The seven-year-old Sita had been playing with her father in his private office when Janak’s chief guru, Ashtaavakra, had walked in. Janak had bowed to his guru, as was the tradition, and had requested him to sit on the throne assigned for him.
Mithila, not being a major player in the political arena of the Sapt Sindhu anymore, did not have a permanent raj guru. But Janak’s court hosted the widest range of eminent seers, scholars, scientists and philosophers from India. Intellectuals loved the Mithilan air, wafting with the fragrance of knowledge and wisdom. And one of the most distinguished of these thinkers, Rishi Ashtaavakra, was Janak’s chief guru. Even the great Maharishi Vishwamitra, Chief of the Malayaputra tribe, visited Mithila on occasion.
‘We can speak later, if you so desire, Your Highness,’ said Ashtaavakra.
‘No, no. Of course not,’ said Janak. ‘I need your guidance on a question that has been troubling me, Guruji.’
Ashtaavakra’s body was deformed in eight places. His mother had met with an accident late in her pregnancy. But fate and karma had balanced the physical handicap with an extraordinary mind. Ashtaavakra had shown signs of utter brilliance from a very young age. As a youth, he had visited Janak’s court and defeated the king’s then chief guru, Rishi Bandi, in a scintillating debate. In doing so, he had redeemed his father, Rishi Kahola, who had lost a debate to Bandi earlier. Rishi Bandi had gracefully accepted defeat and retired to an ashram near the Eastern Sea to acquire more knowledge. Thus it was that the young Ashtaavakra became Janak’s chief guru.
Ashtaavakra’s deformities did not attract attention in the liberal atmosphere of Mithila, the kingdom of the pious king, Janak. For the sage’s luminous mind was compelling.
‘I will see you in the evening, Baba,’ said Sita to her father as she touched his feet.
Janak blessed her. She also touched the feet of Rishi Ashtaavakra and walked out of the chamber. As she crossed the threshold, Sita stopped and hid behind the door. Out of Janak’s eyesight, but within earshot. She wanted to hear what question had been troubling her father.
‘How do we know what reality is, Guruji?’ asked Janak.
The young Sita stood nonplussed. Confused. She had heard whisperings in the corridors of the palace. That her father was becoming increasingly eccentric. That they were lucky to have a pragmatic queen in Sunaina to look after the kingdom.
What is reality?
She turned and ran towards her mother’s chambers. ‘Maa!’
Sita had waited long enough. She was eight years old now. And her mother had still not taken her to the slums adjoining the fort walls. The last time she had asked, she had at least been offered an explanation. She had been told that it could be dangerous. That some people could get beaten up over there. Sita now believed that her mother was just making excuses.
Finally, curiosity had gotten the better of her. Disguised in the clothes of a maid’s child, Sita slipped out of the palace. An oversized angvastram was wrapped around her shoulder and ears, serving as a hood. Her heart pounded with excitement and nervousness. She repeatedly looked behind to ensure that no one noticed her embark on her little adventure. No one did.
Late in the afternoon, Sita passed the Lord Rudra temple gardens and stole into the slums. All alone. Her mother’s words ringing in her ears, she had armed herself with a large stick. She had been practising stick-fighting for over a year now.
As she entered the slum area, she screwed up her nose. Assaulted by the stench. She looked back at the temple garden, feeling the urge to turn back. But almost immediately, the excitement of doing something forbidden took over. She had waited a long time for this. She walked farther into the slum quarters. The houses were rickety structures made of bamboo sticks and haphazardly spread cloth awnings. The cramped space between the wobbly houses served as the ‘streets’ on which people walked through the slums. These streets also served as open drains, toilets, and open-air animal shelters. They were covered with garbage. There was muck and excreta everywhere. A thin film of animal and human urine made it difficult to walk. Sita pulled her angvastram over her nose and mouth, fascinated and appalled at the same time.
People actually live like this? Lord Rudra be merciful.
The palace staff had told her that things had improved in the slums after Queen Sunaina had come to Mithila.
How much worse could it have been for this to be called an improvement?
She soldiered on, gingerly side-stepping the muck on the muddy walkways. Till she saw something that made her stop.
A mother sat outside a slum house, feeding her child from a frugal plate. Her baby was perhaps two or three years old. He sat in his mother’s lap, gurgling happily as he dodged the morsels from her hand. Every now and then, he obliged the mother and opened his mouth with theatrical concession, allowing her to stuff small morsels of food into his mouth. It would then be the mother’s turn to coo in delight. Pleasing as it was, this wasn’t what fascinated Sita. A crow sat next to the woman. And she fed every other morsel to the bird. The crow waited for its turn. Patiently. To it, this wasn’t a game.
The woman fed them both. Turn by turn.
Sita smiled. She remembered something her mother had said to her a few days back: Often the poor have more nobility in them than the actual nobility.
She hadn’t really understood the words then. She did now.
Sita turned around. She’d seen enough of the slums for her first trip. She promised herself that she would return soon. Time to go back to the palace.
There were four tiny lanes ahead. Which one do I take?
Uncertain, she took the left-most one and began to walk. She kept moving. But the slum border was nowhere in sight. Her heartbeat quickened as she nervously hastened her pace.
The light had begun to fade. Every chaotic lane seemed to end at a crossroads of several other paths. All haphazard, all disorganised. Confused, she blindly turned into a quiet lane. Beginning to feel the first traces of panic, she quickened her steps. But it only took her the wrong way, faster.
‘Sorry!’ cried Sita, as she banged into someone.
The dark-skinned girl looked like an adolescent; perhaps older. She had a dirty, unkempt look about her. The stench from her tattered clothes suggested that she had not changed them for a while. Lice crawled over the surface of her matted, unwashed hair. She was tall, lean, and surprisingly muscular. Her feline eyes and scarred body gave her a dangerous, edgy look.
She stared at Sita’s face and then at her hands. There was a sudden flash of recognition in her eyes, as though sensing an opportunity. Sita, meanwhile, had darted into an adjacent lane. The Princess of Mithila picked up pace, almost breaking into a desperate run. Praying that this was the correct path out of the slum.
Sweat beads were breaking out on her forehead. She tried to steady her breath. She couldn’t.
She kept running. Till she was forced to stop.