Radhika stuck her lower lip out in mock anger. ‘How long has it been since I saw you last? Ever since father allowed that new gurukul to come up …’
Radhika’s father was the chief of a village along the river Shon. He had recently given permission for a gurukul to be set up close to the village. Four young boys had been enrolled. There were no other students. Sita had wondered why Radhika was still in Rishi Shvetaketu’s gurukul, when another was now so close to home. Maybe a small, four-student gurukul was not as good as their Guruji’s renowned school.
‘Sorry Radhika, I’ve been very busy,’ said the man. ‘I’ve been given a new assignment and …’
‘I don’t care about your new assignment!’
Radhika’s brother quickly changed the topic. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?’
Radhika stared at him for a few more seconds, then smiled in surrender and turned to her friend. ‘This is Sita, the princess of Mithila. And this is my elder brother, Hanu bhaiya.’
He gave his new acquaintance a broad smile as he folded his hands into a Namaste. ‘Hanu bhaiya is what little Radhika calls me. My name is Hanuman.’
Sita folded her hands too, and looked up at the kindly face. ‘I think I prefer Hanu bhaiya.’
Hanuman laughed warmly. ‘Then Hanu bhaiya it is!’
Sita had spent five years in the gurukul. She was thirteen years old now.
The gurukul was built on the southern banks of the holy Ganga, a short distance downriver from Magadh, where the feisty Sarayu merged into the sedate Ganga. Its location was so convenient that many rishis and rishikas from various ashrams used to drop into this gurukul. They, usually, even taught for a few months as visiting teachers.
Indeed, Maharishi Vishwamitra himself was on a visit to the gurukul right now. He and his followers entered the frugal ashram, home to almost twenty-five students.
‘Namaste, great Malayaputra,’ said Shvetaketu, folding his hands together and bowing to the legendary rishi, chief of the tribe left behind by the sixth Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram. The Malayaputras were tasked with two missions: to help the next Mahadev, Destroyer of Evil, if and when he or she arose. And, to give rise to the next Vishnu, Propagator of Good, when the time was right.
The gurukul was electrified by the presence of the great Maharishi Vishwamitra; considered a Saptrishi Uttradhikari, successor to the legendary seven rishis. It was a singular honour, greater than receiving any of the men and women of knowledge who had visited before.
‘Namaste, Shvetaketu,’ said Vishwamitra imperiously, a hint of a smile playing on his face.
The staff at the gurukul had immediately set to work. Some helped the sage’s followers with their luggage and horses, while others rushed to clean the already spick-and-span guest quarters. Arishtanemi, the military chief of the Malayaputras and the right-hand man of Vishwamitra, organised the efforts like the battle commander that he was.
‘What brings you to these parts, Great One?’ asked Shvetaketu.
‘I had some work upriver,’ said Vishwamitra, enigmatically, refusing to elaborate.
Shvetaketu knew better than to ask any more questions on this subject to the fearsome Malayaputra chief. But an attempt at conversation was warranted. ‘Raavan’s trade treaties are causing immense pain to the kingdoms of the Sapt Sindhu, noble Guru. People are suffering and being impoverished. Somebody has to fight him.’
Almost seven feet tall, the dark-skinned Vishwamitra was altogether of unreal proportions, both physically and in intellect. His large belly lay under a sturdy chest, muscular shoulders, and powerful arms. A flowing white beard grazed his chest. Brahminical, tuft of knotted hair on an otherwise shaven head. Large, limpid eyes. And the holy janau, sacred thread, tied over his shoulder. In startling contrast were the numerous battle scars that lined his face and body. He looked down at Shvetaketu from his great height.
‘There are no kings today who can take on this task,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘They are all just survivors. Not leaders.’
‘Perhaps this task is beyond that of mere kings, Illustrious One …’
Vishwamitra’s smile broadened mysteriously. But no words followed.
Shvetaketu would not let down his need for interaction with the great man. ‘Forgive my impertinence, Maharishiji, but how long do you expect to stay with us? It would be wonderful if my students could get the benefit of your guidance.’
‘I will be here for only a few days, Shvetaketu. Teaching your children may not be possible.’
Shvetaketu was about to repeat his request, as politely as possible, when a loud sound was heard.
A speedy whoosh followed by a loud thwack!
Vishwamitra had once been a Kshatriya warrior prince. He recognised the sound immediately. Of a spear hitting a wooden target. Almost perfectly.
He turned in the direction that the sound had emerged from, his brows lifted slightly in admiration. ‘Someone in your gurukul has a strong throwing arm, Shvetaketu.’
Shvetaketu smiled proudly. ‘Let me show you, Guruji.’
‘Sita?’ asked Vishwamitra, surprised beyond words. ‘Janak’s daughter, Sita?’
Vishwamitra and Shvetaketu were at one end of the sparse but well-equipped outdoor training arena, where students practised archery, spear-throwing and other ananga weapon techniques. At the other end was a separate area set aside for the practice of anga weapons like swords and maces. Sita, immersed in her practice, did not see the two rishis as they silently walked in and watched her get ready for the next throw.
‘She has the wisdom of King Janak, great Malayaputra,’ answered Shvetaketu. ‘But she also has the pragmatism and fighting spirit of Queen Sunaina. And, dare I say, my gurukul teachers have moulded her spirit well.’
Vishwamitra observed Sita with a keen eye. Tall for a thirteen-year old, she was already beginning to build muscle. Her straight, jet-black hair was braided and rolled into a practical bun. She flicked a spear up with her foot, catching it expertly in her hand. Vishwamitra noticed the stylish flick. But he was more impressed by something else. She had caught the spear exactly at the balance point on the shaft. Which had not been marked, unlike in a normal training spear. She judged it, instinctively perhaps. Even from a distance, he could see that her grip was flawless. The spear shaft lay flat on the palm of her hand, between her index and middle finger. Her thumb pointed backwards while the rest of the fingers faced the other direction.
Sita turned to the target with her left foot facing it. It was a wooden board painted with concentric circles. She raised her left hand, again in the same direction. Her body twisted ever so slightly, to add power to the throw. She pulled her right hand back, parallel to the ground; poised as a work of art.
Perfect.