SITA’S SISTER (30 page)

‘And you?’ she asked gently.

‘Don’t ask me questions for which I have no answers, Mila,’ sighed Lakshman. ‘I am happy you are here—that is all I am grateful for at the moment. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first! But you are here, so let me look at you well…’ he said, his dark, soulful eyes devouring her. He gazed at her face, his eyes travelling evenly over her tired eyes, her hollow cheeks, her trembling lips, her neat, thick bun at the nape of her neck. She flushed, touching her hair comb self-consciously. He would not undo it here. Again she could not stop the mounting colour flooding her face. ‘You are amazingly beautiful, amazingly strong and amazingly wise. I am so proud of you that I feel ashamed of myself. I am not worthy of you,’ he sighed, his eyes searching hers. ‘I got to know everything from Bharat and Shatrughna and Ma. How you stood brave through the tragedies—strong, stable and dependable like a fierce lioness protecting her family. Playing the roles of the dutiful daughter, shrewd administrator, wise peacemaker simultaneously… Oh my darling wife, what all did I make you suffer in such short a time?’

‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’ cried Urmila fiercely. ‘How were you to know what all would befall us once you left? You left to do your duty and I did mine. So why this severe self censure? You say Ram is happy. Sita, too, says she has never been happier. And it’s because of you—you have been their rock, their protector, serving them selflessly, unmindful of your pain. O Lakshman, I couldn’t have been more proud—how can you say you are not worthy of me? You made me the woman I am today; we are both two facets of the same being…can’t you see? We are just doing it in our own separate ways. It is all about living through the choices we have made.’

Lakshman rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘I am so torn. This had been such a mindless tragedy, the grossest injustice on all of us, all for the whim of one person. My father has already died for it. What more now?’ he asked, frustrated. ‘But I am so glad you came, Mila…’ he repeated with a sigh. ‘I still can’t believe it, is it a dream? You are always a part of my dream—it’s uncanny, but always! I work throughout the day like a man driven, work harder to squeeze out any thoughts of you but I cannot stop thinking about you. It is like you are with me all the time. I can almost feel you at times. But I don’t fight it anymore. You are there with me and I am comforted by that thought.’

Urmila smiled. ‘It is like we never parted, isn’t it? You are always with me and I am here with you…’

He nodded and they exchanged a sad smile savouring these moments snatched from fate. They were interrupted by Shatrughna who informed them that all of them were to assemble in the cottage to talk for a specific purpose.

They went in together. The small room was filled with the gurus, ministers and members of the royal family. Urmila noticed for the first time that there was a row of bows, quivers full of arrows and swords resting against the thatched walls. In one corner was a stack of branches—most likely for firewood.

It was Ram who spoke first. ‘Why are you neglecting your kingly duties, Bharat, and have come here to the forest? And that too with an army! Was it to let me know of the sorrowful news of our father’s death?’

‘Yes, and more. You talk about my kingly duties, but oh brother, I am no king,’ said Bharat with folded hands. ‘You are. I have come here to request you, nay, plead with you to come back to Ayodhya with us and resume your duties as the king. Sit on the throne and rule the kingdom of the Ikshvaaku race. This is what you were born for and this is your right.’

‘No, this is not my right. My father had the right to give his kingdom to whomsoever he wanted. He chose you. And I…’

‘But that was against his wishes!’ interrupted Bharat. ‘You know that; he died hating himself for doing what he did. He died because of the heartbreak. How can you say he chose me, when he had announced your coronation ceremony and pronounced you crown prince? Were it not for the wicked plot where the two boons were so cleverly extracted from him, you would have been king. Please, brother, please set me free from this burden of guilt, this burden of the forced crown, this burden of being a traitor. Take back what is yours. Let us be back again as family where you rule and the brothers help you as we always did. I do not want this responsibility.’

With each word Bharat uttered, Ram seemed to get more firm. ‘You cannot shirk your reponsibilities, Bharat, now it is your duty to rule the kingdom as mine is to stay in exile. You have Shatrughna to help you out just as I have Lakshman here in the forest with me. Let us lead our respective paths.’

There was a long pause and each one looked at the other. Finally it was Vasishtha who spoke, ‘As the royal priest, I think it is best, oh prince, to return to Ayodhya and accept the crown. This is your duty as a prince and a representative of your people. They love you dearly and want you back. In return, you have to protect them and rule the kingdom for them. You have obeyed your father’s command faithfully but a new situation has arisen. His death has led to an impasse. The son he has given the throne to does not wish to be king and is requesting you to accept it again. He is begging for your help and as a brother, you should not deny him.’

Ram was not impressed with the argument and the first semblance of a frown marred his face. ‘O guru, I cannot go against my father’s commands. I have to keep his promise.’

‘A promise he gave me, so can I not take it back?’ asked Kaikeyi, her voice low but clear.

Everyone turned to look at her. She stood tall, beautiful and crushed. She was a woman despised, a mother disowned and she sought redemption. And it was her elder son now to whom she turned—the son to whom she had meted out an injustice most foul. ‘I have no words to offer any justification. I have sinned for which I cannot dare to ask for forgiveness but only repent. But for the sake of everyone else whom I have hurt along with you, I ask you to forgive me for what I did, son, and come back home. All will be well then.’

‘Mother, I have no ill-will toward you,’ said Ram softly. ‘You did what you thought best. Now let me do what has been decided by my father. I blame no one, neither you nor Bharat or anyone else. Please remove any guilt or remorse from your heart. There must have been a reason why this happened; let that reason bear fruit. It will taste more sweet and fulfilling in the end. Also, how can you take back a promise from a person who has passed away?’

‘Exactly,’ said Rishi Jabali, the learned priest of the court. ‘Your father is no more. There is no need for you to carry on his orders considering the changed situation. No one wants you to continue a life in the forest. Come back and rule the kingdom as is the proper duty of a crown prince.’

Angry colour seeped into Ram’s otherwise serene face: it was the first time Urmila had seen him like this. He had not been so upset even when he had been banished from Ayodhya for the fourteen-year exile.

‘How can you, as the guru, give such advice? Break my father’s promise? Shame and woe on the child who does not fulfil his parents’ wishes! I would rather die than commit this sin! And don’t displease me further by distracting me from my goal. I shall continue with my exile.’

‘Then I shall fast unto death if you do not return to Ayodhya as king!’ said Bharat, his voice strong and forceful.

‘Don’t be immature; this is not a game or a time to throw tantrums…’ snapped Ram.

‘This is neither a tantrum nor a threat—this is my last request, my last resort to take you home, brother,’ implored Bharat, his voice breaking.

His brother’s plea made Ram more vehement. ‘You cannot do this. This is against Kshatriya dharma. Go, Bharat, go back to Ayodhya and rule it well.’

Bharat looked disheartened, his eyes appealing to his elder brother who remained unmoved.

‘If it is a question of keeping our father’s word, can I not take your place in the forest and you sit on the throne of Ayodhya instead?’ he implored. ‘I would gladly take your place.’

‘I would not,’ retorted Ram with a smile. ‘I understand your feelings, brother, but I assure you, no one doubts your noble mind or your pure heart. The throne has been thrust upon you unwillingly, but it is yours nevertheless.’

The debate between the two brothers threatened to go on. And it was Vasishtha who saw a glimmer of hope in the current deadlock. He spelt it out, hoping both the brothers would agree to it. ‘If you find it unrighteous to accept the throne, Bharat, why don’t you rule as Ram’s deputy and under his authority?’ he said. ‘This would make you feel less guilty and Ram would still be king and yet be free to continue with his exile, as he so dearly wishes?’

It was a sensible solution which everyone seemed to approve, though Bharat still looked crestfallen that he had been unable to convince Ram to return home.

‘Yes, Gurudev, this is the best answer to all our doubts and worries,’ said Ram. ‘If that is how it is, dear Bharat, I gift my kingdom to you for the period I am in exile. Take it and rule it as our forefathers would have.’

Bharat bowed before his brother and said calmly, a strange light in his eyes. ‘I accept your gift, dear brother, and I shall rule the kingdom for you. But for which, I need a token—your sandals which I shall place on the throne of Ayodhya,’ he said. ‘Through them you shall rule and I shall administrate the kingdom in your name from Nandigram at the outskirts of the city. I shall await your return and discharge your duties. During these fourteen years while you shall live in the forest, I shall also do my penance as a hermit on the banks of River Sarayu at Nandigram.’

There was a shocked pause and no one spoke a word till Ram finally broke it with a short, ‘So be it.’ There was a murmur of approval and the matter seemed to have finally been settled.

That murmur was like a scream for Urmila, that brief remark arousing her wrath. Mandavi was going to face the same fate as she. Sita had agreed silently and so had she, now it was Mandavi’s turn, her spell of doom. Urmila felt a fury she had never experienced before: it was white hot and smouldering, burning her from within, the flames of which reached her flashing eyes.

‘So be it, Bharat, like your brothers, Ram and Lakshman, you too shall live a life of an ascetic, free from the bond of love and worldly care. Who cares whatever happens to your wife and your family?’ she asked, each word mouthed with cold deliberation. ‘Today, in this room, we have talked about all sorts of dharma—of the father and the sons, of the king and the princes, of the Brahmin and the Kshatriya, even of the wife for her husband. But is there no dharma of the husband for his wife? No dharma of the son for his mother? Is it always about the father, sons and brothers?’

‘Princess, how dare you speak such outrageous words?’ interrupted Guru Kashyap furiously. ‘Do you think this is your father, King Janak’s court that encourages free thinking women like that philosopher Gargi to debate and argue shamelessly? This is not so! This is the assembly of the greatest minds of Ayodhya!’

Urmila looked back at him unflinchingly, the heat of her fury fanning her face. ‘I am not doubting the great minds, Gurudev; I, as the daughter-in-law of the famous Raghu dynasty of the Ikshvaaku race—and not merely as the daughter of King Janak—ask a very simple question. What is the dharma of the man for his wife, the dharma of a man for his mother? Please give me an answer.’

Kashyap was speechless, apoplectic with fury. He glanced at Vasishtha but the elderly head priest was benignly calm. Urmila looked at him expectantly. ‘We are talking about affairs of the state where personal relationships are not taken into consideration,’ he said grudgingly.

‘Are we now?’ she asked politely. ‘Then was it not personal when King Dashrath listened to his wife’s wishes and stopped the coronation ceremony of Ram and banished him on a fourteen-year-old exile? Wasn’t it personal when Queen Kaikeyi asked her son to be made king instead of Ram?’

She heard a slight stir in the room but ignored it. ‘Was it not personal when Lakshman, who could have revolted against this royal order and generated public sympathy, decided to accompany his brother instead in his exile?’ she continued relentlessly. ‘And Bharat coming here to persuade Ram to return, is it not personal? Everything, Gurudev, has been personal here, every single political decision. It’s about the father, the brother, the sons; but pray, what about the mothers, the wives? But yes, it is their dharma to follow their husbands’ decisions and duties.’

‘But you saw what happened when a husband listened to his wife,’ cut in Bharat acerbically. ‘This current catastrophe is not an act of God, it is the act of one woman!’

‘Bharat! Urmila! How can you speak so irreverently?’ demanded Ram. ‘What is this about?’

‘I shall not be irreverent or political now but very personal,’ she retorted. ‘I asked one question—what is the dharma of the husband to his wife—and I did not get an answer. Our parents taught us that the dharma of the wife is to follow and help her husband in his duties. Sita did it by following you to the forest, I did it by staying at the palace and not following my husband for fear of distracting him from his duties and service to you…’

‘Urmila!’ she did not turn, but heard the emotion running high in Kausalya’s cry.

‘No, Mother, let her put forth her thoughts on this,’ warned Ram.

‘…And now Mandavi too will follow the wife’s dharma by staying alone in the palace while Bharat, the ideal brother, does penance and lives as an ascetic at Nandigram. Just as you, the ideal son, lives in the forest in exile and Lakshman as the other ideal brother, follows and supports you in your endeavour.’

She looked at Lakshman steadily; his face was expressionless but his eyes smouldered with suppressed, brooding intensity, his jaws clenched.

‘I have not uttered a single, untruthful word,’ she continued quietly, refusing wrath to cloud reasoning, unmindful of the backlash. She had to save her sister from a similar fate. She would.

‘All I am asking is that does the man have no dharma for his wife? Or his mother? Not taking another wife, is that all this dharma means?’

‘This is impertinence, Urmi! How can you?’ asked Sita. Her sister was aghast.