and lovely as marble, and cool as the marble too…’

That subtle snide did not go unnoticed by Urmila. The queen certainly had a way with words. Mandavi looked at her mother-in-law impassively, not an emotion passing on her lovely, unsmiling face. She had caught onto the uncongenial vibes as well. Kirti, again, was given a carelessly casual welcome but not as hurtful as the one bestowed upon Sita. More than Sita, it was Urmila who was smarting from it. And what had she, Urmila, done that she alone had been favoured with unreserved warmth? It was bewildering and discriminating. Was it meant to drive a wedge between the sisters or was it a show of strength, a power game?