Sita laughed softly.
Bharat embraced his sister-in-law. ‘Welcome to the family, Bhabhi.’
The roads of Ayodhya were clogged with people waiting to receive their crown prince. A few had even extended their enthusiasm to welcome his bride. The procession inched forward at a snail’s pace. The lead chariot had Ram and Sita. The prince was awkwardly acknowledging the wild cheering in the streets. Two chariots followed behind them. One had Bharat and Shatrughan, while Lakshman and his wife Urmila rode the second. Bharat flamboyantly acknowledged the multitude, waving his hands and blowing kisses with trademark flourish. Lakshman waved his trunk-like arms carefully, lest he hurt the petite Urmila, who stood demurely by his side. Shatrughan, as always, stood stoic, unmoved. Staring into the throngs. Almost like he was academically studying crowd behaviour.
The chanting of the crowd was loud and clear.
Ram!
Bharat!
Lakshman!
Shatrughan!
Their four beloved princes, the protectors of the kingdom, were finally together again. And most importantly, their crown prince had returned. Victorious! The defeater of the hated Raavan had returned!
Flowers were strewn, holy rice was showered, all were gay and happy. Though it was daytime, the massive stone lamp towers were lit up festively. Many had placed lamps on the parapets of their homes. Resplendent sunshine blazed with glory, as if in obeisance to the prince from the great clan of the Sun God himself. Ram of the Suryavanshis!
It took four hours for the chariots to traverse a distance that normally took less than thirty minutes. They finally reached the wing of the palace allocated to Ram.
A visibly weak Dashrath sat on his travelling throne, with Kaushalya standing next to him, waiting for his sons. A proper welcome ceremony had been laid out to receive the new brides. The eldest queen was a scrupulous upholder of tradition and rituals.
Kaikeyi had not deigned to reply to the invitation sent by Kaushalya, regarding the welcoming ceremony. Sumitra, of peace-loving Kashi, stood on the other side of Dashrath. Kaushalya leaned on her for support, always. Of course, Sumitra too was welcoming home a daughter-in-law!
Loud conch shells were heard as the swagatam ceremony began at the palace gate.
The four princes of Ayodhya and the two princesses of Mithila finally emerged from the melee. The Ayodhya royal guards, nervous as cats on a hot metal roof, heaved a visible sigh of relief as the royal youngsters entered the palace compound. Away from the multitude.
The royal procession moved along the elegant, marble-encrusted walkway in the compound. Verdant gardens were laid out on both sides. They slowed on reaching the entrance of Prince Ram’s wing of the palace.
Sita hesitated as her eyes fell on Kaushalya. But she dismissed the thought that had struck her.
Kaushalya walked to the threshold holding the puja thali in her hands. It contained a lit lamp, a few grains of rice and some vermilion. She looped the prayer plate in small circles, seven times, around Sita’s face. She picked up some rice and threw it in the air, above Sita’s head. She took a pinch of vermilion and smeared it on Sita’s parting on the hairline. Sita bent down to touch Kaushalya’s feet in respect. Kaushalya handed the thali to an attendant, and placed her hands on Sita’s head and blessed her. ‘Ayushman bhav, my child.’
As Sita straightened, Kaushalya indicated Dashrath. ‘Accept your father-in-law’s blessings.’ Pointing towards Sumitra, she continued, ‘And then, from your chhoti maa. We will then do the other ceremonies.’
Sita moved ahead to follow Kaushalya’s instructions. Ram stepped forward and touched his mother’s feet. She blessed him quickly and indicated that he seek his father’s blessings.
Then she beckoned Urmila and Lakshman. Urmila, unlike Sita, did not dismiss the thought; the same one that had struck Sita earlier.
Kaushalya reminded her of her mother Sunaina. She had the same diminutive appearance and calm, gentle eyes. Kaushalya’s skin was darker and her facial features were different, no doubt. Nobody could say that they were related. But there was something similar about them. The spiritually inclined would call it a soul connection.
Urmila waited for Kaushalya to finish the aarti ceremony, then bent down to touch her feet. Kaushalya blessed the younger princess of Mithila. As Urmila rose, she impulsively stepped forward and embraced Kaushalya. The Queen of Ayodhya was surprised at this unorthodox behaviour and failed to react.
Urmila pulled back, her eyes moist with emotion. She faintly voiced a word she had been unable to utter without crying, since Sunaina had died. ‘Maa.’
Kaushalya was moved by the innocence of sweet Urmila. Perhaps for the first time, the queen faced a woman shorter than herself. She looked at the round baby face, dominated by large child-like eyes. An image rose in her mind of a tiny sparrow that needed protection from the big, threatening birds around it. She smiled fondly, and pulled Urmila back into her arms. ‘My child … Welcome home.’
A palace maid in the service of Queen Kaushalya stood, head bowed. Waiting for her instructions.
She was in the residential office of Manthara, the richest businesswoman in Ayodhya; arguably, the richest in the Sapt Sindhu. Rumours suggested that Manthara was even richer than Emperor Dashrath. Druhyu, her closest aide, could swear that there was substance to these rumours. Indeed. Very substantial substance.
‘My Lady,’ whispered the maid, ‘what are my instructions?’
The maid fell silent, as Druhyu signalled her discreetly. She waited.
Druhyu stood submissively next to Manthara. Silent.
The disfigured Manthara sat on a specially designed chair that offered a measure of comfort to her hunched back. The scars on her face, remnants of a childhood affliction of small pox, gave her a forbidding appearance. At the age of eleven she had fallen ill with polio, leaving her right foot partially paralysed. Born to poverty, her physical disfiguration had added prejudice, not sympathy, to her formative years. She had, in fact, been teased mercilessly. Now that she was rich and powerful, no one dared say anything to her face. But she knew exactly what was said about her behind her back. For now, she was not only reviled for her deformed body, but also hated fiercely for being a Vaishya; for being a very rich businessperson.
Manthara looked out of the window to the large garden of her palatial estate.