The head pandit walked up to Sita, holding a torch in his right hand. Other pandits were lined up at the back, chanting hymns from the Garuda Purana. ‘It’s time, My Lady.’
Sita nodded at him and looked down to her left. Urmila had not stopped crying since Sunaina’s death. She held on to Sita’s arm with both her hands. Sita tried to pry them open, but her sister clung on, even stronger. Sita looked at her father, who walked up, picked Urmila up in his arms and stood beside his elder daughter. Janak looked as devastated and lost as the young Urmila. He had lost the human shield that had guarded him, as he had soared the heights of philosophical wisdom. Reality had intruded rudely into his life.
Sita turned to the pandit and took the torch.
It had only been three months since Sunaina’s visit to the gurukul.
Sita had thought she’d have more time with Sunaina. To learn. To live. To love.
But that was not to be.
She moved forward as she heard the pandits chant from the Isha Vasya Upanishad.
Vayur anilam amritam; Athedam bhasmantam shariram
Let this temporary body be burned to ashes. But the breath of life belongs elsewhere. May it find its way back to the Immortal Breath.
She walked up to the sandalwood logs that entombed her mother’s body. She closed her eyes as she pictured her mother’s face. She must not cry. Not here. Not in public. She knew that many Mithilans secretly blamed her for further weakening her mother in her illness, by making her travel to Shvetaketu’s gurukul. She also knew that they blamed her for the troubles caused by Kushadhwaj.
She must be strong. For her mother. She looked to her friend, Samichi, who stood at a distance. Next to her stood Radhika, her friend from the gurukul. She drew strength from their support.
She stuck the burning log into the pyre. Washed with ghee, the wood caught fire immediately. The pyre burned bright and strong, as if honoured to be the purifying agent for one so noble.
Farewell, Maa.
Sita stepped back and looked at the sky, to the One God, Brahman.
If anyone ever deserved moksha, it is her, my mother.
Sita remembered her mother’s words as they had witnessed the mourning of the elephant matriarch.
Don’t look back. Look to the future.
Sita whispered softly to the cremation pyre. ‘I will look back, Maa. How can I not? You are my life.’
She remembered her last coherent conversation with her mother. Sunaina had warned Sita to not trust either the Malayaputras or the Vayuputras completely if she were to fulfil her destiny as the Vishnu. Both tribes would have their own agenda. She needed partners.
Her mother’s voice resonated in her mind. Find partners you can trust; who are loyal to your cause. Personal loyalty is not important. But they must be loyal to your cause.
She remembered her mother’s last statement.
I will always be looking at you. Make me proud.
Sita took a deep breath and clenched her fists, making a vow.
‘I will, Maa. I will.’
Chapter 11
Sita and Samichi sat on the edge of the outer fort wall. Sita moved forward and looked down at the moat that surrounded the city. It was a long way down. Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to fall, all the way to the ground. Would it hurt? Would she be released from her body instantly? Would she finally be free? What happens after death?
Why do these stupid thoughts enter my mind?
‘Sita …’ whispered Samichi, breaking the silence.
They had been seated together for some time. There were hardly any words exchanged between the two, as a distracted Sita kept looking beyond the wall. Samichi could understand Sita’s pain. After all, it had just been a day since the princess had cremated her mother’s dead body. Despite her recently reduced popularity, almost the entire kingdom was in mourning for their Queen Sunaina. Not just Sita, but all of Mithila had lost its mother.
Sita did not respond.
‘Sita …’
Instinct kicked in. Samichi reached her arm out and held it in front of Sita. Attempting to prevent some unspoken fear from coming true. Samichi understood, only too well, the power of dark thoughts.
Sita shook her head. Pushing the unnecessary thoughts out of her head.
Samichi whispered again, ‘Sita …’
Sita spoke distractedly. To herself. ‘Maa, as always, was right … I need partners … I will complete my karma … But I can’t do it alone. I need a partner …’
Samichi held her breath, thinking that Sita had plans for her. Thinking that Sita was talking about what Sunaina had wanted for Mithila. And, the karma the dying queen had asked of her. But Sita was, in fact, dwelling on what the chief of the Malayaputras had tasked her with.
Sita touched the scar on her left palm, recalling the blood oath she had made with Vishwamitra. She whispered to herself, ‘I swear by the great Lord Rudra and by the great Lord Parshu Ram.’
Samichi did not notice that Sita had, for the first time, taken an oath in the name of Lord Parshu Ram as well. Usually, the princess only invoked Lord Rudra’s name. But how could she have registered the change? Her thoughts, too, had drifted; to her True Lord, the Iraiva.
Does Sita intend to make me her second-in-command in Mithila? Iraiva be praised … Iraiva will be happy …
A year had passed since the death of Sunaina. The sixteen-year-old Sita had been administering the kingdom reasonably well. She had consolidated her rule by retaining the team that had advised Sunaina, careful to continue systems that her mother had instituted. The only major change she had made was to appoint her trusted aide, Samichi, as the Chief of Police. An appointment necessitated by the sudden death of the previous police chief, who had had an unexpected and fatal heart attack.
Jatayu, the Malayaputra captain, had been true to his word, and shadowed Sita along with his team of soldiers. They had been tasked with being her bodyguards. Sita did not feel the need for this extra protection. But who can shake off a shadow? In fact, she had had to give in to Jatayu’s request and induct some Malayaputra soldiers into the Mithila police force. Their true identity was kept a secret from all, including Samichi. They followed Sita. Always.
Over the last year, Sita had grown to trust Jatayu. Almost like a brother. He was the senior most Malayaputra officer that she interacted with on a regular basis. And, the only person she could openly discuss her Vishnu responsibilities with.
‘I’m sure you understand, don’t you, Jatayuji?’ asked Sita.