‘Are you calling me a liar?’ growled Sita.
What happened next was so sudden that very few had the time to react. With frightening speed, Shurpanakha reached to her side and drew her knife. Lakshman, who was standing to the left of Sita, saw the quick movement and rushed forward, screaming, ‘Bhabhi!’
Sita moved quickly to get out of the way and avoid the strike. In that split second, Lakshman lunged forward and banged into a charging Shurpanakha, seizing both her arms and pushing her back with all his brute strength. The elfin princess of Lanka went flying back. Her own hand, which held the knife, struck her face as she crashed into the Lankan soldiers who stood transfixed behind her. The knife hit her face horizontally, cutting deep into her nose. It fell from her hand as she lay sprawled on the ground, the shock having numbed any sensation of pain.
As blood gushed out alarmingly, her conscious mind asserted control. She touched her face and looked at her bloodstained hands. The horror of it all reverberated through her being. She knew she would be left with deep scars on her face. Painful surgeries would be required to remove them.
She screeched with savage hate and lunged forward again, this time going for Lakshman. Vibhishan rushed to her and caught hold of his rage-maddened sister.
‘Kill them!’ screamed Shurpanakha. ‘Kill them all!’
‘Wait!’ pleaded Vibhishan, stricken with visceral fear. He knew they were outnumbered. He didn’t want to die. And he feared something even worse than death. ‘Wait!’
Ram held up his left hand, his fist closed tight, signalling his people to stop but be on guard. ‘Leave now, prince. Or there will be hell to pay.’
‘Forget what we were told!’ screeched Shurpanakha. ‘Kill them all!’
Ram spoke to a clearly stunned Vibhishan, who held on to a struggling Shurpanakha for all he was worth. ‘Leave now, Prince Vibhishan.’
‘Retreat,’ whispered Vibhishan.
His soldiers began to withdraw, their swords still pointed in the direction of the forest-dwellers.
‘Kill them, you coward!’ Shurpanakha lashed out. ‘I am your sister! Avenge me!’
Vibhishan dragged a flailing Shurpanakha, his eye on Ram. Mindful of any sudden movement.
‘Kill them!’ shouted Shurpanakha.
Vibhishan continued to pull his protesting sister away as the Lankans left the camp and escaped from Panchavati.
Ram, Lakshman and Sita stood rooted to their spot. What had happened was an unmitigated disaster.
‘We cannot stay here anymore,’ Jatayu stated the obvious. ‘We don’t have a choice. We need to flee, now.’
Ram looked at Jatayu.
‘We have shed Lankan royal blood, even if it is that of the royal rebels,’ said Jatayu. ‘According to their customary law, Raavan has no choice but to respond. It would be the same among many Sapt Sindhu royals as well, isn’t it? Raavan will come. Have no doubt about that. Vibhishan is a coward, but Raavan and Kumbhakarna aren’t. They will come with thousands of soldiers. This will be worse than Mithila. There it was a battle between soldiers; a part and parcel of war; they understood that. But here it is personal. His sister, a member of his family, has been attacked. Blood was shed. His honour will demand retribution.’
Lakshman stiffened. ‘But I didn’t attack her. She—’
‘That’s not how Raavan will see it,’ interrupted Jatayu. ‘He will not quibble with you over the details, Prince Lakshman. We need to run. Right now.’
Chapter 32
They had been on the run for thirty days. Racing east through the Dandakaranya, they had moved a reasonable distance parallel to the Godavari, so that they couldn’t be easily spotted or tracked. But they couldn’t afford to stray too far from the tributary rivers or other water bodies, for the best chance of hunting animals would be lost.
They had been surviving on dried meat and jungle berries or leaves, for long. Perhaps the Lankans had lost track of them, they thought. With the frugal food and constant marching, their bodies were weakening. So Ram and Lakshman had set out to hunt, while Sita and the Malayaputra soldier Makrant had gone to fetch banana leaves.
Secrecy was of the essence. So they were cooking their food in holes dug deep into the ground. For fire they used a very specific type of coal; anthracite, which let out smokeless flames. As added precaution, the buried cooking pot was also covered with a thick layer of banana leaves to ensure that even by chance, no smoke escaped, which could give their position away. It was for this that Sita and Makrant were cutting banana leaves. It was Sita’s turn to cook.
Unknown to Sita, Raavan’s Pushpak Vimaan had landed a short distance from the camp. Its ear-splitting noise drowned out by thunderous howling winds. Unseasonal rains had just lashed the area. A hundred Lankan soldiers had disgorged from the Vimaan, attacking the camp and killing most of the Malayaputras rapidly.
Some Lankans had fanned out to search for Sita, Ram, and Lakshman. Two of them had ambushed Sita and Makrant, who were on their way back to the camp. Makrant had died, hit by two arrows. One through his shoulder and the other through his neck. Sita had, through sheer skill, managed to kill these two Lankans, steal their weapons and reach the camp. There she had found that every single Malayaputra, except for Jatayu was dead. She had tried, heroically, to save Jatayu, but had failed. The Naga had been grievously injured trying to protect the one he worshipped as the Vishnu.
Kumbhakarna, the younger brother of Raavan, had ordered that Sita was to be captured alive. Many Lankan soldiers had charged at Sita at the same time. She had fought bravely, but was ultimately captured, incapacitated and rendered unconscious with a Lankan blue-coloured toxin.
They had quickly bundled her into the Pushpak Vimaan and taken off, just as Ram and Lakshman had reached the camp to find dead bodies strewn everywhere and the severely injured figure of Jatayu.
Sita couldn’t remember how long she had been unconscious. It must have been hours. She still felt a little groggy. Light was streaming in through the porthole windows on the walls of the vimaan. A constant, dull repetitive sound was causing her pain in her head. It took her some time to realise that it was the sound of the vimaan’s rotors, muffled by the soundproof walls.
Not soundproofed enough.
Sita pressed her temples to ease the pain in her head. It worked only for a few moments. The pain was back soon.
Then she realised something odd.
My hands aren’t tied.
She looked down at her legs. They weren’t tied either.
She felt her hopes rise.
Almost immediately, it deflated and she laughed softly at her own stupidity.
Where am I planning to go? I’m thousands of feet up in the sky.
That blue toxin has made me slow.
She shook her head slowly. Trying to clear it.