He raised his right wrist and touched both his eyes with the red thread tied around it.
Sita smiled. May the Kanyakumari bless you, Ram. And, may she bless me with your hand in marriage.
Ram touched the bow and tarried a while. He then brought his head down and placed it on the bow; as if asking to be blessed by the great weapon. He breathed steadily as he lifted the bow with ease. Sita looked at Ram intently. With bated breath.
Ram placed one arm of the bow on a wooden stand placed on the ground. His shoulders, back and arms strained visibly as he pulled down the upper limb of the Pinaka, simultaneously pulling up the bowstring. His body laboured at the task. But his face was serene. He bent the upper limb farther with a slight increase in effort, and tied the bowstring. His muscles relaxed as he let go of the upper limb and held the bow at the grip. He brought the bowstring close to his ear and plucked; his expression showed that the twang was right.
He picked up an arrow and walked to the copper-plated basin. Deliberate footsteps. Unhurried. He went down on one knee and held the bow horizontally above his head. He looked down at the water. At the reflection of the fish that moved in a circle above him. The rippling water in the basin danced as if to tantalise his mind. Ram focused on the image of the fish to the exclusion of all else. He nocked the arrow on the string of the bow and pulled slowly with his right hand. His back erect. The core muscles activated with ideal tension. His breathing steady and rhythmic.
Calmly, without any hint of nervousness or anxiety, he pulled the string all the way back and released the arrow. It shot up. As did the vision of each person in the room. The unmistakable sound of a furiously speeding arrow crashing into wood reverberated in the great hall. It had pierced the right eye of the fish, and lodged itself into the wooden wheel. The wheel swirled rhythmically as the shaft of the arrow drew circles in the air.
Sita smiled in relief. All the tension of the last few days was forgotten. The anger of the last few minutes, forgotten. Her eyes were pinned on Ram, who knelt near the basin with his head bowed, studying the rippling water; a calm smile on his face.
A part of Sita that had died years ago, when she had lost her mother, slowly sputtered to life once again.
I am not alone anymore.
She felt a bittersweet ache as she thought of her mother. That she wasn’t around to see Sita find her man.
For the first time since her mother’s death, she could think of her without crying.
Grief overwhelms you when you are alone. But when you find your soulmate, you can handle anything.
What was a painful, unbearable memory had now been transformed into bittersweet nostalgia. A source of sadness, yes. But also, a source of strength and happiness.
She pictured her mother standing before her. Smiling. Nurturing. Warm. Maternal. Like Mother Nature herself.
Sita was whole once again.
After a long, long time, she felt like whispering words that lay buried deep in her consciousness. Words that she thought she would have no use for once her mother had died.
She looked at Ram in the distance and whispered, ‘I love you.’
Chapter 22
‘Thank you, Arishtanemiji,’ said Sita. ‘The Malayaputras stood by me. Guruji put his own life at risk. I am grateful.’
It had been announced that the wedding of Ram and Sita would be carried out in a simple set of rituals that very afternoon. To Ram’s surprise, Sita had suggested that Lakshman and Urmila get married in the same auspicious hour of the day. To Ram’s further disbelief, Lakshman had enthusiastically agreed. It was decided that while both the couples would be wed in Mithila — to allow Sita and Urmila to travel with Ram and Lakshman to Ayodhya — a set of grand ceremonies would be held in Ayodhya as well. Befitting the descendants of the noble Ikshvaku.
In the midst of the preparations for the wedding ceremonies, Arishtanemi had sought a meeting with Sita.
‘I hope this puts to rest any suspicions about where the Malayaputra loyalties lie,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘We have always been, and always will be, with the Vishnu.’
You will be with the Vishnu only as long as I do what you want me to do. Not when I do something that does not fit in with your plans.
Sita smiled. ‘My apologies for having doubted you, Arishtanemiji.’
Arishtanemi smiled. ‘Misunderstandings can occur within the closest of families. All’s well that ends well.’
‘Where is Guru Vishwamitra?’
‘Where do you think?’
Raavan.
‘How is the demon king taking it?’ asked Sita.
Vishwamitra had gone out on a limb to aggressively stop Raavan during the swayamvar. The King of Lanka had felt insulted. There could be consequences. Raavan’s almighty ego was as legendary as his warrior spirit and cruelty. But would he take on the formidable Malayaputras?
Arishtanemi looked down thoughtfully before returning his gaze to Sita. ‘Raavan is a cold and ruthless man, who makes decisions based on hard calculations. But his ego … His ego gets in the way sometimes.’
‘Cold and ruthless calculations would tell him not to take on the Malayaputras,’ said Sita. ‘He needs whatever it is we give him from the cavern of the Thamiravaruni.’
‘That he does. But like I said, his ego may get in the way. I hope Guru Vishwamitra can handle it.’
Arishtanemi was astonished that Sita had not uncovered the entire secret of the aid that the Malayaputras provided Raavan. Perhaps, there were some things beyond even the redoubtable Sita’s abilities. But he kept his surprise from showing on his face.
The two weddings were simple sets of rituals, concluded quickly in the afternoon of the day of the swayamvar.
Sita and Ram were alone at last. They sat on floor cushions in the dining hall, their dinner placed on a low stool. It was late in the evening, the sixth hour of the third prahar. Notwithstanding their relationship being sanctified by dharma a few hours earlier, an awkwardness underlined their ignorance of each other’s personalities.
‘Umm,’ said Ram, staring at his plate.
‘Yes, Ram?’ asked Sita. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘I’m sorry, but … the food …’
‘Is it not to your liking?’
‘No, no, it’s good. It’s very good. But …’
Sita looked into Ram’s eyes. I am your wife. You can be honest with me. I haven’t made the food in any case.
But she kept these thoughts in her head and asked, ‘Yes?’
‘It needs a bit of salt.’
Sita was irritated with the Mithila royal cook. Daya! I’d told him that the central Sapt Sindhuans eat more salt than us Easterners!
She pushed her plate aside, rose and clapped her hands. An attendant rushed in. ‘Get some salt for the prince, please.’ As the attendant turned, Sita ordered, ‘Quickly!’
The attendant broke into a run.
Ram cleaned his hand with a napkin as he waited for the salt. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you.’
Sita frowned as she took her seat. ‘I’m your wife, Ram. It’s my duty to take care of you.’