The Liberation of Sita Read online

  Just then two of her companions came running. ‘Parasurama has calmed down; he has approved of Rama’s valour. They have struck up a friendship and reached an agreement.’

  Hearing this, it was as if life returned to Sita. Later, her father came and consoled her. He told her that whatever had happened was for the best as it proved Rama’s valour beyond doubt. He blessed her, saying that she was fortunate to get a heroic man like Rama as her husband.

  A few months later, after the bustle of the wedding celebrations subsided, Sita broached the subject of Parasurama with Rama while recalling the events of the wedding. Rama at once started praising Parasurama.

  ‘How is it that you are praising a person who has slain kshatriyas?’ Sita asked.

  ‘The kshatriyas he killed were those who did not observe Arya Dharma. He has firmly established Arya Dharma in the entire northern plain. When he got to know that I revere Arya Dharma, he was pleased. He accepted me as his heir and handed me the responsibility of spreading the dharma in the entire southern plain.’

  ‘How will you …’

  Before Sita could complete her sentence. Rama said, ‘What is to happen will happen—why these questions?’

  ‘But he almost killed his mother, I heard.’

  ‘That was on his father’s order. What could he have done? Is there a higher dharma than carrying out the wishes of one’s father?’

  Before they could complete their conversation, Rama received a summons from Dasaratha. When Rama returned, he gave Sita the happy news of his coronation. The palace was filled with joy on the occasion. But the next day everything turned upside down. As their banishment to the forest was announced, the coronation remained a dream.

  After so many years, the name of Renuka Devi brought back memories of Parasurama. Is this the same Renuka Devi whom Parasurama had nearly killed?

  Sita found the answer soon, when she met Renuka Devi accidentally.

  When Sita went to bathe in the river, she saw some women filling their pots with mud and sand. Among them she saw a woman who stood out, and was instantly enamoured.

  Though old, Renuka was strong. Grey hair. Determination in her large eyes. Peaceful countenance. A smile of contentment on her lips. Sita looked at her without blinking.

  The woman too got into the river with Sita. As they were bathing, she said, ‘I have not seen you before. Who are you? Are you new to this place?’

  Sita introduced herself.

  ‘Are you the wife of Rama, who has set out to spread Arya Dharma in the forests as well?’ asked Renuka, sounding a little scornful.

  ‘He has come to the forest obeying his father’s injunction,’ Sita said firmly, ignoring the scorn.

  ‘That too is part of Arya Dharma, I know. To blindly carry out a father’s wish without thinking about justice or injustice. My son did the same thing. Your husband promised my son that he too would perform the same task and establish Arya Dharma among the other races in the country.’ There was dignity in Renuka’s voice.

  ‘Are you Renuka Devi?’ asked Sita, though she was in no doubt.

  ‘Yes. You may have heard about me. Come to my ashram with me,’ Renuka Devi said. It was almost an order.

  ‘Forgive me. I cannot come,’ Sita replied politely.

  Renuka laughed. To Sita, her laughter sounded like a river in its exuberance.

  ‘Why? Will your husband object?’

  ‘No, no. I’ve never talked to him about you.’

  ‘Then why hesitate? Let’s go.’

  Sita found the liberty Renuka was taking with her—like a mother—a little strange.

  She remained silent.

  ‘Come to my ashram with me. You will like the sculptures and paintings there.’

  ‘I’ll come some other time, after taking permission from Sri Ramachandra.’

  ‘Your husband will not give you permission.’ Renuka laughed again.

  ‘How do you know?’ Sita asked sharply.

  ‘No one knows as much as I do about husbands and sons.’ Renuka’s laughter floated up like foam.

  ‘Your husband and son may have done you an injustice. But it is not fair to conclude that everyone is like that. I’ll come to your ashram some other time.’

  Sita bid farewell to Renuka with folded hands and turned around, leaving no scope for further conversation.

  Renuka Devi’s face remained engraved in Sita’s memory. The familiarity in her words, the authority in her laughter kept coming back to her mind. ‘She invited me like a mother would. What if I visit her once—what will happen if I visit Renuka Devi’s ashram after Rama and Lakshmana leave for the forest one day?’ she wondered.

  The desire to visit Renuka Devi’s shrine of sculptures and to talk to her grew stronger in Sita.

  She told Rama.

  ‘There is a shrine of sculptures close by, I’ve heard. A few days ago, the wives of all the hermits went there and brought back some sculptures and pots. They’re so beautiful I too would like to go there and bring some.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard about that shrine. But why do you want to go? Let Lakshmana go and get them. Can you carry those heavy things?’

  ‘I’ll see them all and select what I like. We’ll see about bringing them here later.’

  ‘All right. Go and select what you like,’ said Rama. Does Rama know about Renuka Devi? Since he has heard about the shrine of sculptures, perhaps he does. He may have respect for Parasurama’s mother. Rama may not know that she is resentful of his and Parasurama’s dharma. What do I know for that matter?

  Convinced that unless she met Renuka Devi her questions would remain unanswered, Sita rushed through her chores so she could go to the shrine of sculptures.

  Following Shanta’s directions, Sita reached Renuka Devi’s ashram quite easily. Renuka was engrossed in her work. A few other women were working alongside her with mud and sand. Seeing Sita, Renuka stood up, setting her work aside.

  ‘Have you come here with your husband’s permission?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘Yes, I have come with his permission. What is wrong with that? What is so strange about it? Will you show me the sculptures, please?’ said Sita.

  Renuka took her inside, smiling affectionately. Sita was dumbfounded to see the wealth of sculptures there. The art of sculpture was not unknown to Sita, who grew up in the royal palaces of Mithila and Ayodhya. But these sculptures—they were different, Sita had never seen this style of sculpting. It was unique, thought Sita, and said so.

  ‘These have been made by female sculptors. My students and I sculpted them. They are different, and abstract.’ Renuka took Sita to another part of the shrine.

  ‘See, here you have sculptures that are made in the more conventional style.’

  They too were beautiful. And their beauty owed little to outward form. There was in them a conspicuous dignity, strength and composure.

  Sita selected some.

  ‘Generally women do not get into the art of sculpting. How did you learn this? Who did you learn it from?’

  ‘I had an interest in it since childhood. I have no teachers—I’m my own teacher.’ Renuka smiled and brought Sita something to eat.

  ‘See, I’m giving this to you specially. This is a pot made of sand—a sand pot.’ She handed it to Sita.

  ‘A pot made of sand?’

  ‘Yes, I alone have this skill.’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’

  ‘Yes, it is a wonder. Every woman must have one of these,’ Renuka said with a smile.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If they understand that their paativratyam and fidelity are like these sand pots, they will be able to live in peace.’

  Sita was confused.

  ‘To make this pot, you need a lot of concentration. Those who did not know this thought I was making a miracle happen by virtue of my chastity, my paativratyam. Since there was no flaw in my character anyway, I let them think what they liked. Concentration can be broken at any time. The cause may be anything. In my case, a ma
n became the cause of distraction. My husband was enraged. He believed that my paativratyam was violated by the mere act of looking at that man. A good pot is a product of many things—practice, concentration, sand, the right amount of water and so on. Sage Jamadagni was a man of great wisdom, yet he did not understand such a simple truth. But such is the wisdom of these spiritual seekers. No matter how much wisdom they earn through penance, they continue to have a dogmatic view on the paativratyam of their wives.’

  Sarcasm was evident in Renuka’s voice.

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Sita anxiously.

  ‘He ordered our sons to kill me. Parasurama came forward to do it. He began chopping my head. When my head was half-cut, my husband’s fury abated. He asked Parasurama to stop. Women in the ashram and the tribal women who live in the forest healed me and made my head stand on my neck again. For months, I vacillated between life and death. In front of me—I, who had returned from the threshold of death—were three figures: of my husband, whom I had served with my thoughts, words and deeds, and my wifehood; of my son, whom I had carried for ten months, given birth to and raised, and my motherhood; and of this pot, the result of my focus and my art. All three are the same. They are shattered by the slightest cause and life hangs on a sword’s edge.’

  Tears filled Sita’s eyes. Renuka retained her composure.

  ‘Lot of questions came up during that struggle between life and death. Are such bonds, with a husband and sons, necessary for women? I thought they were not, so I moved away from them. I am living with my art. I give the same advice to my students. I don’t make a sand pot often. I make it occasionally so that I don’t forget the fragile nature of paativratyam.’

  ‘Does a woman have a world other than her husband’s? Is there a higher meaning to a woman’s life than motherhood? Your experience may have been different. But to preach everyone on the basis of your experience …’

  ‘A woman thinks she doesn’t have a world other than that of her husband’s. True. But some day that very husband will tell her that there is no place for her in his world. Then what’s left for her? She thinks giving birth to sons is the ultimate goal of her life. But those sons become heirs to their father, and even before we realize it, they leave her hands and go under the wing of their father. They submit to his authority. Or they begin to legislate our lives. Why bear such sons? Nobody will experience this as harshly as I have. Having realized this bitter truth, isn’t it my responsibility to share it with other women? But you Brahmins give no value for my words anyway. I teach my skills to people of different tribes in this forest and give them the essence of my experience.’

  ‘But won’t creation come to an end if there is no bond of marriage?’

  ‘Why would it come to an end, Sita? Many creatures take birth and grow in this forest. They have no marital bonds, do they? There are people of different tribes whose customs are different from yours.’

  ‘Does that mean human beings should live like animals, uncivilized?’

  ‘Why do you look down upon animals, Sita? We should love animals and nature. We should worship them. We should befriend them. That’s the duty of humans. Ignoring that basic duty, you think what is written in books is civilization. Is that right? You have come to the forest from the city. Why insist so much on the civilization of the cities? Isn’t nature the best teacher?’

  ‘I don’t understand your words. I feel they will cause harm to women.’

  ‘They certainly won’t. When a child belongs to its mother, there is no harm in that. A situation where children ask their mother who their father is or where a husband asks his wife who fathered her children comes only in the lives of some women, Sita. Think of the predicament of those women, and you’ll understand my words.’

  ‘Just because something happened to someone, somewhere, should people remain without marrying and bear children outside wedlock? Does it happen anywhere? Is that good conduct?’ asked Sita resentfully.

  ‘I don’t know if it is good conduct or not—I speak of what I know. It is only through experience that one understands the truth. And whatever you understand, you tell others.’

  ‘Your truth and mine are not the same.’

  ‘Perhaps not. As you see more of the world, you may understand the truth of my words, too.’

  It seemed like a futile discussion to Sita. As she got up in a huff, her right foot knocked over the sand pot near her feet. The pot broke.

  Sita was terrified. There was anxiety on Renuka’s face too. She drew Sita close and embraced her.

  ‘You have great strength, Sita. Don’t forget my words. May your strength be your protection, I bless you.’

  Sita touched Renuka’s feet involuntarily and left.

  Renuka sat down where she was, a vague concern about Sita troubling her mind.

  Sita was busy raising her two sons. She did not know how eight years had gone by in Valmiki’s ashram. After formally initiating her children into education and sending them to Valmiki for schooling, she managed to get some spare time. Even then her thoughts centred around her sons. Until they returned home, no matter what work she was engaged in, her eyes would remain riveted on the door. Their sweet words, their melodious voices singing the saga of Rama, their pranks. Sita’s life was passing quite happily. One day, Kusa and Lava walked in silently, without looking at their mother standing on the threshold. Each went to a corner and sat down with a glum face. Surprised, Sita came in and, amused by their sulking faces, asked, ‘What happened, children? Why do you look so glum?’

  ‘Amma, who is our father?’

  ‘Amma, are we kshatriyas?’

  Sita’s face turned pale. She had no intention of telling them that they were Sri Rama’s sons.

  She felt a constriction in her chest. Her heart convulsed.

  A situation where children ask their mother who their father is or where a husband asks his wife who fathered her children comes only in the lives of some women, Sita. Think of the predicament of those women and you’ll understand my words. As Renuka’s words rang in her ears, blood rushed to her face and from there into her head. It took Sita some time to come out of that turmoil and get a hold on herself. Slowly she regained her composure. These questions were bound to come—if not today, some other day. She must answer them. Some innocent children in the ashram must have asked Kusa and Lava these questions and the boys must have been been confused, anguished even. She must give her sons the strength to answer all such questions. Sita embraced her children.

  ‘You are, indeed, kshatriya boys,’ she said, kissing them.

  ‘Our father?’ Both of them asked in one voice.

  ‘Your father is a great hero by the name Saketha. He is engaged in a great mission for the welfare of mankind. It’s such a huge mission that he doesn’t have a moment’s respite. Since it is not possible for him to think of anything other than his mission, he left us at this ashram of Valmiki.’

  ‘What is that mission, Amma?’ Kusa’s innocent face brimmed with respect for the unknown mission.

  ‘It is a noble effort to help everyone in this world lead a life free from suffering. I do not know the details.’

  ‘After accomplishing his mission, will Father come for us, Amma?’

  ‘He’ll surely come. He’ll embrace you and take you with him.’

  The two boys, happiness blooming on their faces, laughed merrily.

  ‘Now go and fetch flowers for my puja,’ said Sita. Lava and Kusa did not feel like stirring. For the first time, they had learnt something about their father. He was a kshatriya. A great man on a great mission for the welfare of mankind. But Lava had a question.

  ‘Amma, is our father a warrior? A kshatriya must be good at archery and warfare. Is our father skilled in those?’

  Sita smiled with pride.

  ‘There is no one on Earth who can match your father in those skills.’

  The two boys embraced their mother.

  ‘Amma, we do not know when our father will accomplish h
is mission and return. How do we learn a kshatriya’s skills? Who, in this ashram, can teach us those skills? What will our father think of us when he comes back, Amma? What shall we do?’

  Sita could not suppress her smile, seeing their anxiety.

  ‘You want to master kshatriya skills. Is that all? I’ll teach you.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Of course. I’m a kshatriya woman, am I not?’

  ‘But women don’t fight wars, do they?’

  ‘When necessary, they’ll do anything. I’m adept at all those skills. From tomorrow, I’m not only your mother but also your teacher.’ The children jumped for joy.

  Sita took Valmiki’s permission and started teaching Lava and Kusa archery. The boys were surprised to see their mother’s expertise.

  They always loved their mother; now, they also felt proud of her. With the sole aim of becoming great warriors by the time their father returned, the boys started learning new skills from her. When not training with her, they relaxed by singing the saga of Rama to Valmiki. As Sita watched her children grow, she began to worry more and more. They were bringing up the subject of their father everyday on some pretext or the other. Seeing their eagerness to meet their father, Sita’s heart grew heavy.

  ‘Amma, when will our father return?’ Lava asked, pitifully.

  Sita held her children close to her.

  ‘You have to be patient for some more time, my sons. As I told you, he has been living incognito for some reason. At present, no one should know his real identity. At the right time, you will get to know everything.’

  ‘It would be wonderful if that time came soon, wouldn’t it, mother?’ Kusa’s face shone with wistfulness.

  ‘Yes, it would be. But what is it that you lack even now? Taatayya is giving you lessons and I’m teaching you archery. There is a lot more that I need to teach you.’