The Forest of Enchantments Read online

  No one in my family felt the way I did about forests. Shatananda, my father’s chief advisor, distrusted them deeply: the forests—and the rakshasas who lived in them. He was a little obsessed by rakshasas, our Shatananda. He spoke often about how fierce and wild they were. Not like humans. They bred in darkness and practised dark magic. They loved to feed on human flesh. They were watching us, he claimed, watching and waiting to take us over. He was always trying to get my peaceable father to line our borders with sentinels, to cut back the woods.

  ‘Have you even seen a rakshasa?’ I once asked him.

  He refused to dignify my disbelief with an answer. Instead, he sent my father a telling look: this is what happens when you don’t discipline girls as they ought to be.

  I wasn’t sure whether Shatananda was right about rakshasas, but I was certain he didn’t understand forests. I wanted to visit a forest someday, though I didn’t think I’d ever be granted the opportunity. It wasn’t something that women did. Even my mother, the most intelligent person I knew, would have been baffled if I confessed this desire to her. So I satisfied myself by standing on the terrace on monsoon afternoons, watching the silvery rain bathing the tops of distant trees. Lightning cracked open the sky, spilling its longing into me. Sometimes I dreamed that I was walking the wilderness with its swaying grasses, its leaping, golden beasts, the earth-mother the way she’d been before people bent her to their desires.

  The forest dream wasn’t the only one I had. At other times, a wide expanse of water came to me in sleep, stretching to the horizon, filled with tumultuous waves. Wind roared over it, and beneath its surface, huge, amphibious monsters waited, ready to pull anyone who ventured close into its dark depths. The scene terrified and excited me at the same time.

  Once when I told my mother about it, she said I must have dreamed of an ocean.

  ‘Did you ever take me to see one when I was little?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There aren’t any oceans near Mithila. Even our songs don’t mention them. I’ve never seen one myself, only read of them in books. I wonder where that dream came from.’

  She kissed my head and sent me off to play, but I could feel her watching me, perplexed. I knew the real question in her mind: I wonder where you came from .

  MY MARTIAL ARTS LESSONS, which I loved, were secret because my father abhorred violence of any kind, even when it was necessary. My mother had to force him to rally our troops when, every once in a while, our neighbours took advantage of his peace-loving nature and encroached on our territory. She was, in some ways, the real ruler of Mithila, sharp of intellect, clear of vision, balancing kindness with justice. Often, my father brought particularly thorny problems of state to her. They would discuss the issues in their bedchamber late into the night, and the next day he would do as she counselled. But she never let anyone outside the immediate family know this.

  Soon after I’d told her about my ocean dream, my mother asked if I’d like lessons in self-defense. I was surprised but delighted. I loved the idea of being a warrior. I asked if Urmila would be joining me. I was very fond of my sister, though she was quite different from me, always wanting to play with dolls and dress up in Mother’s jewelry, and entertain the daughters of our ministers or visiting dignitaries.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Why me, then?’ I asked.

  ‘I sense that your future’s going to be different from that of most princesses,’ she said. It might take you to dangerous places where you’ll need to defend yourself. But let’s keep it a secret.’

  I happily agreed. Every day for the next few years, mysterious women from the hills that surrounded our city came, one by one, veiled against curious eyes, to my mother’s personal courtyard to teach me. They didn’t train me in the use of weapons, but what they taught was better: how the body itself could become a weapon, and how the opponent’s body—its weight, its awkwardness, its ignorance of your strategy—could be used against him. I learned to move like a panther on the hunt, to run and leap and climb in silence, to fall the right way, without injury, to accept pain when it came. The women didn’t spare me, and I often ended my lessons with bruises and aching muscles and sometimes a sprain. But they would massage me with unfamiliar herbal oils afterwards so that my hurts disappeared, and as I grew older, they taught me how to make these oils. My mother was our only spectator. She watched in silence, neither praising nor chiding nor expressing concern.

  But today when, after a strenuous fight, I backed my teacher into a corner and kicked out her feet from under her, forcing her to raise her hands in surrender, Queen Sunaina smiled. She hugged me to her, sweat and all, and said, ‘Now I’m as much at ease as a mother can be, sending her daughter out into the wild world.’

  Her words sent a shiver through me, part excitement, part fear.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, Ma,’ I said, hugging her back, letting the smell of the jasmines in her hair wash over me. ‘I’m going to stay with you always.’

  But we both knew that was wishful thinking. Girlhood was as ephemeral as a drop of water on a lily pad. Soon I’d have to leave all that I loved—parents, sister, palace, garden, the healing house—to take my place in another family, which I must then call mine. That’s the lot of daughters, commoner or princess.

  Two

  IT HAD BEEN A GOOD day, busy but productive. Now I was enjoying a moment of rest on the palace terrace, watching the shadows from the hills grow long on my father’s terrace, glad to have a little time to myself before my next task.

  Evening was a time I both loved and hated. It was the time when the old stones of the terrace were comfort-cool underfoot, and the breeze carried the alluring fragrance of unknown forest flowers. But it was also the time when my sister Urmila and I had to go to the temple to pray to the goddess for husbands.

  We’d been doing this for years now. So far it hadn’t helped.

  In preparation for my reluctant temple visit, I was filling my basket with flowers. I didn’t like plucking them. It was a kind of murder. But if I refused, the priest would just make one of the maids do it, and they’d hurt the plants. At least I was careful to pick only the blooms that had spent most of their lifespan already.

  Now I held a wilting mandara blossom in my palm and blew on it gently. Its petals grew strong and vivid red again, and I smiled. My small magic, which never failed to please me.

  MY BASKET OF PRAYER flowers was almost full when I heard an impatient patter of footsteps and recognized them as my sister’s. Princess Urmila, born to my parents—in one of life’s ironies—just a year after they’d adopted me. Urmila, merry and mercurial, the baby of our family, who would pout until she got her way. Whom I loved dearly and who loved me back with her whole being. Who never said, not even when we had our spats, that she was the real princess and I the foundling.

  Today she ran up the stairs, anklets jingling more insistently than usual, so I knew something important had happened. But when she told me, I shrugged.

  ‘Another suitor. What’s so special about that? Tell me, what does that bring the tally to?’

  ‘One hundred and sixteen,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so excited. We both know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘No, Didi.’ Urmila’s eyes shone and her breath was uneven with excitement. ‘He’s—they’re different.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘His younger brother has come with him. His name is Lakshman. The younger brother’s, I mean. The older one is called Ram. They’re from the west, a kingdom called Koshal, down in the plains. Very important. Bigger than ours. I overheard the courtiers talking.’

  ‘You mean you were eavesdropping.’

  Urmila’s dimpled smile was mischievous. ‘It’s the best way to learn things people don’t want you to know, sister. You should try it sometime. And here’s why I think they’re special: they killed a lot of rakshasas on the way. Even though they’re only a little older than us.’

  I must have
looked surprised, because Urmila twirled around in glee. She loved it when she knew things I didn’t. Then she grew serious.

  ‘Do you think he might be the one?’

  I could feel the yearning rising from her like shimmer-heat off the fields before the monsoons.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up!’ I said. ‘You know how people love to exaggerate. How can a mere youth be a match for Shiva’s bow?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Urmila said in a flat voice, her excitement evaporating. She walked to the edge of the terrace, looking down on the pathway that I’d designed to wind elegantly through the red earth of the mango grove to the palace temple. Her shoulders drooped. She didn’t sigh, out of love for me, but I felt her impatience, and even worse, her hopelessness. Because the unfortunate rule of our royal house is that the older daughter must be married before the younger one.

  I’d tried many times to convince my father.

  ‘Why can’t you arrange Urmila’s marriage first? She wants it more than I do.’

  He never argued. He didn’t need to—he was the king. He only smiled, but I knew the answer. It was tradition; thus he would follow it. That has always been the way of the Janaks.

  ‘At least you could have chosen a more reasonable bridal contest for me, instead of demanding that the man string a sacred bow. Why, not one of my suitors has even been able to raise it off the ground!’

  My father smiled again, this time sadly. He’d had no choice in designing the contest—and I knew that. I knew this also: it wasn’t because of its weight that the kings had failed to lift the bow.

  The bow was waiting for the right man.

  I WAS SECRETLY HAPPY that my one hundred and sixteen suitors had failed, and that the news of this failure had travelled the length of the land, dissuading others. If my spinsterhood had not been a rock obstructing Urmila’s happiness, I would have joyfully lived out the rest of my life beside my saintly and affectionate father and my keen-witted, elegant, laughing mother. I loved Mithila, its cool, crisp breezes that came down from the mountains, its fragrant gardens that bloomed year-round with white and purple flowers, its gentle people who loved to sing and dance. When the time came, I would have ruled the kingdom well. I was confident of that because I’d observed my father in court and learned from his goodness. And, more importantly, in our private chambers I’d listened to my mother advising him.

  But when I confessed these wishes to my mother, she shook her head. ‘Even if you were a goddess among women,’ she said, and from her face I could see that she’d heard the whispers, too, ‘it wouldn’t be possible. The kingdom of Mithila can be ruled only by a man. This has been the custom of the country since before the scribes began to write its history.’

  ‘Why can’t customs change?’ I asked angrily. ‘Especially ones that don’t make sense?’

  ‘Not this one. Because it’s built upon an age-old belief the citizens of Mithila hold: no woman is strong enough—or wise enough—to guide them.’

  ‘I don’t believe that!’ I cried, outraged. ‘Nor do you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe,’ she said. ‘A good, caring monarch–and your father is certainly that—doesn’t toy with the deep-rooted beliefs of his people. Not for the sake of personal happiness. Not even to prove a point.’

  I thought about that for a while. Then I said, ‘But actually, you’re the one who decides what happens in Mithila. Aren’t you as much a ruler as he?’

  Mother smiled. ‘Let’s say your father and I share the royal duties—just as I hope you will, with your husband. But in the eyes of the populace, he’s the king. And I’d never do anything to upset their belief in him, for in that lies the stability of the kingdom.’

  This bothered my sense of fairness and I started to argue further, but my mother changed the subject.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ she said. The unusual seriousness in her voice silenced me.

  Soon, she told me—for he was aging—my father would have to send out the royal elephant, who knew how to choose from the populace an appropriate male with the twenty-four auspicious signs on his body. He would be trained to become the next Janak; ultimately he would be crowned king. Our father needed to perform the marriages of his daughters before this happened because our futures would grow uncertain afterwards.

  ‘Maybe I can just marry the next Janak and remain here as queen,’ I suggested. Visitors to my father’s court often remarked on how beautiful I was. I felt fairly confident that I could charm this nameless heir to the throne into accepting me as his wife.

  My mother smiled sadly. ‘I’m sure the next Janak would be happy to do that—but what if he can’t pay your bride-price?’

  So there was nothing more for me to do except join Urmila at the Parvati temple in dutiful, if tepid, prayer. I wasn’t surprised that the prayers hadn’t borne fruit.

  ‘L OOK! L OOK! ’ U RMILA SAID, pulling me behind a sprawling tulsi bush on the terrace so we wouldn’t be seen.

  Below, four people walked along the garden path that led to the temple. In the lead was Shatananda with his measured, self-important gait. His presence surprised me. The fact that he had been sent to personally escort these young guests suggested that my father considered them special. Beside him walked a tall man, whiplash-thin in white, his hair tied above his head in a severe manner that proclaimed him to be a sage. Even in this sleepy corner of Bharatvarsha, we knew of Vishwamitra, whose temper was legendary. Though born a prince, he’d set his heart upon becoming a brahmarshi, the highest of sages—a title reserved only for brahmins—and had, after innumerable struggles, achieved it. His was a colourful and cantankerous history. That he’d chosen to accompany these fledgling princes on their adventures hinted further at their uniqueness.

  I watched the two brothers with interest. They walked behind Vishwamitra, looking around curiously at the trees my father had gathered from all over the continent to please me. I couldn’t make out their features—the setting sun was in my eyes—but somehow I knew which one was Ram. He was slighter than his brother and darker in complexion, but he walked with a serene confidence. When Lakshman reached out to pluck a mango, he shook his head slightly, and Lakshman fell back at once.

  There was something strangely, deeply familiar about the way Ram held himself, graceful and comfortable in his body and in the world.

  How could that be? This was the first time I was seeing him, in waking or dream.

  I felt a great need to discover more. I gripped Urmila’s hand.

  ‘Isn’t it time for our prayers?’ I said, though it was clearly too early.

  For a moment Urmila looked startled. I’d never displayed this much interest in any of my suitors. Then mischief danced over her face.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ she cried.

  I snatched up the basket, and arm-in-arm we ran down the stairs, careful to avoid our mother, who would have been rightly suspicious.

  BECAUSE U RMILA INSISTED UPON combing our hair and applying kajal to our eyes and sandalwood paste to our throats, we almost missed Ram and Lakshman. They’d completed their prostrations and were already leaving when we hurried up to the temple. Shatananda bowed to us—but curtly—and maintained a telling silence. His pursed lips made no secret of his displeasure. He’s a wise minister, one my father rightly depends on, but overfond of propriety. If he had his way, we princesses would have been kept confined to our rooms, decorously draped in silks and gems like ceremonial dolls. When custom dictated that we appear in public, he would have us seated at the women’s end of the sabha, as far from the male gaze as possible. Instead, here we were in thin summer-cotton saris that barely hid our curves, tendrils of hair coming loose from our hasty braids, our bodies giving off the mingled scent of sandalwood and excitement and female sweat. He ushered the young men past us as rapidly as possible, without introductions. He was probably hoping they’d think we were maidservants.

  But he couldn’t stop us from looking.

  Ram was young, as Urmila had warned me,
far younger than my other suitors. I guessed him to be seventeen or eighteen, only a little older than me. He was indeed darker than Lakshman and slimmer, but his body was strong and wiry. A hefty bow was slung over his shoulder. He didn’t seem to feel its weight. I’d assumed that he’d be exhausted from all the fighting he’d done, but he moved with lithe grace. Even in his travel-stained garments, he was unmistakably royal. His aura was calm and peaceful, quite unlike someone who had recently killed a host of rakshasas.

  As he passed us, Ram looked at me. His eyes were large and very dark, and shaped like lotus petals. Pulled into them, I felt like I was falling. No, it was more like I was whisked away to a distant place that shone with a light that was at once brilliant and cool, to a time when I’d been someone else. There was an ocean, undulating gently around me , white-foamed as innocence, so beautiful that for a moment I couldn’t breathe. In this world, too, Ram stood in front of me, though there was a great shining around him so I couldn’t see his face. This ethereal light that filled the huge space where we seemed to float emanated from a giant gem at his neck . I took a step forward. Inexplicably, shockingly, I longed to rest my head on his bare chest.

  Then I was back in the garden, blinking in confusion. Perhaps Ram had felt something similar. He had stopped, brow wrinkled as though he was trying to figure something out. He stared at me until a scowling Shatananda took hold of his elbow and drew him away, leaving me to suppress a sigh and enter the temple.

  THE TEMPLE OF P ARVATI was smaller than one might have expected to find in a palace: a single, windowless room built of rough-hewn stone. But the plain spire thrust itself unapologetically into the sky, demanding to be noticed by the heavens. No one knew when it had been constructed. Perhaps it was built by one of the earlier Janaks, or perhaps, as certain tales claimed, it rose fully formed from the earth. Whenever I stepped into it, I felt I was entering a space of power where the relationship between men and gods remained intimate and primeval. Where destinies could be shaped or, at the very least, revealed.