PRINCE IN EXILE (59 page)

She would have said something in response to that, but just then Lakshman announced he was finally ready. They turned back together and waved at the Brahmins of Chitrakut ashram. They had already said their farewells and shown their respects to Sage Agastya earlier that morning; after washing themselves clean in the river, they had even found time for darshan at the various shrines. The temple of Brahma in the cave of the demon Viradha would be cleaned and maintained by the ashramites; it would henceforth stand as a memorial to those who had been taken by the creature. 

They set out at a brisk pace. The success of the night before had energised them, given both Rama and Lakshman a vigour that had been less evident before they arrived at Chitrakut. Only Sita felt less than vigorous, and vaguely dissatisfied with the detour to Agastya’s ashram. Instead of receiving the ashirwaad of the maharishi and spending a few peaceful hours in the last human company they would find for a long while, the visit had turned into the very opposite of her expectation. She still cringed inwardly at the memory of the brutal violence in the cave. 

She glanced at Rama as they walked through a dense grove of manai, the slender creepers hanging down like the tresses of celestial apsaras. Rama was intent on ducking his head to avoid it striking the fibrous ends of the manai. He didn’t seem troubled by the events of the previous night. But then, that was Rama. He might have misgivings about taking a life and engaging in violence, but once engaged, he put all his energies into completing the task, no matter how brutal the slaughter. She had witnessed him in action on at least four separate occasions now - at their first meeting in the encounter with the bear-slayers, at the Pit of Vasuki, in the duel with Parsurama, and last night. In fact, ever since meeting Rama, her life seemed to have been one violent encounter after another. It was true that she had been raised a warrior princess, but she had never desired war or combat. She had desired only to be able to defend herself and her loved ones against any aggressive assault. She guessed that Rama felt similarly, in that all the fights he’d been involved in had been for the purpose of helping thwart some aggressor’s attack. But he was also more eager than the average Kshatriya to engage in such encounters, volunteering his services where they were required. It was different before, she admitted to herself reluctantly,
but we are married now
. Surely that counted for something. 

She tried to convince herself that her shocking abduction by Viradha was not the cause of her concern over Rama’s repeated engagements with violence, but it was difficult. After all, despite Rama being right beside her, skin to skin, the demon had been able to pluck her up and away. If it had truly intended harm, she would have been dead before she reached the cave, or worse, eaten alive within that rocky grotto long before Rama and the others even reached there. It was a sobering thought, and the more distance she put between herself and the place where it had happened, the more relieved she felt to be away. What if she, or even Rama or Lakshman for that matter, had been maimed, losing a limb or an eye in that fight? Would life truly be no different than it was before? It wasn’t that she feared being maimed itself. She was willing to take whatever challenges life brought her, and face them head-on. But to choose to participate in violence, as they had done the night before, was to choose to accept such maimings and loss of life as inevitable. For sooner or later, as all Kshatriyas knew, violence took its toll. The memory of those crippled brahmacharya acolytes, their little bodies misshapen by their losses, tugged at her heart. Was it not enough that she and her husband were in exile? That they would be removed from human civilisation and companionship for fourteen long years? Forced to live deep within a hostile jungle where they would face any number of natural wild animals and predators, and even the occasional asura? Was it not enough that violence would find them and they would be forced to defend themselves against it, remaining vigilant night and day? Did they have to add to that heavy burden and risk by additionally going out in search of more violence? Seeking to invoke aggression upon dangerous beasts like Viradha? 

As the morning wore down into noonday and grew into afternoon, Sita’s mind churned with the same line of thought. At one point, she felt almost grateful that they were far from civilisation. Had they remained in Ayodhya, who knew how many people in distress might have come to Rama’s doorstep, begging his intercession in some case or other. That, after all, was the inevitable responsibility of any prince or king, to protect his people. The Arya nations did not believe in sending out champions to fight their fights. She did not know how she would have dealt with the constant stress of Rama venturing out to subdue this riot or settle that dispute, or hunt down that asura. She would never be able to be that Sita now. That choice had been denied her the instant her husband had been exiled - and had accepted the exile unquestioningly. Now, all she had was Rama - and Lakshman, of course, wonderful jovial Lakshman. 

And virtually nothing else. And if she was to pass fourteen years in this hostile wilderness, surely the least she should have was Rama’s presence beside her, not his absence on account of him running off to champion some desperate cause or other. 

On the other hand, she mused, as they passed through a surprising though brief patch of pilai - a sandy stretch with shells which crunched underfoot, indicating that a river had flown through here at some point, or perhaps even an ancient ocean in aeons past - at least in the Dandaka-van there would be no more people who would continually seek out Rama to champion their causes. He might be kept busy wielding his sword or firing his bow daily to ensure their survival in hostile environs, but that would be in their own defence. He would stay close by her at all times, not venture forth to slay some berserk rakshasa or perform some miraculous feat of valour for any brahmarishi who invoked his services under the Brahmin-Kshatriya code. And that, she concluded, was probably the only assurance she had. There were no more lost causes to champion in here, except their own. 

They had crossed the pilai land and climbed up into a hilly region, winding up and down repeatedly. Ahead of them, Lakshman slowed and called a halt. 

‘I sense plentiful game here,’ he said. ‘I’ll hunt us down some food and we can take a brief respite before continuing. According to Somashrava’s directions, this hilly territory we’re walking through means that we’re a few hours’ march from Chitrakut hill. After we take some nourishment, we can press on and be there before nightfall. We will camp there as the sage suggested when we were parting. It is the most appropriate site in this region.’ 

He had removed his bow and began to string it deftly as he spoke. Rama nodded. ‘I will stay with Sita. You catch us some light game. Nothing large. Perhaps just a small beast. We do not wish to eat too heartily when we have hours yet to march. I will build a fire while you hunt.’ 

Sita’s mind pictured a rabbit or a brace of squirrels skinned and skewered on a stick over a fire. Her stomach churned. ‘Rama,’ she said, catching hold of his shoulder, ‘I will find and pluck us some herbs. We can wash them and eat them raw. They will be nourishing enough for our needs.’ 

Lakshman frowned. ‘Herbs? To season the meat, you mean? There’s no need for that. Roasted meat has its own fine taste.’ He patted his flat stomach. ‘It’s been two days since we ate meat, with Guha that was.’ 

‘No!’ she said, louder than she’d intended. Both brothers looked at her, surprised. ‘No,’ she repeated, softer. ‘I meant there’s no need to hunt.’ She gestured at the sky, visible in glimpses through the trees. ‘It will take up precious time. I would rather reach our destination earlier. We can always sup there more heartily, to celebrate our new homecoming.’ 

‘That’s a fine idea,’ Lakshman said. ‘But we should eat something now. I haven’t eaten a morsel since yesterday and the good Brahmins only fed us fruits!’ 

‘I will pluck herbs,’ she insisted. ‘They will be nourishing enough. As Rama said, we ought to eat lightly, to travel the quicker. That way, we will waste no time hunting or building a fire.’ 

Lakshman’s face changed and he seemed about to argue the point, but Rama nodded approvingly. ‘Sita speaks wisely. Let us take a quick respite and lunch on herbs and roots. We can always hunt at Chitrakut hill, after we pick out the spot for our domicile.’ 

He smiled as he slapped Lakshman on the back. ‘We are in forest exile after all, my brother. Herbs and roots, remember? Herbs and roots!’ 

Lakshman muttered something about herbs and roots marrying one another and keeping out of everyone else’s way, but acquiesced without further debate. He left his bow strung and ready but put it aside reluctantly as Sita went about the task of ferreting out something edible. The pickings were slim, for the region was too wild and hilly for the most nourishing herbs or shrubs to flourish. After several moments of searching, she finally found some bitter-root and some sister-of-spinach leaf. She washed them in a little spring nearby, Rama watching over her alertly, and offered them to her husband and brotherin-law. The root and leaf looked very meagre in Lakshman’s 

broad hands, but he took them uncomplainingly, munching noisily. His face altered visibly when he chewed into the bitterroot, but he managed to keep chewing and swallowing without uttering a word of complaint. That made her feel guilty. Would it have been so bad if she had allowed him to hunt down some small creature? Yes! If she could have her way, she would not want either brother firing a single arrow or unsheathing their swords again unless it was a matter of their own survival. And, merciful Sri knew, there would be instances enough for such defensive actions in the fourteen years to come. If she could do anything to reduce the violence they inflicted, it would go a long way to alleviating the heartsickness she felt. 

Lakshman looked up suddenly, stopping in mid-chew. When he spoke, he revealed a mouthful of half-eaten leaves and root. ‘Did you hear that?’ He stood, taking up his bow and notching an arrow to the cord. 

Rama slid his sword out slowly. 

Sita put down the banana leaf on which she was holding her food. 

They waited. 

Someone, or something, for this was Chitrakut, was coming through the brush. Two bushes grew together, their leaves forming a light barrier. Sita watched as the stalks of the bushes were bent back slowly, to allow a body to pass through. She held her breath as the leaves parted to reveal the face of the approaching visitor. 

Her first impression, completely absurd of course, was that it was Nakhudi. She had harboured fantasies of the rani-rakshak tracking her all this while, determined to follow her mistress to the ends of the earth to fulfil her oath of lifelong fealty. Almost immediately, she knew that the head emerging through the parted leaves was too low-set to belong to the statuesque Jat. Her second, equally absurd thought was that it was her mother. Which was even more uncanny, for she had never seen her mother, ever. 

She blinked and wiped her mind free of these delusions. 

And saw the woman who stood in the clearing, staring dully at the raised sword and drawn bow of Rama and Lakshman, both pointed at her. 

TWELVE
 

The woman gasped with astonishment and lowered her head at once. 

‘My lords?’ she said in a quavering voice. ‘I am no threat to thee.’ 

Lakshman took a step forward, keeping his arrow trained on the stranger. ‘Show your face.’ 

Reluctantly, her head jerking as she drew nervous, gasping breaths, the woman raised her head. She was an elderly woman, Sita saw, her face wreathed with wrinkles, her nose large and hooked, her jaw large but weak. She wore garments in the tribal style, brightly coloured reds and yellows, but they had faded and worn away with overuse and were little more than toooften-patched swatches of cloth stitched together. She was about Sita’s height, perhaps slightly taller, though it was hard to tell with her bent the way she was, and her entire aspect - the stringy, dirty white hair, the thin, grimy, wrinkled neck, jutting shoulder-points, bony frame, tattered garments, the unravelling jute sack that she carried, clutched in one withered fist - bespoke extreme poverty. Her fair skin and pale, almost colourless - but very faintly greenish - eyes told a story of a life spent foraging and sifting for scant nourishment. She walked with the weary tread of one who had been beaten down often by life and kept her back bent in expectation of further beatings. She gazed dully from one armed man to the other, as if knowing that she might be struck down by them for no good reason, and prepared to accept that as easily as any fate. 

Rama lowered and sheathed his sword. Lakshman lowered his arrow a notch, but kept it strung. 

‘She could be an asura in human guise,’ Lakshman said. 

Rama hesitated, his hand still on his sword-grip. 

Sita moved forward. ‘No.’ 

She went to the woman and touched her face, then her shoulder. The woman did not so much as flinch or blink, taking the examination with the same choiceless lack of response with which she’d viewed her possible death. Sita felt nothing but bone and skin beneath the weathered cloth. 

‘She is no asura,’ she said. ‘Only an old tribal woman.’ 

Lakshman made a disgusted noise. ‘That’s obvious. Had she been an asura, she would have torn you to bits by now, my good sister-in-law!’ 

Sita ignored him. ‘Namaskar,’ she said to the woman. ‘I am Sita Janaki, travelling to Chitrakut hill with my husband and my brother-in-law. We apologise for greeting you with such aggression. We were informed to beware of demons in these woods.’