Samichi had laughed, while relating this to Sita. ‘Ram is like an earnest, conscientious school boy,’ she had said. ‘He has not grown up yet. There is not a trace of cynicism in him. Or, realism. Trust me, Sita. Send him back to Ayodhya before he gets hurt.’
Sita had listened to Samichi without reacting. But only one thing had reverberated in her mind — Ram wanted to marry a woman in front of whom he would be compelled to bow his head in admiration.
He bowed to me …
She giggled. Not something she did normally. It felt strange. Even girlish …
Sita rarely bothered about her appearance. But for some reason, she now walked to the polished copper mirror and looked at herself.
She was almost as tall as Ram. Lean. Muscular. Wheat-complexioned. Her round face a shade lighter than the rest of her body. She had high cheekbones and a sharp, small nose. Her lips were neither thin nor full. Her wide-set eyes were neither small nor large; strong brows were arched in a perfect curve above creaseless eyelids. Her straight, jet-black hair was braided and tied in a neat bun. As always.
She looked like the mountain people from the Himalayas.
Not for the first time, she wondered if the Himalayas were her original home.
She touched a battle scar on her forearm and winced. Her scars had been a source of pride. Once.
Do they make me look ugly?
She shook her head.
A man like Ram will respect my scars. It’s a warrior’s body.
She giggled again. She had always thought of herself as a warrior. As a princess. As a ruler. Of late, she had even gotten used to being treated by the Malayaputras as the Vishnu. But this feeling was new. She now felt like an apsara, a celestial nymph of unimaginable beauty. One who could halt her man in his tracks by just fluttering her eyelashes. It was a heady feeling.
She had always held these ‘pretty women’ in disdain and thought of them as non-serious. Not anymore.
Sita put a hand on her hip and looked at herself from the corner of her eyes.
She replayed the moments spent with Ram at the Bees Quarter.
Ram … .
This was new. Special. She giggled once again.
She undid her hair and smiled at her reflection.
This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
The royal garden in Mithila was modest in comparison to the one in Ayodhya. It only contained local trees, plants, and flower beds. Its beauty could safely be attributed more to the ministrations of talented gardeners than to an impressive infusion of funds. The layout was symmetrical, well-manicured. The thick, green carpet of grass thrown into visual relief by the profusion of flowers and trees of all shapes, sizes and colours. It was a celebration of Nature, expressed in ordered harmony.
Sita and Urmila waited in a clearing at the back of the garden. Sita had asked her younger sister to accompany her so that Urmila could spend more time with Lakshman. This would also give her some alone time with Ram, without the looming presence of Lakshman.
Samichi was at the gate, tasked with fetching the young princes of Ayodhya. She walked in shortly, followed by Ram and Lakshman.
The evening sky has increased his radiance … Sita quickly controlled her wandering mind and beating heart.
‘Namaste, princess,’ said Ram to Sita.
‘Namaste, prince,’ replied Sita, before turning to her sister. ‘May I introduce my younger sister, Urmila?’ Gesturing towards Ram and Lakshman, Sita continued, ‘Urmila, meet Prince Ram and Prince Lakshman of Ayodhya.’
‘I had occasion to meet her yesterday,’ said Lakshman, grinning from ear to ear.
Urmila smiled politely at Lakshman, with her hands folded in a Namaste, then turned towards Ram and greeted him.
‘I would like to speak with the prince privately, once again,’ said Sita.
‘Of course,’ said Samichi immediately. ‘May I have a private word before that?’
Samichi took Sita aside and whispered in her ear, ‘Sita, please remember what I said. Ram is too simple. And, his life is in real danger. Please ask him to leave. This is our last chance.’
Sita smiled politely, fully intending to ignore Samichi’s words.
Samichi cast a quick look at Ram before walking away, leading Urmila by the hand. Lakshman followed Urmila.
Ram moved towards Sita. ‘Why did you want to meet me, princess?’
Sita checked that Samichi and the rest were beyond earshot. She was about to begin speaking when her eyes fell on the red thread tied around Ram’s right wrist. She smiled.
He has worn it.
‘Please give me a minute, prince,’ said Sita.
She walked behind a tree, bent and picked up a long package covered in cloth. She walked back to Ram. He frowned, intrigued. Sita pulled the cloth back to reveal an intricately carved, and unusually long, bow. An exquisite piece of weaponry, it was a composite bow with recurved ends, which would give it a very long range. Ram carefully examined the carvings on the inside face of the limbs, both above and below the grip of the bow. It was the image of a flame, representative of Agni, the God of Fire. The first hymn of the first chapter of the Rig Veda was dedicated to the deeply revered deity. However, the shape of this flame was slightly different.
Sita pulled a flat wooden base platform from the cloth bag and placed it on the ground ceremonially. She looked at Ram. ‘This bow cannot be allowed to touch the ground.’
Ram was clearly fascinated. He wondered why this bow was so important. Sita placed the lower limb of the bow on the platform, steadying it with her foot. She used her right hand to pull down the other end with force. Judging by the strain on her shoulder and biceps, Ram guessed that it was a very strong bow with tremendous resistance. With her left hand, Sita pulled the bowstring up and quickly strung it. She let the upper limb of the bow extend, and relaxed. She let out a long breath. The mighty bow adjusted to the constraints of the potent bowstring. She held the bow with her left hand and pulled the bowstring with her fingers, letting it go with a loud twang.
Ram knew from the sound that this bow was special. ‘Wow. That’s a good bow.’
‘It’s the best.’
‘Is it yours?’
‘I cannot own a bow like this. I am only its caretaker, for now. When I die, someone else will be deputed to take care of it.’
Ram narrowed his eyes as he closely examined the image of the flames around the grip of the bow. ‘These flames look a little like —’
Sita interrupted him, impressed that he had figured it out so quickly. ‘This bow once belonged to the one whom we both worship. It still belongs to him.’
Ram stared at the bow with a mixture of shock and awe, his suspicion confirmed.
Sita smiled. ‘Yes, it is the Pinaka.’
The Pinaka was the legendary bow of the previous Mahadev, Lord Rudra. It was considered the strongest bow ever made. Believed to be a composite, it was a mix of many materials, which had been given a succession of specific treatments to arrest its degeneration. It was also believed that maintaining this bow was not an easy task. The grip, the limbs and the recurved ends needed regular lubrication with a special oil.