Sita and Samichi were headed for the Bees Quarter, accompanied by a bodyguard posse of ten policemen. The city was agog with the news of the appearance of Raavan, the king of Lanka and the tormentor of India; or at least, the tormentor of Indian kings. The most animated discussions were about his legendary flying vehicle, the Pushpak Vimaan. Even Sita’s sister, Urmila, was not immune to reports about the Lankan technological marvel. She had insisted on accompanying her elder sister to see the vimaan.
They had marched to the end of the Bees Quarter, up to the fort walls. The Pushpak Vimaan was stationed beyond the city moat, just before the jungle. Even Sita was impressed by what she saw.
The vimaan was a giant conical craft, made of some strange unknown metal. Massive rotors were attached to the top of the vehicle, at its pointed end. Smaller rotors were attached near the base, on all sides.
‘I believe,’ said Samichi, ‘the main rotor at the top gives the vimaan the ability to fly and the smaller rotors at the base are used to control the direction of flight.’
The main body of the craft had many portholes, each covered with circular metal screens.
Samichi continued. ‘Apparently, the metal screens on the portholes are raised when the vimaan is airborne. The portholes also have a thick glass shield. The main door is concealed behind a section of the vimaan. Once that section swings open, the door slides sideward into the inner cabin. So the vimaan entrance is doubly sealed.’
Sita turned to Samichi. ‘You know a lot about this Lankan craft.’
Samichi shook her head and smiled sheepishly. ‘No, no. I just watched the vimaan land. That’s all …’
Thousands of Lankan soldiers were camped around the vimaan. Some were sleeping, others eating. But nearly a third had their weapons drawn, standing guard at strategic points in the camp. Keeping watch. Alive to any potential threats.
Sita knew this camp security strategy: The staggered one-third plan. One third of the soldiers, working in rotating four-hour shifts, always on guard. While the others rest and recuperate.
The Lankans don’t take their security lightly.
‘How many are there?’ asked Sita.
‘Probably ten thousand soldiers,’ said Samichi.
‘Lord Rudra have mercy …’
Sita looked at Samichi. It was a rare sight. For her friend looked genuinely nervous.
Sita placed a hand on Samichi’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. We can handle this.’
Samichi bent down and banged the hatch door on the Bees Quarter roof. Ten policemen stood at the back. Sita cast Urmila a quiet, reassuring look.
Nobody opened the door.
Samichi looked at Sita.
‘Knock again,’ ordered Sita. ‘And harder this time.’
Samichi did as ordered.
Urmila still wasn’t sure what her sister was up to. ‘Didi, why are we …’
She stopped talking the moment the hatch door swung open. Upwards.
Samichi looked down.
Lakshman stood at the head of the staircase that descended into the room. Muscular with a towering height, his gigantic form seemed to fill up the space. He was fair-complexioned and handsome in a rakish, flamboyant way. A bull of a man. He wore the coarse white clothes of common soldiers when off-duty: a military style dhoti and an angvastram tied from his shoulder to the side of his waist. Threaded Rudraaksh beads around his neck proudly proclaimed his loyalty to Lord Rudra.
Lakshman held his sword, ready to strike should the need arise. He looked at the short-haired, dark-skinned and muscular woman peering down at him. ‘Namaste, Chief Samichi. To what do we owe this visit?’ he asked gruffly.
Samichi grinned disarmingly. ‘Put your sword back in the scabbard, young man.’
‘Let me decide what I should or should not do. What is your business here?’
‘The prime minister wants to meet your elder brother.’
Lakshman seemed taken aback. Like this was unexpected. He turned to the back of the room, where his elder brother Ram stood. Upon receiving a signal from him, he immediately slipped his sword in its scabbard and backed up against the wall, making room for the Mithilans to enter.
Samichi descended the stairs, followed by Sita. As Sita stepped in through the door hole, she gestured behind her. ‘Stay there, Urmila.’
Lakshman instinctively looked up. To see Urmila. Ram stood up to receive the prime minister of Mithila. The two women climbed down swiftly but Lakshman remained rooted. Entranced by the vision above. Urmila had truly grown into a beautiful young lady. She was shorter than her elder sister, Sita. Also fairer. So fair that her skin was almost the colour of milk. Her round baby face was dominated by large eyes, which betrayed a sweet, childlike innocence. Her hair was arranged in a bun. Every strand neatly in place. The kaajal in her eyes accentuated their exquisiteness. Her lips were enhanced with some beet extract. Her clothes were fashionable, yet demure: a bright pink blouse complemented by a deep-red dhoti which was longer than usual — it reached below her knees. A neatly pressed angvastram hung from her shoulders. Anklets and toe-rings drew attention to her lovely feet, while rings and bracelets decorated her delicate hands. Lakshman was mesmerised. Urmila sensed it and smiled genially. Then looked away with shy confusion.
Sita turned and saw Lakshman looking at Urmila. Her eyes widened, just a bit.
Urmila and Lakshman? Hmm …
‘Shut the door, Lakshman,’ said Ram.
Lakshman reluctantly did as ordered.
‘How may I help you, princess?’ asked Ram to Sita.
Sita turned and looked at the man she had chosen to be her husband. She had heard so much about him, for so long, that she felt like she practically knew him. So far all her thoughts about him had been based on reason and logic. She saw him as a worthy partner in the destiny of the Vishnu; someone she could work with for the good of her motherland, the country that she loved, this beautiful, matchless India.
But this was the first time she saw him as a flesh-and-blood reality. Emotion arose unasked, and occupied its seat next to reason. She had to admit the first impression was quite pleasing.
The Crown Prince of Ayodhya stood at the back of the room. Ram’s coarse white dhoti and angvastram, provided a startling contrast to his dark, flawless complexion. His nobility lent grace to the crude garments he wore. He was tall, a little taller than Sita. His broad shoulders, strong arms and lean, muscular physique were testimony to his archery training. His long hair was tied neatly in an unassuming bun. He wore a string of Rudraaksh beads around his neck; a marker that he too was a fellow devotee of the great Mahadev, Lord Rudra. There was no jewellery on his person. No marker to signify that he was the scion of the powerful Suryavanshi clan, a noble descendant of the great emperor Ikshvaku. His persona exuded genuine humility and strength.
Sita smiled. Not bad. Not bad at all.
‘Excuse me for a minute, prince,’ said Sita. She looked at Samichi. ‘I’d like to speak to the prince alone.’
‘Of course,’ said Samichi, immediately climbing out of the room.
Ram nodded at Lakshman, who also turned to leave the room. With alacrity.
Ram and Sita were alone in no time.
Sita smiled and indicated a chair in the room. ‘Please sit, Prince Ram.’
‘I’m all right.’