‘But …’
‘You believe you did me a service. No, Samichi, you did not. I lost respect among those men by receiving an undeserved compliment.’
‘But …’
‘Don’t let your loyalty to me blind you. That is the worst thing you can do to me.’
Samichi stopped arguing. ‘I’m sorry.’
Sita smiled. ‘It’s all right.’ Then she turned to her younger sister and beckoned her. The three of them rode on, in silence.
Sita had returned from the hunt just a few days earlier. Preparations for her swayamvar had begun in full swing. She personally supervised most of the work, ably assisted by Samichi and her younger sister, Urmila.
Sita sat in her chamber perusing some documents, when a messenger was announced.
‘Bring him in.’
Two guards marched in with the messenger in tow. She recognised the man. He was from Radhika’s tribe.
Saluting smartly, the messenger handed her a rolled parchment. Sita examined the seal. It was unbroken.
She dismissed the messenger, broke the seal and read Radhika’s message.
Her anger rose even before she reached the last word. But even in her rage, she did not forget what she must do. She held the parchment to a flame till every inch of it was reduced to ashes.
Task done, she walked up to the balcony to cool her mind.
Ram … Don’t fall into Guruji’s trap.
Mithila was a few weeks away from Sita’s swayamvar.
Sita’s spirits had been uplifted by the news that Vishwamitra was on his way to Mithila. Along with the Malayaputras and the princes of Ayodhya. Her mind had been feverishly contemplating plausible excuses to cancel the swayamvar. In the absence of Ram, it would have been a pointless exercise.
‘Sita,’ said Samichi, saluting as she entered the princess’ chamber.
Sita turned. ‘Yes, Samichi?’
‘I have some troubling news.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I have heard that your uncle Kushadhwaj has been invited to the swayamvar. In fact, he is inviting some of his friends as well. He’s behaving like a joint host.’
Sita sighed. She should have guessed that her father would invite Kushadhwaj.
Such misplaced generosity.
On the other hand, Kushadhwaj had not visited Mithila in years. Perhaps, he had made his peace with his reduced circumstances.
‘I am his niece, after all,’ said Sita, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Chacha may want to demonstrate to the Sapt Sindhu royalty that he retains some influence in his elder brother’s household and kingdom. Let him come.’
Samichi smiled. ‘As long as the one you want also comes, right?’
‘Ram is coming … He is coming …’
Samichi broke into a rare smile. Though she did not understand why Sita had suddenly developed an interest in Ram, and in allying with Ayodhya, she supported her princess wholeheartedly. Allying with Ayodhya, even in its weakened state, would only benefit Mithila in the long run. And, once Sita left for Ayodhya, Samichi expected to become even more powerful. Perhaps, even rule Mithila for all practical purposes.
After all, who else was there?
Chapter 18
A nervous Samichi stood in the small clearing. The ominous sounds of the jungle added to the dread of a dark, moonless night.
Memories from the past crashed into the present. It had been so long. So many years. She had thought that she had been forgotten. Left to her own devices. After all, Mithila was a minor, insignificant kingdom in the Sapt Sindhu. She hadn’t expected this. A sense of gratification meshed with the unease of the moment to altogether overwhelm her mind.
Her left hand rested on the hilt of her sheathed sword.
‘Samichi, did you understand what I said?’ asked the man. His gravelly voice was distinctive. The result of years of tobacco and alcohol abuse. Accompanied by uncontrolled shouting.
The man was clearly a noble. Expensive clothes. All neatly pressed. Soft, well-coiffed and completely grey hair. An array of rings on all his fingers. Jewelled pommels decorated his knife and sword. Even his scabbard was gold-plated. A thick black line, a tilak, plastered the middle of his wrinkled forehead.
A platoon of twenty soldiers in black uniforms stood quietly in the shadows. Out of earshot. Their swords were securely sheathed. They knew they had nothing to fear from Samichi.
She was to receive Guru Vishwamitra at Sankashya the following day. She really couldn’t afford this unexpected rendezvous. Not now. She mentioned the True Lord, hoping it would push Akampana back.
‘But, Lord Akampana …’ said Samichi uneasily, ‘… Iraiva’s message …’
‘Forget everything you were told earlier,’ said Akampana. ‘Remember your oath.’
Samichi stiffened. ‘I will never forget my oath, Lord Akampana.’
‘See that you don’t.’ Akampana raised his hand and nonchalantly looked at his manicured nails. Perfectly cut, filed and polished. A light cream dye had been carefully painted on them. The nail on the slim pinkie finger though, had been painted black. ‘So, Princess Sita’s swayamvar will be …’
‘You don’t have to repeat yourself,’ interrupted Samichi. ‘It will be done. It is in Princess Sita’s interest as well.’
Akampana smiled. Perhaps something had gotten through Samichi’s thick head after all. ‘Yes, it is.’
Sita sighed and lightly tapped her head. ‘Silly me.’
She walked into her private puja room and picked up the knife. It was the day of the astra puja, an ancient ritual worship of weapons. And she had forgotten the knife in the garbha griha, at the feet of the deities, after the puja.
Fortunately, she had managed without the weapon today. She had always suspected that the wealthy merchant, Vijay, was more loyal to Sankashya than Mithila. Earlier that day, in the market place, he had tried to incite the crowd to attack her, when she had intervened to save a boy-thief from mob justice.
Fortunately, it had all ended well. No one had been injured. Except that stupid Vijay who would be nursing a broken rib for many weeks. She would visit the Ayuralay and check on him, probably in the evening or the next day. She didn’t really care what happened to Vijay. But it was important to demonstrate that she cared equally for the well-being of the rich as well, and not just the poor. Even the irredeemably stupid ones among the rich.
Where is Samichi?
The Police and Protocol Chief was expected anytime now, escorting Guru Vishwamitra and his accompanying Malayaputras to Mithila. And, of course, Ram and Lakshman.
Suddenly, the doorman announced that Arishtanemi, the military chief of the Malayaputras, had arrived.
Sita answered loudly. ‘Bring him in. With respect.’
Arishtanemi walked into the room. Sita folded her hands together in a respectful Namaste and bowed her head as she greeted the right-hand man of Maharishi Vishwamitra. ‘Greetings, Arishtanemiji. I hope that you are comfortable in Mithila.’