SITA’S SISTER (37 page)

Urmila looked thoughtful, a sad smile playing on her lips. ‘You make me sound so pathetic, Kirti!’

‘No, actually the situation was so pathetic!’ retorted Kirti heatedly. ‘You were entitled to everything but got nothing. And yet you braved it all, never wallowing in self-pity. So, don’t think I am feeling sorry for you or worse, cutting a sorry picture of you. It’s neither. I admire you. You never showed any resentment because you genuinely never resented us—Sita for being the adopted sister and we as the motherless cousins…’

‘Kirti, what are you saying?!’ exclaimed Urmila in growing horror. She looked shocked, the hurt evident in her large eyes.

‘See? That’s what I am saying!’ said Kirti. ‘Even the mere thought is so repugnant for you! Never were you jealous, angry or malicious. Why, you always played peacemaker between us—patching up our quarrels, diffusing tempers, ironing out differences. You didn’t waste tears of self-indulgent sorrow but let it all out so beautifully through your fertile mind and generous heart.’

Urmila pondered over the long praise. She had never been made to feel special, but Kirti made it sound all so magnificently selfless and tragic. ‘Kirti, I have always known you to be wise beyond your age but today you seem to be wise beyond words too!’ she laughed. ‘But you give me too much credit.’

Kirti merely shook her head and smiled affectionately at her older cousin’s attempt of dismissiveness. Like pity, she knew Urmila hated praise too. She wasn’t good with either. ‘I don’t really. None of us did or do,’ said Kirti quietly. ‘But I am happy that there is one such person who loves you for what you are, who recognizes your worth and loves you madly for it. And that is Lakshman.’

Kirti’s words floated along with Urmila, even as she travelled and reached Mithila a week later, filling her with the same untold, unquestionable happiness. Doubling that peaceful sense of contenment was the beaming pride she saw shining in her parents’ eyes. Her parents had never looked at her that way. That look had always been reserved for Sita.

The conference was as grand as it used to be in her childhood days. But twenty-seven years later, today, it held a new meaning for Urmila. Rishis and learned intellectuals from all over the country came and exchanged, debated and deliberated upon ideas and discourses, searching for the truth, the expanse of the human mind and its quest for knowledge. This time she would be a part of it.

Her father had once told her how the conference had started. King Seeradhwaj Janak was famously known to have four girls in his palace—two were his daughters and the other two his nieces. Yet he never yearned for a son like his friend Dashrath did. Some even advised him to invite Rishyasringa to perform the same yagna he had performed for Dashrath to provide him with a son. The king of Mithila had flatly refused, claiming that he was indeed that lucky man who could be a father to four, lovely girls whom he would raise to be explempary human beings—as beautiful in their minds as in their bodies. His destiny, he reminded everyone, were his daughters. The self, he argued, was not gendered. A lesson he had learned from a woman called Sulabha.

Sulabha was a scholar, a fiery intellectual. She was young, lovely and unmarried. She wished to have a private talk with the philoshopher-king. King Janak agreed but was clearly uncomfortable about being alone in the room with this beautiful woman. And what she said next was to affect Janak forever. ‘You, King Janak, are the king of Videha, which means “beyond the body” and yet as a king of such a land, you cannot look beyond my body and read my mind,’ she reprimanded him gently and went on to add, ‘the mind is the deity, the body just a temple to accomodate the mind. And it is the mind which is the great leveller, the great egalitarian truth, for it rests in both man and woman. There is no essential difference between them. Each sees the world differently not because of the gender but because of the mind. And each mind needs to search for knowledge and to expand. But for that you have to have a meeting of the great minds, an exchange of thought, a coming together of ideas. Enrich the mind, and that is wisdom. That is Veda.’

Struck by her words, the king decided to provide a platform for free and liberal minds to talk about philosophical issues and ideas. Thus came into being the conference of the most intense, intimate, intellectual conversations amongst the most respected rishis of the country. Over the years, each thought, argument and debate had been amassed; debates, poetry, lyrics and hymns compiled in what was called the Brihadaranyak Upanishad.

At the conference, Urmila sat amongst the brilliant minds of the country as a scholar in her own right, with the famous lady philosopher Guru Gargi, the deformed Rishi Ashtavarka, Guru Vashishta and Guru Markandeya from the royal court of Ayodhya and Rishi Yagnavalkya who had challenged his own teacher and who was also her father’s guru. Seated amongst them, Urmila felt a sense of deep humility. It dissolved all false pride, absolved her of trivialities. As she felt the calmness descend on her, she was poignantly fired with a new sense of purpose, a goal she had to strive towards. Each time she recited the Vedic verses or succintly debated with Guru Jaabali, she saw her father listening intently, his brows furrowed, his face thoughtful but in his eyes was a tenderness touched with pride. And in that moment, Urmila felt she was at last her father’s daughter. She was Urmila, not just the woman of passion as her name so defined her but one whose heart and mind had come together in intellectual and spiritual enrichment. In this long quest, she had delimitated her persona both as a daughter and a wife suitably, not just complementing but supplementing both the male figures in her life. It would have been a proud moment for Lakshman too had he been here. Urmila felt a sharp pang: she missed him always but today she felt the physical void of his absence. He had always been exhortative, rallying and reassuring her for all her efforts but today she knew he would have been ecstatically proud of her, flaunting her, ostentatious in his pride of her success.

That evening as she touched her father’s feet for his blessing, the cursory gesture took on a new meaning. She was humbled, honoured to receive the blessing of such a great man who she was blessed to be a daughter of.

‘I knew I have survived so long just to see this day; I have dreamt of it long enough!’ said King Janak tenderly.

Urmila was more surprised than touched at this unexpected praise. She had always had an odd relationship with her father—it was neither usual nor ordinary. Possibly because she admired her father more than she loved him.

‘You hoped that I would be known as a scholar one day?’ she asked, the surprise evident in her voice.

‘Yes, dear, always. You had a curious mind, a kind heart and clarity of ideas and expressions which you knew how to use wisely, even as a child,’ her father smiled. ‘It got honed well as you grew up and I am thankful that you took advantage of the royal rishis of Ayodhya under whose tutelage you so excelled.’

‘That was more by default! I had nothing better to do in the last so many years except study and paint,’ said Urmila.

‘Then the credit goes to Lakshman…’ said King Janak softly. ‘Had he not gone on exile, you would not have been able to do all that you achieved?’

The mention of Lakshman’s name put Urmila immediately on the defensive. ‘No, not at all!’ she clarified quickly. ‘He would not have stopped me, on the contrary, he would have encouraged me. Do you think he would have? Are you disappointed in him?’ she asked quietly.

‘No, dear, no! You misunderstand. That temper of yours always makes you draw the wrong conclusions!’ her father smiled indulgently. ‘He is not merely my son-in-law. And I do not respect him for being just that. He, my dear, is that man who brought out the best in you. He fell in love with you because of your mind, because you were different from the usual. Fire recognized fire: the fire didn’t want water.’

Urmila flushed with embarassment. ‘You think I did not notice that?’ smiled King Janak. ‘But fortunately for the two of you, your mutual love, not just kindled a fire, but brought about a certain serenity in both of you…it burned to give warmth. As a child you had once asked me if the wife needed to be tamed like Ganga on Lord Shiv’s head. You had never seen your mother ‘tamed’—she was always fierce and forthright. You are so much like her. To be free does not mean to be wild. And I brought you up in that freedom of thought and action, just as Lakshman did. And he loves you for that. He is the wise man who saw the wisdom in you much before you did yourself. Staying away from him makes your love the highest form of love—the
parakiya-rasa
—where the two of you share thoughts even through separation.’

Urmila found herself agreeing with every word her father had said. As they rewound a world and time gone by, she could not but admit that they seemed oddly true in retrospect.

‘The moment I saw Ram and Lakshman with Rishi Vishwamitra I knew they were no ordinary mortals…’ continued the old king of Mithila, ‘…and that they were destined for my daughters. Or rather, my daughters’ destinies would be entwined with those of these illustrious sons of the Ikshavaku clan. They were the disciples of Vasishtha and Vishwamitra, which meant that they were great warriors as well as wise statesmen. Ram and Lakshman are two sides of each other—they are a reflection. They are one atma in two bodies, always remember that, Urmila.’

‘I know that, father, I have seen it,’ replied Urmila.

‘And yet are you sad or glad about it?’

Urmila thought over the strange question for a long time and realized it actually encapsulated her own identity. ‘I am glad of it,’ she answered slowly. Her initial resentment had long given way to a calm realization, an inner peace which had helped her grow from a wilful girl to a woman of wisdom.

Janak nodded. ‘Ram sought opportunity in exile. So did Lakshman—his brother’s exile was an exile for him too. And as the wife of Lakshman, it was an exile for you as well—an exile from attachment,’ he explained. ‘Because only with detachment one learns the value of love versus the range of emotions. These years have taught you that.

‘The exile made you understand the meaning of tapasya and thus made you a tapasvi. And as this great tapasvi who has gained great spiritual understanding and intellectual attainment, I greet you today as a scholar. Your scholarship came not just from reciting verses and detailed study but primarily from your pain, your separation, your detachment. Your separation was your meditation, your spiritual rebirth and your love for your husband became your salvation.’

Urmila felt acutely humbled, but not without a trace of helplessness. ‘Has it, father? But Mandavi too has had a hard life,’ she reminded him strongly.

‘But she never realized the greater truth of what and why she was made to experience it. One has to lead one’s life through one’s own ability and comprehensibility,’ said King Janak grimly. ‘Did she see the penance of Bharat? Did she see his sacrifice? And why he did it? And more importantly, did she learn from that pain of separation? She is filled with too much anger and hurt, corroding into her very soul. How will she ever get her peace, her wisdom, her deliverance? Agreed, both of you suffered the same destiny, but each eked out a different fate for herself. Destiny is given but it depends on how you take it.’

The truth of his cautious advice rested in her mind as she returned to Ayodhya the next morning. She was coming back home.

She missed him each morning as she woke up in an empty bed, cold and alone, the dread of spending another day—long and stretched—without him. The nights were more treacherous—interminable and wistful; the void in the bed and her heart felt like an intense, persistent physical pain. She ached for him. To block the tormenting sight of him sleeping next to her, curved and warm against her willing body, she had started sleeping on the hard, cold marble floor, yanking down the silken embroidered counterpane and sleeping on it once the maids had left. But her sleep was fitful, interspersed with short, jumpy dreams—always of him. And that’s why, her tired, waiting eyes welcomed them…

Just another few months to go, just another few months for him to return…Urmila felt a warmth kindling her heart, glowing bigger as each day passed bringing her closer to his day of return. The last few weeks, the monsoons had completely drenched the earth, hydrating the dusty landscape into a lush, emerald spread of rejuvenated cheer. The brooding, pregnant clouds had been chased away by the bright sunlight, dappling the clear, azure skies and every verandah running along the palace. Urmila felt a sudden surge of effervescent hope, a burst of unadulterated joy. She smiled as she continued with her painting of the scene of the wedding; it looked almost real and lifelike now, with the smallest expression coming through the minutest detail. She held the brush with a flourish, giving the last touches to the mammoth canvas. That canvas was unusual for her—an entire white wall of the longest hall in the palace. This was the new assembly hall where the newly-appointed king, Ram, would meet with his nobles, courtiers and the people of Ayodhya every day. The hall was huge—long and high-ceilinged—and the running painting dominated the space and the mood, she smiled with unreasonable gaiety.