‘Yes, Guruji,’ said Sita, accepting the knife with both hands as a mark of respect.
Vishwamitra reached into his pouch and retrieved another small scabbard. He pulled out the second knife and checked its blade. Perfectly sharp. He looked at Sita. ‘The blood must only drop within the circular inner boundary of the yagna kund. Under no circumstances must it spill in the space between the metal and bricks. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Guruji.’
Two Malayaputra pandits approached them silently and handed two pieces of cloth each to Vishwamitra and Sita. Each had been doused in neem-juice disinfectants. Without waiting for further instructions, Sita placed the sharp knife-edge on her left palm and folded her hand over the blade. Then, in a swift, clean motion, she pulled the knife back, cutting open the skin from edge to edge. Blood dribbled freely into the sacred fire. She did not flinch.
‘Arrey, we needed just a drop of blood,’ exclaimed Vishwamitra. ‘A little nick would have been enough.’
Sita looked at Vishwamitra, unperturbed. She pressed the disinfectant cloth into her injured hand, careful not to spill any blood.
Vishwamitra quickly pricked his thumb with the knife edge.
He held his hand over the inner boundary of the yagna kund, and pressed his thumb to let a drop of blood fall into the flames. Sita also held out her left hand and removed the cloth, letting her blood drip into the fire.
Vishwamitra spoke in a clear voice. ‘With the pure Lord Agni as my witness, I swear that I will honour my promise to Lord Parshu Ram. Always. To my last breath. And beyond.’
Sita repeated the words. Exactly.
‘Jai Parshu Ram,’ said Vishwamitra.
‘Jai Parshu Ram,’ repeated Sita.
The Malayaputra pandits around them chimed in. ‘Jai Parshu Ram.’
Vishwamitra smiled and withdrew his hand. Sita too pulled her hand back and covered it with the disinfectant cloth. A Malayaputra pandit walked up to her and tied the cloth tight around her hand, staunching the blood flow.
‘It is done,’ said Vishwamitra, looking at Sita.
‘Am I a Malayaputra now?’ asked Sita expectantly.
Vishwamitra looked amused. He pointed to Sita’s knife. ‘Look at the markings on your knife.’
Sita picked up the silver knife. Its blade-edge was stained with her blood. She examined the handle. It had three intricate letters engraved on it. Sages of yore, in their wisdom, had suggested that Old Sanskrit should not have a written script. They felt that the written word was inferior to the spoken; that it reduced the ability of the mind to understand concepts. Rishi Shvetaketu had had another explanation: the sages preferred that scriptures were not written down and remained oral so that as times changed, they could change easily as well. Writing things down brought rigidity into the scriptures. Whatever the reason, the fact was that writing was not valued in the Sapt Sindhu. As a result, there were many scripts that existed across the land. Scripts that changed from time to time and place to place. There was no serious attempt to develop a standard script.
The word on the handle was written in a common script from the upper reaches of the Saraswati River. Sita recognised it.
The symbols represented Parshu Ram.
‘Not that side, Sita,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘Turn it around.’
Sita flipped the knife. Her eyes widened with shock.
The fish was the most common symbol across all scripts in India. A giant fish had helped Lord Manu and his band escape when the sea had devastated their land. Lord Manu had decreed that the great fish would be honoured with the title of Lord Matsya, the first Vishnu. The symbol of the fish represented a follower of the Vishnu. This was the symbol on Vishwamitra’s knife handle.
But the symbol on Sita’s handle was a modified version. It was a fish, no doubt, but it also had a crown on top.
The fish symbol minus the crown on it meant that you were a follower of the Vishnu. But if the fish symbol had a crown on top, it meant that you were the Vishnu.
Sita looked at Vishwamitra, bewildered.
‘This knife is yours, Sita,’ said Vishwamitra softly.
Chapter 9
The student quarters in Shvetaketu’s gurukul were frugal. In keeping with the general atmosphere of the place. Each student occupied a small windowless mud hut, barely large enough to accommodate a single bed, some clothes pegs and a place for study materials. The huts had no doors, just doorways.
Sita was lying in bed, recalling the events of the previous day on the Malayaputra ship.
She held the knife in her hand. She was in no danger of getting cut since the blade was safely in the scabbard. Again and again, her eyes were drawn to the knife handle. And the beautiful symbol etched on its surface.
Vishnu?
Me?
Vishwamitra had said that her training would begin soon. She would be old enough to leave the gurukul in a few months. She would then take a trip to Agastyakootam, the capital of the Malayaputras, deep in the south of India. After that, she would travel across India, incognito. Vishwamitra wanted her to understand the land that she would redeem and lead one day. Along with his Malayaputras, he would guide her through this. In the interim, she and Vishwamitra would prepare a blueprint for the task ahead. For a new way of life.
It was all quite overwhelming.
‘My Lady.’
Sita slipped out of bed and came to the doorway. Jatayu was standing at some distance.
‘My Lady,’ he repeated.
Sita folded her hands into a Namaste. ‘I am like your younger sister, Jatayuji. Please don’t embarrass me. Just call me by my name.’
‘No, I can’t do that, My Lady. You are the …’
Jatayu fell silent. Strict instructions had been given to the Malayaputras. Nobody was to speak of Sita as the next Vishnu. It would be announced at the right time. Even Sita had been prohibited from speaking about it with anyone. Not that she would have, in any case. She felt anxious, almost afraid, of what the title implied.
‘Well then, you can call me your sister.’
Jatayu smiled. ‘That is fair, my sister.’
‘What did you want to talk about, Jatayuji?’
‘How is your hand now?’
Sita grinned as she touched the neem-leaf bandage with her other hand. ‘I was a little too enthusiastic about drawing blood.’
‘Yes.’
‘I am all right now.’
‘That is good to hear,’ said Jatayu. He was a shy man. Taking a slow, long breath in, he softly continued, ‘You are one of the very few people, besides the Malayaputras, who have shown kindness towards me. Even though Lord Vishwamitra had not ordered you to do so.’
All those months ago, Sita had served Jatayu some food simply because his face reminded her of the noble vulture who had saved her life. But she kept that to herself.
‘You are probably unsure about this new situation,’ said Jatayu. ‘It’s natural to feel overwhelmed.’
What he didn’t tell her was that even some Malayaputras had their doubts about the choice of Sita as a Vishnu, but wouldn’t dare openly challenge their formidable chief.