PRINCE IN EXILE (60 page)

The woman said meekly, ‘Aye, my lady. Demons there are plentiful in Chitrakut. And even more in the forests beyond the hill, in Panchvati groves. But I am only Shabbri, a poor forager. I cause nobody no harm.’ 

Sita turned and looked pointedly at Lakshman. He rolled his eyes but said no more. Rama came over to the woman. 

‘Namaskar. I am Rama of Ayodhya, husband of Sita Janaki.’ 

The woman’s eyes remained downcast, unwilling to meet Rama’s. ‘I am Shabbri, a poor forager,’ she repeated dully. ‘Master,’ she added. 

‘Where do you hail from, Shabbri-devi? Where is your family? Your clan?’ 

The woman started. ‘Oh no, sire. Do not address me so. I am no devi. Merely a lowly outcast. Solitary and homeless, I wander these woods of Chitrakut and live off the land. I cause nobody no harm, nohow.’ 

‘Alone? Here? How do you survive? Do you not fear the wild beasts and the demons?’ 

‘What have I to fear? I who have nothing and no one? The demons do not desire such as me. For they are mostly rakshasas, descended of the line of their lord, Ravana of Lanka, and, being so, are therefore descendants of the line of Pulastya and all of higher caste than myself. They will not touch me or allow my shadow to fall upon them for fear they will be polluted.’ 

Sita raised her eyebrows, glancing at Rama to see his reaction. She had never heard of flesh-eating demons who avoided low-castes for fear of polluting their souls, but obviously the old woman believed in them. She thought it more likely that the woman had fortuitously escaped harm until now, or was not fleshy and appetising enough for the rakshasas to trouble themselves over. Rama shrugged too, as if to say,
Well, what’s the point in arguing?
Sita agreed silently. 

She touched the old woman’s hand. ‘Come, Shabbri. Sit with us and share our meal. We have not much but you are welcome to eat a bite with us.’ 

Shabbri drew back fearfully from Sita’s touch. ‘You must not touch me, my lady. I am of the lowest gotra. You will be polluted by me.’ Her eyes flickered to one side then the other. ‘I should make my way from here. 

You are clearly of high birth and varna, from your speech and manner and weaponry. It is not right that I should tarry here in your presence.’ 

Rama took a step forward, as if to stop the woman. ‘Wait. I wish to speak with you a little. We are new to these woods and would welcome any help.’ 

Shabbri glanced up fearfully, not at Rama’s eyes, but off to one side. ‘What help can one such as I offer thou, sire? Allow me to leave before I commit the sin of caste-offence and earn the wrath of my superiors.’ 

Sita felt sorry for the old woman. She had obviously been treated badly in her time. She reached out and took the woman’s hand, intending to clasp it and show the frightened forager that she did not care about such things as caste-offences and varna demarcations. Instead, she startled the old woman, who jerked her hand back. It happened to be the hand clutching the jute sack, and Sita caught the mouth of the sack instead of Shabbri’s hand. The woman lost her grip on it, and the sack fell on to the ground between them, spilling its contents. 

Rama exclaimed aloud as he saw the small rounded objects that emerged from the jute bag. 

He bent down, picking up one of the fallen objects and bringing it to his face. He sniffed it curiously. A look of wonderment came over him. The change transformed his face completely. He looked like the boy Sita recalled faintly from her childhood memories. Not Rama the rakshasa-slayer, champion of Bhayanak-van, and performer of other great feats of valour. Simply Rama the boy. 

‘Ber,’ he said reverentially. ‘Ripe ber.’ 

The old woman had fallen in her haste to retreat from the outstretched hand. Sita bent down and offered her hand again. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I do not care for caste-laws. Take my hand and rise.’ 

The old woman’s eyes were big and wide. Still she struggled to rise on her own, but found no purchase on the leafy shrubs. Finally she accepted Sita’s offer and allowed herself to be helped up. But she balked and whimpered when Sita’s hand accidentally touched her feet. 

‘No, mistress, it is not right, not right. Shabbri is an outcast, most wretched of all varnas.’ 

Sita looked at her firmly. ‘My father says that there are no castes in the eyes of the devas, only good people and bad. Tell me, do you consider yourself a good person or a bad one?’ 

Shabbri looked uncertain, her eyes darting away. ‘Shabbri has done no one no harm.’ 

Sita nodded. ‘You are clearly a good person. You have nothing to fear. When your soul is finally freed from the cycle of rebirth and attains moksh, you will ascend to Swarga-lok the same as any Brahmin or brahmacharya. My father knows this implicitly, and he has spent his entire life studying theology.’ 

Shabbri stared nervously at Sita, who smiled reassuringly. After a moment, Shabbri smiled back shakily. 

Then she looked past Sita and cried out. 

Rama was picking up the fallen wildberries and popping them into the sack. Shabbri took a step towards him, then stopped, still subservient to a lifetime of self-training. She shook her head, speaking with her head lowered. 

‘No, master. You must not touch those. They are Shabbri’s food for today.’ She added hesitantly, ‘Perhaps for the next several days.’ 

Rama finished gathering up the berries and came over, holding out the sack. ‘I was collecting them for you. Our apologies for startling you, maa. We will not steal your meal, you need have no fear on that account. I was hoping you could show us where you found these ber, that we might pluck our own.’ 

Shabbri kept her head lowered, but her hand crept out and took the sack. Still, Sita noted, she was careful not to let her hand touch Rama’s. 

‘It would be my great honour, master. I found these in a patch some four or five yojanas west of here.’ 

‘West,’ Rama repeated, his mouth closing tightly. He glanced in that direction. It was quite contrary to the way they were travelling, which was south-east. He looked at Lakshman, who was seated on the same fallen tree they had been sitting on when Shabbri had appeared. Lakshman raised his eyebrows but made no comment. Rama sighed. ‘That would delay us. I suppose plucking ber will have to wait.’ 

‘Like eating rabbit meat,’ Lakshman said drily. His fallen herbs and roots lay underfoot, ignored. He rubbed his bare belly pointedly. Sita rolled her eyes at him. He grinned wryly, to show that he was only jesting … well, half jesting. Even Sita’s stomach felt ill nourished. 

Shabbri hesitated, having caught some if not all the import of this last exchange. Her eyes darted to Sita. She seemed to have gained a smidgen of confidence, Sita was pleased to note. ‘Yes?’ Sita asked, encouraging. 

‘My lady,’ Shabbri said haltingly, ‘I would like nothing better than to offer your lord my entire lot of ber. I can always find more before sundown, and Shabbri does not require much herself.’ 

‘That is very generous of you, maa. My husband is inordinately fond of ber. The only thing he likes as much is kairee. Perhaps we could offer you a trade. We are travelling to Chitrakut hill, to take up residence there. Once we arrive at that location, my husband and brother-in-law will hunt us a good meal. If you come with us, we will gladly provide you with as much food as you like from our own cookfire. It would be only fair, if we are to sample your ber.’ 

‘Indeed,’ Rama said. ‘If you can bring us ber from time to time, you may eat as often as you like with us.’ He smiled. ‘Your ber smell very fresh and ripe. I daresay they are quite juicy and sweet too.’ 

Shabbri’s eyes opened wide again as Sita spoke, growing large and round with each sentence. When Rama spoke, though, she exclaimed and shook her head rapidly. ‘Nay, master. Nay. I am honoured beyond words by your generosity. Never has any high-caste treated Shabbri with such kindness before. I will gladly fetch you all the ber you desire. But you must not eat of those I have collected in this sack.’ 

She clutched the mouth of the sack tighter, holding it with both hands. 

Lakshman rose from his seat, frowning. ‘What’s so special about these ber? Are they intended for someone? Or as an offering?’ Foods offered to deities could not be eaten, although a portion, called prasadam, could be taken by the worshippers after being sanctified by a Brahmin priest. Some tribes offered sacrificial offerings of fruit and vegetables in place of the traditional animal balidaans. 

Shabbri shook her head. ‘Nay, my lord, it is not for that reason.’ She continued shaking her head wordlessly. 

Sita put a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. ‘What is it, then, maa? Do not fear to speak openly. We will not forcibly take your ber from you, nor will we coerce you if you do not wish to share it. You may speak your mind.’ 

Tears welled up in the old lady’s eyes. ‘You have addressed me as maa, milady. No one has called Shabbri mother since … since … a long time. I will tell you why I cannot offer you my ber, much as I would wish to, but … I will whisper it.’ 

She leaned her head closer, speaking just loud enough for Sita to hear, though not the men. 

Sita smiled, nodding in understanding. So, it was that simple. 

She turned to Rama. ‘She has a habit of checking each ber as she plucks it. To see if it’s sweet enough. She likes them very sweet. The ones that are over-ripe or raw she leaves for the bears, she says, who like them that way. She only keeps the sweetest ones in her sack.’ 

Rama smiled. ‘Is that all?’ 

‘That’s it. If anything, she would be honoured if she could offer you nourishment. Among her people, to feed a higher caste, especially a lord of some note, as she believes you are, is a great punya.’ 

Rama nodded. Punya, or a redeeming act, was the opposite of paap, or sin. ‘That is well and good, but the caste rules do not interest me as much as those very attractive fruit. Shabbrimaa, I would be honoured if you would allow me to eat a few of your ber.’ 

‘Parantu … jhoota!’ Shabbri gasped, unable to comprehend how a person like Rama would deign to eat a low-caste’s once-bitten food. 

Rama smiled. ‘You are like a mother in age to me. I will imagine that my own mother nibbled at them to choose the sweetest ones for my pleasure. May I, maa?’ 

He reached out his hand. Shabbri stared at the outstretched hand in a daze. Then, as with a great effort, she raised the sack and handed it to Rama. Rama took it, smiling his thanks, and dug inside. He pulled out a ber. Sita could see the tiny bite-mark on one side where Shabbri had tasted it. Rama put the ber to his mouth and took a bite of it. Juice spilt down his chin. He chewed, closing his eyes. 

‘Swarga,’ he said.
Heavenly
. 

Suddenly, Shabbri laughed. And like wax before a flame, her features melted and transformed. 

THIRTEEN 

Sita lurched back in amazement. Lakshman exclaimed and strung his bow, shouting to Rama to step aside. 

The old woman’s face and body rippled like a reflection in a pond over which a wind was blowing. It shimmered in the hazy light of high afternoon, and sparkled briefly, before stabilising into a shimmering white corona. 

Rama stood transfixed, the half-eaten ber in his hand, staring at the apparition that had replaced the old tribal woman. He knew he ought to be drawing his sword and paying heed to Lakshman’s shouts, but he felt no fear or alarm at the supernatural transformation of the outcast. Instead, he felt a great sense of calm and contentment, the kind of feeling he associated as a young boy with lying with his head in his mother’s lap and falling asleep listening to her sing his favourite lullabies. A sense of being protected and safe. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in the past several days; quite the opposite, in fact. And because of this, it suffused his body with a great lethargy. 

The being that stood in the place of the one called Shabbri was also an old woman. Her features were as lined and weathered as Shabbri’s had been, but they were subtly different. This woman seemed nobler somehow, more majestic; though if pressed to describe how, Rama would not have been able to explain it. It would take a kavya to do justice to the fine nuances. But the overall effect was one of great wisdom and power. She was clad all in white, an ascetic’s ang-vastra that wound about her slender frame from shoulder to ankle. Her deeply scored and lined face, white hair, light, almost grey eyes, and parched withered skin all spoke of great austerities endured, sacrifices made, penance paid. 

‘Namaskar, Rama Chandra,’ she said in a voice that was so light he hardly felt she was speaking - she might have been whispering into his mind itself. ‘Welcome to Dandaka-van.’ 

Lakshman moved beside Rama, his bow still held at the ready, the arrow aimed directly at the old woman’s breast. Lakshman’s arm was trembling with anger, or perhaps it was simply fear made rage; for once Rama could not tell. ‘Who are you? Show your true form! Are you a rakshasi? A yaksi? Show your real form, demon!’ 

The old woman smiled. ‘I am no rakshasi. I am Anasuya, restorer of the Ganga. You may know me as the wife of Sage Atri, whose hermitage is west of Sage Agastya’s ashram, near the domiciles of the sages Sarabhanga and Sutiksna.’ 

Sage Agastya had mentioned to them that Atri and Anasuya and the other sages dwelled nearby, but the way to their ashrams had been some way off their path and they had resolved to visit the sages later. 

That is why I chose to come to you, Rama Chandra. My business with you could not wait
. 

Rama spoke quietly to Lakshman. ‘Brother, lower your bow.’ 

Lakshman glanced at him sharply, a retort on his tongue, but he saw Rama’s face and held back his words. He lowered the bow slowly. Rama didn’t know if he was relieved that the woman was not an asura, or disappointed. The latter seemed more likely. 

Your brother’s heart is brimming with anger like a cup filled to overflowing. You must guide him in channelling this anger into more productive forms of energy
. 

‘Yes,’ Rama said, then stopped. He looked around, realising that nobody else had spoken aloud. Yet he had heard Anasuya’s voice. 

I speak to your mind directly, for you have opened yourself to receive me so graciously. I may speak thus when something is needed to be said that is not for the ears of others. But now I revert to audible speech
. 

‘I apologise for startling you, Rajkumar Lakshman,’ she said. ‘But when I first sensed your presence in this part of the forest, I could not resist testing the already legendary qualities of yourself, your sister-in-law Sita, and your brother Rama.’ 

‘Testing?’ Sita said dubiously. ‘So that was why you disguised yourself as the low-caste tribal woman?’ 

Anasuya smiled. Her smile was like a white sun dawning over dark mountain ridges, bearing gifts of warmth and light and inner illumination. Rama felt the very synapses of his brain speed up and flow more smoothly, as if he might be able to solve the mysteries of the universe as long as he was bathed in the light of that glorious smile. It was akin to the feeling of being taken over by the shakti of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala, but without the more aggressive, warrior-like qualities of that state. 

Lakshman still looked suspicious. ‘Why an outcast? Why that whole charade about not wanting to offend us, and not sharing your ber? What kind of test was that?’ 

‘A necessary test, and one that you all passed with flying colours.’ Anasuya seemed undaunted by Lakshman’s barely concealed hostility. She turned the warmth of her gaze back to Rama, who felt his very toes tingle with energy. ‘Especially you, Rama Chandra. You would eat the half-bitten wildberries of a tribal outcast. Amazing.’ 

Rama basked in the glow of her approbation, but felt compelled to speak his mind honestly. ‘Maha-prabha,’ he said, addressing her by the title of Great Light, which seemed appropriate. ‘You praise me overmuch. The varnas, castes and gotras were designed to aid people to work together more productively, especially in the larger cities. To divide up the occupations and enable specialisation and better craftsmanship. Not to divide and distinguish negatively, or to prejudice our perception and treatment of some groups because of their occupations. A given task may be unclean, such as sweeping wetrooms or collecting nightsoil, but that does not make the person himself or herself unclean.’ 

Anasuya sighed. A soft wind swept through the bower, rustling fallen leaves around their feet. Lakshman’s eyes flicked this way and that, alert to any deception or subterfuge. ‘A mature and enlightened view, more so for one of your tender age. Sadly, there are many less knowledgeable souls who choose to embrace such biased views. Their numbers increase with each passing decade, I note sadly, suggesting a disturbing trend. And as you know, even one prejudiced mind is one too many. It takes only one rotten berry to spoil the whole sack. Which is why I say your act was not just symbolic, but a great event. You did not simply pass my test today, you passed the test of time itself.’ 

She swept on without giving him a chance to protest mildly against this unbridled praise. ‘Not only did you ignore any kind of caste prejudice in your treatment of Shabbri, you also swept aside all class protocol. You are a prince after all, a king in exile. Yet you behaved with that grime-streaked forest forager as if she were a noble person in your father’s court. Truly, you have deserved your growing reputation. And I say this as one who does not offer praise lightly. But let me not embarrass you any further. You have a journey to complete, a house to raise, and a new life to settle down to; I will not cause you to tarry much longer.’ 

She reached behind her and drew out a bow and a quiver. At the sight of the weapon, Rama saw Lakshman tense instantly, his hand flying to the arrow he still held loosely on the cord. Rama’s hand touched his brother’s shoulder, and Lakshman relaxed again, reluctantly. 

Anasuya held out the bow. ‘Take this, Rama. As you can see, it is decorated with gold and jewels and constructed unlike any ordinary bow. It belonged to Vishnu, and was made for him by Vishwakarma, builder, smith and forger of the devas. It is my husband Atri’s wish that I give it to you.’ 

Rama joined his hands. ‘Maha-prabha, Anasuya, I cannot accept such a divine gift. This bow is beyond value. I have not done anything to deserve its ownership.’ 

She shook her head. ‘Still you deny your achievements? You are much too humble for your own good, Rama. Be honest, if not vain! You have already been given one bow of Vishnu, by the Brahmin Parsurama, which you neglected to carry with you into exile, choosing only ordinary weapons that would befit any Kshatriya in your father’s army.’ 

‘The terms of my exile were clear, Maha-prabha. I was to take no personal possessions. These weapons are indeed the regular issue from the palace armoury. Under Kshatriya law it is permissible for me to bear them as an essential means of self-defence.’ 

She chuckled softly. ‘Even now you explain law to me? 

Do not feel it necessary to justify your every act, Rama. You are already the epitome of dharma. The Bow of Vishnu you were given vanished from the palace the instant you exited Ayodhya, for it was meant only for your use. This bow I now hand to you is the very same one, for such celestial weapons exist outside of time and space as mortals understand these concepts. Take it this time, for it is given to you after you have entered exile, and there is no law against that.’ 

Still Rama hesitated, not reaching out for the jewelled bow. 

She sighed. ‘You still believe in your heart that you have not earned the right to bear this bow, am I right? Then know this, Rama. You will earn the right very shortly. Do not think I give the bow to you out of the goodness of my heart alone! It will serve you well in the dark days that lie ahead. For you have a mission to fulfil and you require this bow in order to fulfil that mission.’ 

‘Mission?’ Sita stepped forward, her hands joined respectfully but her face troubled. ‘What mission do you speak of, maa?’ 

Anasuya smiled at Sita. ‘The fulfilment of his dharma.’ 

Sita’s face cleared at once. ‘Maa,’ she said simply, bowing her head. That effulgent smile had worked its magic on her as well. Yet even beneath the beatific expression that wreathed Sita’s face as Anasuya turned her smile upon her, Rama saw the anxiety writhing. 

She is gravely troubled, Rama. There has been too much violence done in too short a time. She fears that you will meet the inevitable consequence of all those who live by violence. You know what it is I speak of
. 

Yes, I do
. Rama found himself answering as simply as thinking the words.
I do not know how to appease her fears
. 

Then do not appease them
. 

Rama was surprised. 

You do not engage in violence for its own sake, or to meet your own ends. You do so to serve dharma. Either she understands and accepts that, or she does not. That is her choice to make, her briar crown to wear. Not yours. Do you follow my meaning
? 

Rama nodded. ‘For dharma then,’ he said, reaching out. 

Anasuya handed him the bow. It felt unbearably heavy at first, as if it would drag him to the ground and lie there immovably, like an elephant’s anchor-weight. But the instant he held it in both hands, it felt just like any ordinary bow. A little lighter, if anything. Not very different from the bow he already wore on his back, except that the angle of the curve was different, and the wood was an unfamiliar grain, one that he had never seen before. 

Indeed, for the tree is not of this plane. That is why it will not bear any ordinary arrow to touch it
. 

‘But then … ‘ 

Anasuya held out an arrow. He did not know where she had got it from, but when he looked up after examining the bow it was in her hand, offered to him. He took it without argument. It gleamed like gold, and felt as heavy as if it were made of the metal. Then, like the bow, it seemed to change its quality and felt almost like any ordinary arrow. Almost, but not quite. 

‘This arrow belonged to Lord Shiva. It is not a magical arrow in the usual sense of the word. But it possesses abilities.’ 

‘Abilities,’ Rama repeated. The arrow was of a different woodgrain from the bow. It felt too thick to be fast enough or effective across long distances. 

‘Do not be deceived by its appearance. It has the ability to be whatever you wish it to be. You have but to will it. It takes its power from two things: the mind of its wielder and that of its target. An evil man cannot use it against a good man. Nor can a good man use it in a wrong cause. But to a good man who uses it in a just cause, Rama, it will do whatever you will it to do.’ 

‘Whatever I will it?’ Rama looked uncertainly at the arrow. It did not seem all that special, now that he had held it for a few moments. But when he had first touched it, while still in Anasuya’s hands … 

‘Just so. If you will it to be a dozen arrows flying simultaneously to a dozen different targets, it will do exactly that. Or to fly across a great distance to strike a single minute target - so long as you can spy that target with your naked eye. After it has accomplished its task, it will disappear from the target and reappear within your quiver. You need only wait as long as it takes to reach one target before firing it again at another, and you shall never want for more arrows.’ 

Lakshman looked at the arrow with great interest. Anasuya’s gifts had dispelled his last doubts and he was listening and watching the proceedings keenly. Rama hoped that she would have a gift for Lakshman as well. He doubted whether this bow and arrow was usable by anyone beside himself. 

Not for him. For he must learn the lesson of self-control first. He is too eager to embrace violence, to take lives. Your example will keep him from straying off the path of dharma, Rama. But I do have gifts for your wife
. 

Anasuya handed Sita a shimmering garment woven from fine shining filament, a necklace, bangles, earrings, and other feminine ornaments, all cast in white gold as pristine as Anasuya herself. Sita accepted the gifts with a beatific expression on her face. Rama sensed the unspoken communication that passed between the two. 

Then Anasuya returned her attention to Rama.
She is blessed to have you for a husband, Rama
.