PRINCE IN EXILE (62 page)

And in this gentle manner, exile grew slowly into a way of life. Neither undesirable nor desirable; simply a fact of life, like being born male or female, tall or short, dark or fair, western or eastern. 

Sita was weeding in the vegetable garden behind the hut, and thinking idle afternoon thoughts when she heard the curious sound of a woman singing a Sanskrit ballad. 

It was mid-afternoon on a Shanivar in the fourth month of their exile. The summer had turned hot and humid, and both Rama and she had taken to retreating into the cool shade of their hut to escape the heat of the day, snatching an hour or two of rest. It was searing hot beneath the high-angled sun, the very birds falling silent or staying put in the shade of leafy branches until the sun angled westward and the shadows lengthened. There was less to do as well. Lakshman had toiled the hardest, working like a demon possessed through the spring, turning from the finished hut to the garden, even trimming the nearby hedges, cutting away the wild unruly grass surrounding their compound to root out the snakes that frequented the patch, and was currently engaged on a project to mark out a pathway all the way down to the riverside. He was away right now, somewhere on the eastern side of the hill, or perhaps by the river, where he loved to swim. 

Rama was inside the hut, napping in that easy way he had of slipping into deep, restful sleep anywhere, any time. Sita had been lying on her pallet in the hut beside him just moments ago, but she had grown restless in the still, breezeless confines and had finally risen, seeking out something to occupy herself that would pass the time until Rama awoke or Lakshman returned. She had settled on weeding only because it would keep her in the shade of the hut - at least until the sun traversed to this side 

-and was something she had been putting off for the past week. 

She was on her hands and knees, carefully pulling unwanted stalks from the tomato patch, and thinking about whether it would be all right for them to build a raft and travel downriver a little way. It would be something to do, and as long as they only set foot on the northern bank, that should satisfy the terms of Anasuya’s warning. She thought she would speak to Rama about it when he woke, and that was when she heard the singing. 

It was a familiar aria, one that had been around since much before her time. A romantic lyric from a famous Sanskrit rendition of the Sakuntala legend. In the play the song was sung by Raja Dushyanta to Sakuntala at their first encounter. The raja had lost his way in the forest while hunting, and came across a beautiful maiden bathing and frolicking in a lotus pond. The song was his way of expressing how he felt upon witnessing this vision of female perfection. It sounded more than a little strange coming from a woman, but oddly appropriate. After all, the details of the song were concerned more with aesthetic generalities rather than specific references to the female anatomy, in sharp departure from most Sanskrit songs. It was one of the reasons Sita had always loved the song, not just for its heartbreaking melody, almost underlining the essential sadness of the play’s storyline itself, but because it stayed far away from the typical clichéd descriptions of bosoms and more intimate details of womanly physique. Instead, Dushyanta’s song spoke of the glow on Sakuntala’s face, the light in her eyes, the rapturous look when she spied a golden fish in the pond and tried to clasp it. 

Sita stood up, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her muddy hands. That smeared mud on her forehead and temple but she was unaware of it. She peered over the low bamboo fence that Lakshman had constructed to keep foraging animals out of their garden - and out of the hut too, for the animals of Chitrakut were unused to humans and unusually bold. All she could see was the line of mahua trees, still and dry in the rasping summer heat. The sun was already riding westward, throwing the shadow of the trees of the southern thicket a yard or more on the grassy field. She raised her hand, trying to see more clearly into the shade of the thicket, but the glare was directly in her eyes and the shadows between the close-growing trees were too dense. The singing continued from that direction. She waited, expecting the singer to emerge at any moment; it still sounded as if she was approaching. 

But after a moment the singing grew softer and more distant, as if the singer were moving farther away. Sita bit her lip in impatience. She glanced back at the hut. Rama hadn’t emerged, so he was probably still sleeping. If she ran inside to wake him up, they would waste precious time debating what to do, and the stranger in the woods might disappear. But her bow and arrow were right beside the entrance to the hut, where she had left it when she came out to do her weeding. She might not eat flesh any more, but she never went anywhere without a weapon close at hand. Not since Viradha had she been unarmed. 

She ran back to the wall, picked up the bow and arrow, and, slinging it easily across her shoulder, slipped through the bamboo gate and went sprinting into the woods in search of the singing stranger. 

FIFTEEN 

The singing continued as Sita made her way cautiously through the woods. She kept looking back at first, stealing glances at the hut. When she saw that she would lose sight of it, only a few dozen yards into the thicket, she hesitated, but the song drew her. She couldn’t believe that any asura would be wandering across Chitrakut hill, singing songs from Sanskrit dramas. And what asura would pick this particular song, a song that captured the essence of love and longing so effectively that it was rumoured to be sung by kings to queens on their wedding nights? She smiled. Not just a rumour; Rama had sung it to her on their wedding night. It was one of the cherished happy memories she had of that fateful night, before things began to go completely wrong. She had to see this woman, speak with her. Surely she was some sadhuni from an ashram, collecting fruit or flowers, who had wandered too far by mistake? Or perhaps even a messenger sent by either Atri and Anasuya or Agastya who had failed to see the hut, nestled as it was on the northern ridge of the hill? Sita was certain it was one of these explanations, and that drove her on boldly. Besides, she was armed and still within earshot of the hut. Sound travelled a long way in Chitrakut. 

The singing stopped. She paused, trying to see through the trees, but she still couldn’t catch any sight of the woman. When the silence lengthened, she started forward at a faster pace, breaking into a run. She already had a fair idea where the singer had been heading and she slowed down as she reached the familiar clearing. Yes. It was the lotus pond where Rama and she loved to sit in the evenings. 

Beside the lotus pond, bending down to reach for one of the beautiful pink blossoms, was a girl clad in a white ang-vastra draped in the ascetic style, tightly around the waist and hips and loosely around one shoulder, diagonally. A small woven cane basket sat on the bank of the pond beside her; there were flowers in it. Her hair was matted in the traditional hermit style, confirming her sadhuni status. She was slender and well shaped, and the first glimpse Sita had of her outstretched arm, the curve of her neck, and her left profile all suggested that she was pretty in a rustic, naïve way. She was speaking softly to the nearest lotus flower, her voice melodious and low. 

‘Come to me, my pretty lotus blossom. I will place you gently in my basket and take you to my guru. She will be pleased to offer you at our evening darshan. What finer destiny can you have than to pass through the hands of the venerated Sage Anasuya, offered to the devas?’ 

The girl reached further, her fingers brushing the surface of the water lightly. The effect was enough to make the lotus drift away from her. Sita watched silently, stepping closer, completely unnoticed by the sadhuni. 

‘How silly of me! Do not go away. I meant to bring you closer, not push you farther away. Come now, my pretty kamal. Come to … ‘ 

The girl stretched out, reaching her hand in one final effort to touch the edge of the lotus and pull it closer. This time she leaned too far, losing her balance. She gasped and began to windmill her arms, trying to keep from toppling into the water. 

‘Devi!’ she cried, starting to fall. 

Sita sprinted forward, shooting out her hand and grabbing hold of the girl. She had to drop the bow and arrow to do so, and grasped the sadhuni around her slender waist as best as she could manage. Inevitably she pulled too hard, and both she and the girl fell back on the sloping bank of the lotus pond. The girl’s feet kicked the edge of the water, splashing both of them. 

‘Devi protect me!’ the girl exclaimed, twisting out of Sita’s grasp. She lurched to her feet unsteadily, turning to look at her rescuer, not with gratitude, but with terror. She stood, shaking, staring wide-eyed at Sita. 

‘Demon!’ she said. ‘You are one of the legendary demons of Panchvati my guru warned me about!’ 

Sita smiled, amused that
she
should be mistaken for a demon. ‘But we are in Chitrakut. Panchvati is across the river.’ She gestured to her left, southwards. 

The girl took several steps backward. Her eyes were set wide apart, large and almond-shaped.
Like a doe
. Even her behaviour was doe-like, nervous, quick-moving, shivering. ‘Don’t be scared,’ Sita said. ‘I heard your song and followed. When I saw you were about to fall into the pond … ‘ 

The girl remained silent, staring. She had turned her head to one side, away from Sita, as if she might bolt at any second.
Like a doe, frozen in a tiger’s sights, wanting to bolt yet too terrified to break the impasse
. And to think that only only moments earlier Sita had thought that she might be an asura! 

Sita spread her hands, showing they were empty. ‘I mean you no harm. I am Sita of Mithila. My husband, my brother-inlaw and I live here in Chitrakut. Our hut is only a hundred yards or so up the hill. I can show you if you like.’ 

The girl shuddered violently then glanced behind her, as if fearing some new deception. 

‘Wait,’ Sita said. ‘I heard you say your guru is Anasuya. Is that so?’ 

At the mention of Anasuya, the girl nodded reluctantly. 

Sita indicated the robe she had on. ‘This robe was given to me by Anasuya herself.’ 

The girl stared at the robe, then back at Sita’s face. ‘How do I know you are telling the truth? That you are not a demoness seeking to carry me across the river as a prize for your demon brothers? I know how you demonesses come out to seek wives for your brother demons!’ 

Sita was losing patience. This was absurd. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘If you do not believe me, so be it. But it was your singing that drew me here. That song … it means something special to me. A happier time, before I came here. Not that I am not happy here, but … You sang it so soulfully, I simply had to see who you were.’ 

And then, on an impulse, she sang a snatch of verse from the song herself: 

‘Light, precious light, how you draw me like a moth to a flame … ‘ 

The girl stopped shivering and staring. Slowly, she smiled. She stepped forward hesitantly. 

‘You can sing,’ she said. ‘My guru says that no asura could sing a love song, not the way a human can … ‘ 

She came forward. She smiled at Sita. ‘Forgive me, my sister. I have heard such stories … And I had already wandered too far from my ashram, seeking out the very best flowers I could find. For today is my first day serving the sages Anasuya and Atri. I wished to please them.’ 

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Sita said, relieved. ‘I feared the exact same thing at first. That is why … ‘ she turned to point behind her, ‘I brought my bow and quiver with me, for protection.’ 

The girl turned her large doe eyes to look at the fallen bow and quiver, arrows spilled out from it and splayed like the spokes of a hand-fan. She came forward. 

‘Well met, sister Sita,’ she said, embracing her in the warm style of rural Aryas. 

‘Well met, sister … ?’ 

‘Supanakha,’ the girl said, her breath redolent of an aroma Sita found hauntingly familiar but couldn’t quite place. ‘Your sister, Supanakha.’ 

And then she embraced Sita again, in a grip so powerful Sita felt her very ribcage would shatter and pierce her heart. She had no breath left to even scream. Something was forced into her mouth, something tasting foul and ripe and liquorish, then a cloudbank descended and engulfed her in its wet, dark maw. 

*** 

Rama woke from strange, unsettling dreams. He didn’t recall exactly what he had done in those dreams, but it was something grossly immoral. And in return for his immoral transgression, Sita and Lakshman were condemned to a terrible fate. This was all he remembered, but as hard as he tried, he could recall no details. It wasn’t difficult to understand the sub-context of that dream; he had been wrestling with the consequences of the choices he had made for the past several weeks. What if, he had asked himself once, he had left Sita behind, just as Lakshman had left Urmila behind, and what if he had left Lakshman behind as well, and had come into exile alone? Would that have been so terrible? So much worse than this? 

The answer was yes. It would have been unbearable. For with Sita and Lakshman with him, he felt as content as he would have done back in Ayodhya. Not as comfortable, certainly; not as indolent and able to wallow in luxury, of course. But every bit as content, surely. The truth was, he was happy. And he was happy because he had brought his wife and brother into exile with him. It was a selfish happiness, for all happiness was selfish. And inevitably, as the season had given way to summer, and a sense of tranquillity and harmony had fallen upon their simple rustic life here at Chitrakut, that very happiness had roused its twin emotion, guilt.