SITA’S SISTER (36 page)

He was in her thoughts all day and her dreams in the night. Everyday, she woke up with a sense of pain, of loss. She wanted him near her, wanted him lying beside her, wanted to turn her head on the pillow to look at him gazing back at her with his smiling eyes, to touch his face with her fingers, to smell him, to taste him… She lived it each day, pulled along by her determination to live each day as it came, surviving the rolling days of the years to unfold…

It was the tenth year gone by. Today, she was twenty-seven years old. Another four years to go. When he returned, she would be thirty-one and he, thirty-seven. Urmila looked at herself carefully in the mirror. No longer a girl but a woman—she decided looking at her mellowed face and figure. The girlishness had been wiped out clean, leaving heavy traces of mature feminity. But that would be a cosmetic change. She had most likely grown up from a girl to a woman when she got married into this family and was rushed into the torrent of unhappy events immediately after her wedding. Or did she grow into a woman, when she met Lakshman and fell in love with him with all his complexities?

These ten years had been the longest of her life, but she never let go of him and he was with her through these empty, absent years. She was slowly removing the bangles from her wrists and stopped to stare at them, reminded of his habit of absently caressing them. As she unstrung her ruby necklace, she could see him behind her in the reflection of her mirror, looking at her with that bemused expression as he always did when she removed her ornaments in the night. He had a benevolent dislike for them. ‘Granted they make women more pretty but they are too obstructive.’ he grimaced. ‘…and perfect as weapons! Have you noticed how they scratch so murderously? And that hairpin! It actually pierces; it is like a dagger in your bun, hideous and brutalizing your dark, shining hair all tied and pulled back! Let it loose—it’s your best feature!’

‘Is it?’ she said, visibly miffed. She was expecting a better compliment for her large, almond eyes or her full, red lips or her transclucent skin, not her long hair which was nothing unique. ‘My grandmother once told me that hair left loose means being wild and wanton and free,’ she wrinkled her pert nose, clearly displeased at his lack of praise for the correct object of amour.

‘Exactly! That’s why I like it that way on you, my enchantress; it should be just like you—wild and free, not to be tied down and so delightfully wanton’ he had murmured, his breath warm on her lips as his hands pulled the hairpin out, her silky mane cascading down in a lustrous auburn wave of mounting desire…

She was startled out of her reverie by the shrieks of laughter right below her window. She peered down the ornamented balustrade. Shanta’s two sons and her daughter were excitedly climbing the mango tree growing outside her room. Urmila smiled tenderly watching them for a long time. A quick image of her and her sisters attempting the same in the Mithila garden so many years ago flashed in front of her eyes. Mandavi used to curtly excuse herself citing vertigo as a reason for wriggling out of these adventures. Sita happily gave up at the earliest, contentedly perched on the lowest branch, biting on the sourest of the raw mangoes. She and Kirti were always game and tried to reach the highest branch, giggling and hooting in jubilance. That same delighted ring seemed to be echoing now. The boys had given up and were shouting up at their sister to come down. The girl, Smriti, was agile and fast and had almost reached the highest branch.

‘You have won, dear! Now climb down a little lower. Be careful,’ instructed Urmila from her window, still smiling. The sight and sound of children playing in the palace grounds was a welcoming change and it gladdened her heart. The palace was inhabited and visited by various kind of people, but never children since the princes had grown up. Urmila’s smile slipped as she felt a sharp pang—children…would she ever see hers running down the arched corridors some day? When would she hear the soft gurgle of a toothless baby? Urmila bit her lip. She was being silly, she thought with a stab of dejectedness. She could always have them later…but would she have been happier had she had a child to look after now?

Urmila gave herself a little shake—what was she thinking? She heard the happy squeal of the children again and thought of her sisters. They were suffering a similar reality of abstinence. Their husbands were leading the life of ascetics, which forbade conjugality. The brothers shared their pain and sorrow—even the vows of chasity. By leading a life of celibacy like their elder brother, they showed a shared strength and moral purity.

‘Sometimes I think I am the most fortunate of us four—Lakshman is not physically here so I don’t expect anything from him!’ remarked Urmila with a mirthless laugh. ‘All of us here are leading an exceptionally unusual variety of marital bliss. We are suffering in common—love and loss, separation and abstinence. Our Fate, besides having a twisted sense of humour, is quite egalitarian.’

‘That’s good in a way; we don’t need to be envious of each other!’ grinned Kirti good humouredly. ‘We are all sailing—or should I say capsizing—in the same boat?’

Mandavi was not amused. ‘It’s called wasted youth! The men have won their moral war, but what about us wives? Forced celibacy is not sublime; I would rather bask in love than such glory. It could be called poetic injustice!’ smirked Mandavi, looking up from her book. She shut it and waving it at them, said nonchalantly, ‘These books make better companions. They make you live in a world you wish, a world you want to belong to…’

Urmila looked worriedly at Mandavi. Would she be kinder to herself once Bharat was back?

The cold logic of Mandavi’s next line reiterated her unease. ‘I keep recalling Aunt Sunaina’s words, Urmi—that all of us should not have married in the same family,’ she remarked thoughtfully. ‘We have been married to the same set of problems, that same stock of suffering and sacrifice.’

‘But her reason was different, she was wary that it would jeopardize the relationship between us sisters,’ said Urmila. ‘But I think we did her proud—we managed pretty well so far!’

‘Yes, caged in this prison, I think we have progressed wonderfully,’ agreed Mandavi casutically.

Urmila felt like surrendering; she was almost indifferent to her sister’s rancour. It no longer upset her. Bitter anger and deep ill-will had hardened her sister’s personality. Urmila wondered if she would ever soften. Mandavi had always been hard and cold but her ready wit used to often see her through. Her substituted cynicism now made her cruel. Even when she had divulged the secret Kaikeyi had hidden from the family, it seemed to have no impact on Mandavi.

‘Does it make much difference to our lives? Will Bharat come back? Or will it bring back your Lakshman, Urmi?’ she shrugged. ‘Ah, yes, I shall probably hate her a little less! Whatever that means, it is still she who was the harbinger of misfortunes in the family.’

Her bitterness had corroded into her. Hope had deserted her leaving her lonely. Her fairy tale had long lost the romance. But it would probably return once her prince came back to her. Would love reign again? Urmila knew it would; Bharat would win back Mandavi. Or rather, Mandavi would realize his goodness some day. And it was not just her romantic optimism making her hope for the best for her cousin. It was Mandavi whom Urmila knew so well. She would bask in the love and attention, once showered again on her.

But unlike Mandavi, Kirti was content. Requitedly happy with Shatrughna, Urmila could see that. Clearly, humour was her best defence, her safest weapon. Shatrughna’s wit seemed to have rubbed on her wonderfully. Did marriage make people grow to be like each other, Urmila thought with amused affection. Each evening, without fail, and however late in the night, Shatrughna sat with Kirti and talked with her about everything—from court affairs to matters of the heart. They reminded her of how she and Lakshman used to spend much of their time in banter. ‘Keep it light, Mila, though I can’t do much of small talk!’ he used to warn her with an engaging grin. ‘Our heavy discussions don’t seem to be good for either of our tempers!’

She smiled at the recollection. Yes, she and Kirti were happier than Mandavi.

Four sisters, married the same day, living in similar wretchedness but each accepting and acknowledging life differently—Mandavi bitter, Kirti wiser and she catatonic. Urmila was amused at her self-description. But yes she did live—exist—in a certain stupor, enduring on her sheer will to survive. The course of time and events plodded on, as if circling a grindstone, uninterrupted, pausing for none.

Sita was not here but Urmila had gauged from their last conversation at Chitrakoot that she was abundantly happy. She could not have been more content elsewhere—in the forest, in the lap of nature, with the hard soil under her doughty feet. She would not mind the hardship, the rigours of life spent in the forest. Her choice had been clear—felicitous and fortunate with Ram by her side. They lived quitely in the ashrams of the rishis of Dandaka forest, protecting them from the devouring demons. Those who dared attack them, did not live to regret as each of them were killed by the incisive arrows of the two brothers. Bharat had a web of informants who kept him duly acquainted about the whereabouts of the trio in the forest. They had moved from Chitrakoot soon after Bharat and the others had visited them and had travelled through the sprawling dangers of the dreaded Dandaka forest. After having returned from the Vindhyas and meeting Sage Agatsya, they had finally settled at Panchavati and right now lived in a hut off the banks of River Godavari.

In Ayodhya, the people had yet not forgiven Kaikeyi for her transgressions. But her family shamefacedly had. Urmila, without further hesitation, had let them know of the secret of the outcast queen. The three queens for the first time, probably, ate their meal happily together—without rancour and resentment. And that was how it had been for the last few years of that decade. A little peace, a lot of quiet.

Urmila received an unexpected invitation. It was from her father for the forthcoming philosophical conference—the prestigious
brahmanyagna
—which he hosted every year. But what surpised her was that he had not invited her as his daughter. He was requesting her to attend the annual symposium in her own right as an acclaimed scholar. She had long been under the tutelage of Vasishtha and the other gurus of Ayodhya’s royal court—Guru Vaamdeva, Markandeya, Katyayan as well as the reluctant Kashyap, who had grudgingly acknowledged her brilliant, questioning mind. Urmila had grown from being a curious student to an exemplary one to be finally acknowledged as a pandit, a learned scholar, who by long, perseverent study had gained mastery over the Vedas and Upanishads and could proficiently debate on religion and philosophy with the most learned of sages. That was probably why King Seeradhwaj Janak had invited her to the prestigious conference.

Urmila felt a glow of pride. Her father, the most respected of all scholars, had graciously acknowledged her as a peer though he did not always agree with her as a theologist. She questioned the rationality of religion and its influence on the nature of religious truth rather than seeking the divinity in religion as he did. Urmila gave a small smile—it would be an interesting debate especially with Sage Gargi and the controversial Guru Jaabali around.

‘You seem strangely esctactic!’ said Kirti, watching her sister’s radiant face. For a second, she was reminded of the times when Urmila was with Lakshman, gloriously happy.

‘Father has asked me to come to Mithila!’ smiled Urmila, almost gushing, unable to keep the good news to herself any longer. She thrust the invite in Kirti’s hand. Kirti read it carefully and was happy for her cousin.

‘It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’ asked Kirti softly. ‘And I don’t mean being able to participate in that prestigious conference; what is more important is that you have managed to impress your father. That means so much more to you.’

Urmila’s smile slipped slightly, losing the lilt. ‘Am I that transparent?’ she asked at last, slowly and thoughfully.

‘No you are not,’ refuted Kirti quickly, and added gently. ‘Others might assume the reason for your evident elation is the conference but we—both Mandavi and I—and Sita, had she been here, know that the true reason for your happiness is the fact that you have exceeded your father’s expectations. It has always been that with you—you have always striven to gain their love and respect, unlike the three of us who got it too easy from them. You had to struggle for it and we didn’t, for different reasons—Sita because she was the oldest, the privileged first child, the ideal daughter who always did everything right and perfect. We because we were the younger ones and more so because we were motherless. Both your parents were there for us always, sometimes at your expense. You ended up getting ignored often while Sita got all the accolade and we got the affection. That’s why you strived so hard, and that’s why, though you are so fiercely independent, their opinion matters most to you.’