Sita was standing next to Sunaina, who was seated on the ground. Both Sunaina and she were outside the private temple room in the queen’s chambers. Sunaina was engrossed in making a fresh rangoli on the floor; made of powdered colours, it was an ethereal mix of fractals, mathematics, philosophy, and spiritual symbolism.
Sunaina made a new rangoli early every morning at the entrance of the temple. Within the temple, idols of the main Gods who Sunaina worshipped had been consecrated: Lord Parshu Ram, the previous Vishnu; Lord Rudra, the great Mahadev; Lord Brahma, the creator-scientist. But the pride of place at the centre was reserved for the Mother Goddess, Shakti Maa. The tradition of Mother Goddess worship was especially strong in the land of Sunaina’s father, Assam; a vast, fertile and fabulously rich valley that embraced the upper reaches of the largest river of the Indian subcontinent, Brahmaputra.
Sita waited patiently. Too scared to talk.
‘There is always a reason why I ask you to do or not do something, Sita,’ said Sunaina. Not raising her eyes from the intricate rangoli that was emerging on the floor.
Sita sat still. Her eyes pinned on her mother’s hands.
‘There is an age to discover certain things in life. You need to be ready for it.’
Finishing the rangoli, Sunaina looked at her daughter. Sita relaxed as she saw her mother’s eyes. They were full of love. As always. She wasn’t angry anymore.
‘There are bad people too, Sita. People who do criminal things. You find them among the rich in the inner city and the poor in the slums.’
‘Yes Maa, I …’
‘Shhh … don’t talk, just listen,’ said Sunaina firmly. Sita fell silent. Sunaina continued. ‘The criminals among the rich are mostly driven by greed. One can negotiate with greed. But the criminals among the poor are driven by desperation and anger. Desperation can sometimes bring out the best in a human being. That’s why the poor can often be noble. But desperation can also bring out the worst. They have nothing to lose. And they get angry when they see others with so much when they have so little. It’s understandable. As rulers, our responsibility is to make efforts and change things for the better. But it cannot happen overnight. If we take too much from the rich to help the poor, the rich will rebel. That can cause chaos. And everyone will suffer. So we have to work slowly. We must help the truly poor. That is dharma. But we should not be blind and assume that all poor are noble. Not everyone has the spirit to keep their character strong when their stomachs are empty.’
Sunaina pulled Sita onto her lap. She sat comfortably. For the first time since her foolhardy foray into the slums, she breathed a little easier.
‘You will help me govern Mithila someday,’ said Sunaina. ‘You will need to be mature and pragmatic. You must use your heart to decide the destination, but use your head to plot the journey. People who only listen to their hearts usually fail. On the other hand, people who only use their heads tend to be selfish. Only the heart can make you think of others before yourself. For the sake of dharma, you must aim for equality and balance in society. Perfect equality can never be achieved but we must try to reduce inequality as much as we can. But don’t fall into the trap of stereotypes. Don’t assume that the powerful are always bad or that the powerless are always good. There is good and bad in everyone.’
Sita nodded silently.
‘You need to be liberal, of course. For that is the Indian way. But don’t be a blind and stupid liberal.’
‘Yes, Maa.’
‘And do not wilfully put yourself in danger ever again.’
Sita hugged her mother, as tears flowed out of her eyes.
Sunaina pulled back and wiped her daughter’s tears. ‘You frightened me to death. What would I have done if something bad had happened to you?’
‘Sorry, Maa.’
Sunaina smiled as she embraced Sita again. ‘My impulsive little girl …’
Sita took a deep breath. Guilt had been gnawing away at her. She needed to know. ‘Maa, that boy I hit on the head … What …’
Sunaina interrupted her daughter. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘But …’
‘I said don’t worry about that.’
‘Thank you, chacha!’ Sita squealed, as she jumped into her uncle Kushadhwaj’s arms.
Kushadhwaj, Janak’s younger brother and the king of Sankashya, was on a visit to Mithila. He had brought a gift for his niece. A gift that had been a massive hit. It was an Arabian horse. Native Indian breeds were different from the Arab variety. The Indian ones usually had thirty-four ribs while the Arabian horses often had thirty-six. More importantly, an Arabian horse was much sought after as it was smaller, sleeker, and easier to train. And its endurance level was markedly superior. It was a prized possession. And expensive too.
Sita was understandably delighted.
Kushadhwaj handed her a customised saddle, suitable for her size. Made of leather, it had a gold-plated horn on top of the pommel. The saddle, though small, was still heavy for the young Sita. But she refused the help of the Mithila royal staff in carrying it.
Sita dragged the saddle to the private courtyard of the royal chambers, where her young horse waited for her. It was held by one of Kushadhwaj’s aides.
Sunaina smiled. ‘Thank you so much. Sita will be lost in this project for the next few weeks. I don’t think she will eat or sleep till she’s learnt how to ride!’
‘She’s a good girl,’ said Kushadhwaj.
‘But it is an expensive gift, Kushadhwaj.’
‘She’s my only niece, Bhabhi,’ said Kushadhwaj to his sister-in-law. ‘If I won’t spoil her, then who will?’
Sunaina smiled and gestured for them to join Janak in the veranda adjoining the courtyard. The king of Mithila set the Brihadaranyak Upanishad manuscript aside as his wife and brother joined him. Discreet aides placed some cups filled with buttermilk on the table. They also lit a silver lamp, placed at the centre of the table. Just as noiselessly, they withdrew.
Kushadhwaj cast a quizzical look at the lamp and frowned. It was daytime. But he remained quiet.
Sunaina waited till the aides were out of earshot. Then she looked at Janak. But her husband had picked up his manuscript again. Deeply engrossed. After her attempts to meet his eyes remained unsuccessful, she cleared her throat. Janak remained focused on the manuscript in his hands.
‘What is it, Bhabhi?’ asked Kushadhwaj.
Sunaina realised that she had no choice. She would have to be the one to speak up. She pulled a document out of the large pouch tied to her waist and placed it on the table. Kushadhwaj resolutely refused to look at it.
‘Kushadhwaj, we have been discussing the road connecting Sankashya to Mithila for many years now,’ said Sunaina. ‘It was washed away in the Great Flood. But it has been more than two decades since. The absence of that road has caused immense hardship to the citizens and traders of Mithila.’
‘What traders, Bhabhi?’ said Kushadhwaj, laughing gently. ‘Are there any in Mithila?’
Sunaina ignored the barb. ‘You had agreed in principle to pay for two-thirds of the cost of the road, if Mithila financed the remaining one-third.’