The Forest of Enchantments Read online

  THE DREAM I FELL into was partly a memory and partly a vision. We’d just set out from Mithila after the wedding, amid music and dance and the joyful tears of the citizens who had come to bid their princesses goodbye. Suddenly, a huge thunderclap startled everyone into silence. Surging dust blinded us, and when we could see again, a man blocked our path, his matted locks dancing like serpents. The rage in his face was a fire. In his left hand he carried an enormous bow, in his right, an axe. When I saw that axe, its blade still rust-red from the blood of long-dead royalty, I knew him: the Sage Parashuram, who had long ago brought us Shiva’s bow. My heart sank.

  ‘Who among you had the audacity to break my Lord’s bow?’ he bellowed. ‘I’m here to pay you back for that insolence. Twenty-one times I rid the earth of the evil of kshatriyas. Perhaps it’s time to do it again.’

  Lakshman, who was as usual next to Ram, took an angry step forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Ram and Lakshman weren’t born when you killed those kings, sage. Perhaps you might not find it so easy to destroy the kshatriya race this time!’

  A horrified Dasharath rushed forward, hands joined imploringly. ‘Pay no attention to Lakshman, great Rishi. He’s just a hot-headed boy. Doesn’t know what he’s saying. And please forgive Ram. I don’t know how he broke the bow. It must have been an accident. Certainly he didn’t mean any harm. I’ll do anything you want in reparation —’

  The words had no effect on Parashuram, who gripped his axe and swung it up, ready to bring it down full-force on Ram’s skull.

  I stepped in front of Ram. It wasn’t an act of courage. Until it happened, I didn’t even know I was going to do it. Wherever the impulse had come from, it certainly wasn’t my conscious mind. I realized, right away, that it was a thoroughly stupid move. I had no power over the enraged sage. He’d probably kill us both with the same blow. A little part of my mind said, That’s all right. It would be better than living on alone if he killed Ram .

  My move had frozen the entire assembly into shocked silence. Parashuram was the first to recover from it. ‘Little Sita?’ he said in a tone of wonder, staring at me, letting his axe-arm drop to his side. ‘The girl for whom Shiva sent his bow down to earth? Is it really you?’

  Ram moved me aside gently and addressed the sage. He spoke with respect, but as though to an equal. ‘The bow broke because its job was done—and so is yours, sage. Go back to your austerities. That is your duty now.’

  For a moment there was a strange look—of recognition—on Parashuram’s face. Then it darkened with rage again. He shook the bow he was holding. ‘So you think you can tell me what to do, you—you pipsqueak? Let’s see you string this bow, then. It’s the pair to Shiva’s bow—this one belonged to Vishnu and was given to my father for safekeeping. If you can string this bow, I’ll let you go. If not…’ He shook his axe menacingly.

  ‘Give me the arrow, too, sage,’ Ram interrupted. Parashuram thrust both at him. Ram smiled at the bow—a smile of familiarity, it seemed. Then, in a motion so swift that I almost didn’t see it occur, he strung it, set the arrow to it, and pointed it at the sage. He said, ‘Vishnu’s bow can’t be drawn in vain. What shall I use the arrow for, Parashuram?’

  For a moment, Parashuram looked stunned, as much at being called familiarly by his name as by the arrow pointing at him. Then he knelt in front of Ram and said, ‘I recognize you now, Self of my Self, and your divine consort as well. Use the arrow to take from me all my powers, for you will need them.’ And it seemed to me—but perhaps I imagined it, for no one else mentioned it later—that a brilliant light shot forth from his chest and entered my husband’s body.

  I AWOKE TO THE touch of an unfamiliar hand on my arm, a voice whispering apologies. I struggled up, startled, but it was only my new serving-woman. In a heavy Koshali accent that was hard to decipher, she informed me that we would be in Ayodhya soon. Would I like to clean up? The palanquin bearers had stopped to rest. I stepped out, stretched my stiff limbs, shook out the folds of my sari and washed my face in the scented water the woman poured for me. I combed my hair and, as best as I could in the lowering dark, refreshed the sindoor on my forehead. I hoped I’d make a good impression on my mothers-in-law.

  ‘Look,’ the Koshali woman said.

  We were on a hillock. Ahead of us lay a huge city, stretching beyond the limits of my sight. Ayodhya. My new home. I didn’t hope to love it the way I’d loved Mithila. The land of our childhood is a special place, where we are cherished without question or expectation. But I was determined to do my duty by it.

  Duty! The word brought an ironic smile to my face. Already Ram’s ideas were influencing me.

  As I watched, dots of light flickered to life all over the city.

  ‘The people are lighting lamps to welcome you,’ my maid explained.

  The lights twinkled in the balmy evening as though a cosmic hunter had caught the stars in his net and brought them down to earth to greet me. The sound of a flute rose from somewhere, deepening the magic of the scene. I’ll always remember this, I thought, and was surprised at the sudden, powerful connection I felt to this land. Perhaps duty was a kind of love, after all.

  I’ll be a good princess for you, I promised Ayodhya silently, and when time comes, a good queen. I’ll guard you and bring prosperity to you the way only a woman can. If needed, I’ll sacrifice my life for you, and my happiness.

  A wind rose around me, from where I didn’t know. It was unexpectedly cold and made me shiver. Sacrifice, sacrifice , whispered the trees, carrying my promise across the valley.

  Seven

  I STEPPED OUT OF MY PALANQUIN in front of the palace, a monolithic structure of hewn stone that loomed against the night. In spite of my tiredness, I was looking forward to meeting my new family. When Ram took me by the hand and led me forward, I accompanied him eagerly, a little nervous but ready to do what I could to make them like me. I had no idea that I was about to be sucked into the whirlpool of palace politics.

  Dasharath’s three queens were lined up in front of the massive front doors to welcome their new daughters-in-law. Kaushalya, Kaikeyi and Sumitra stood side-by-side—the picture of amity—so that I wondered if perhaps my mother had been misinformed about their rivalry.

  There was no time to think further, for Ram was introducing me to his mother. I noticed that Kaushalya was quite a bit older than the other two women, with a wrinkled face and dark circles under her eyes. But her smile was genuine as she pressed sindoor on my forehead and took my hands in hers.

  Behind each queen waited a line of servants bearing gifts for the daughters-in-law. One of the lines, I could see right away, was much longer than the others. The queen at the head of this line was lithe and statuesque, and dressed in a splendid red sari. She was greeting Bharat, so I guessed this was Kaikeyi. I glanced curiously at her face, but most of it was covered by jewels and a glittery veil. I peered past her to see how Sumitra was welcoming Urmila, but I couldn’t see much.

  As the servants came forward and offered gifts to the new brides, I understood that unlike the dowry items that Dasharath had brought to the wedding, these had been paid for by the queens out of their own coffers. The expense and quality of the gifts indicated how rich each queen was, and how powerful. Clearly, in this regard, Kaikeyi was far ahead of the others.

  As Kaushalya’s servants presented me with my gifts, I could see that they were in good shape but not new. My mother-in-law admitted as much, her voice apologetic.

  ‘My own mother gave these to me at my wedding. I’ve saved them all these years, dreaming of the moment when I’d pass them on to my daughter—for that’s how I think of you. I do hope you like them.’

  I was a little disappointed, for they weren’t to my taste, which ran, like my mother Sunaina’s, toward the simple and elegant. These jewellery sets were too heavy, their stones dulled from years spent within dark chests. The thick cloth-of-gold saris were definitely out of fashion. The silk bolsters and curtains looked a little faded, and th
e platters and glasses were large and cumbersome.

  To the side, Kaikeyi was lavishing all kinds of expensive presents upon Mandavi—saris newly-woven in colours I’d never seen; jewels in settings of exquisite craftsmanship, boxes made of ivory and mother-of-pearl, glittering vials filled with perfumes, combs and mirrors made of filigreed gold, even a large purple parrot, unlike any I’d seen before, that had been trained to bow and say good morning. Hearing my mother-in-law, she looked at us and laughed. It was a sound that managed to be lilting, charming and disdainful, all at the same time.

  Kaushalya’s shoulders sagged and she seemed to shrink. I could see how afraid she was that I’d think less of her because these gifts weren’t fancy enough. And that it would affect our relationship.

  Impulsively, I stepped forward and gave her a hug. Speaking louder than I needed to, I said, ‘I love everything you’ve given me, Kaushalya-Ma. Anyone can buy new things, but presents passed down the generations hold in them the blessings of the elders. I’m sure your saris will bring me luck. I look forward to wearing one of them for the next royal event. Maybe you’d like to help me choose it?’

  ‘I’d love that,’ Kaushalya said, her face transformed into a wreath of smiles, tears of joy glimmering in her eyes. With a spring in her step, she led me towards my quarters, chattering about the prayer ceremony she was planning for Ram and me, and how the red silk with the parrot-green border would be just right for the occasion.

  Over her head, Ram threw me a grateful smile filled with so much love that I felt I was walking on moonbeams. But I could sense Kaikeyi’s hard stare on my back.

  I’d already failed to follow my mother’s warning: be polite and respectful to all and don’t take sides .

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS were a blur of court ceremonies, prayer services and countless guests. All the neighbouring kings paid us a visit, curious to see the princesses that the sons of Dasharath had brought home all of a sudden. The story of the great bow had spread across the land, so I was of special interest to them. From their respectful manner and lavish gifts, I understood that Koshal was even more important than I’d realized. This scared me a little, because as eldest, Ram would one day rule this mighty land, and it would be my job to support him in being the greatest king possible.

  I allowed Kaushalya to dress me the way she wanted for all the events, and her delight in seeing me wear her gifts was so great that I didn’t mind being out of fashion.

  ‘But, Sister,’ Urmila protested, ‘the clothes our mother chose for you are so much more beautiful! And Kaushalya-Ma, nice as she is, doesn’t even know how to drape a sari to bring out the best in you. I’m sorry, but this green sari makes you look like—like a tightly wrapped bottle gourd!’ She herself was most elegantly attired in a pale pink sari with a shimmer of gold running through it, sheer enough to show off all her curves. Lakshman could barely keep his eyes off her.

  But fashion wasn’t as important to me as to Urmila. There would be time enough to wear my mother’s saris. And in any case Ram’s eyes were on me all the time, too. The appreciation in them went beyond mere admiration of my looks.

  RAM AND I WAITED until after the fanfare had died down to consummate our marriage. Neither of our educations had touched on the matter of sex, so we had to figure it out for ourselves. But for all our ignorance we did very well, and because it was the first time for us both, it was special in a way that I knew I’d remember all my life. Ram wasn’t shy about telling me what pleased him, and he asked me what I liked until I overcame my shyness and answered. Bedtime became at once exciting and joyful, a secret gift I looked forward to all day while we went about our separate duties—his as heir-apparent, mine as new bride. Even his evenings were spent with his father, discussing how to make Koshal more prosperous, and they usually had their night meal in the king’s chambers.

  Yes, my father-in-law had separate quarters, which no one entered unless invited. I suspected he retreated there when the drama created by his wives became too much for him!

  Dasharath liked things done right, and he liked variety. So the cook would send in gold platters filled with numerous items, different each day. Ram described the food for me: a hill of fragrant rice, topped with ghee, surrounded by appetizers and curries and meats of many kinds, antelope or goat or boar. And finally, bowls and dishes filled with desserts from different regions of Bharatvarsha—laddus and kheer and milk-sandesh. The king had a sweet tooth. Ram, who was a frugal eater, would only sample things and end his meal with a bowl of yogurt while Dasharath shook his head and declared he needed to eat more. How, otherwise, would he have the strength to rule a land as vast and prosperous as Koshal, surrounded by greedy kings just waiting to grab a piece of it?

  I didn’t mind Ram’s busy days. At night—every night—he was all mine. And always would be because of his one-wife vow, the importance of which I appreciated much more now that I was in Ayodhya and saw the king’s complicated marital relationships.

  What I enjoyed as much as the physical pleasures of love was the time afterwards, when Ram and I lay, limbs intertwined, heads on the same pillow, and conversed into the night. Darkness added a special intimacy to the moment. I felt I could tell Ram things I would have hesitated to bring up otherwise. He, too, must have felt the same, for he told me about sorrows and fears which, judging from his calm daytime demeanour, I would never have guessed.

  I told Ram about how I often wondered who my real parents were, and why they had abandoned me. How much I wanted to find them, and how guilty and ungrateful I felt about this because King Janak and Queen Sunaina had been so good to me. For his part, he confessed his doubts: would he be ready, when the time came, to take on the burden of ruling Koshal? Would he have the strength to be a good king?

  ‘What do you mean by a good king ?’ I asked.

  ‘One who rules not by force but by example,’ he said. His voice deepened and his diction grew formal, so that I could tell how crucial this was to him. ‘One who follows the laws perfectly, even when his heart might beg him to do otherwise. No blame should ever attach to a king, for then how can he pronounce judgement on another? Our scriptures say, such a king blesses his kingdom.’

  I told him it was most commendable, if a bit too idealistic. What I didn’t tell him was that, as he’d spoken, a dart of disquiet had shot through me.

  ANOTHER NIGHT , R AM TOLD me his mother’s tragic story.

  The only child of the king of Koshal, Kaushalya had been married to Dasharath amidst great jubilation. Although not exceptionally beautiful, she was a sought-after prize, because half the kingdom of Koshal came with her as dowry. Furthermore, her father promised Dasharath that upon his death, his son-in-law would rule the entire country. Dasharath was a handsome and dynamic young man then, and Kaushalya, a simple and good-hearted girl, fell deeply in love with him. She delighted in the importance of being the royal consort and accompanying him on all state occasions. Dasharath was kind and respectful to her, and she hoped that with time he would come to love her as she loved him.

  ‘It wasn’t a perfect marriage, by any means,’ Ram said wryly. My father had an eye for women, many of whom ended up in the palace as concubines. This was a trial to my mother, but she’d been taught that queens were expected to accept such behaviour. So she did. It helped that she was far above them in birth and influence. My father spent his nights with them, but he always came back to my mother. He was genuinely fond of her and liked conversing with her. Though she didn’t understand the subtleties of statesmanship, she admired even his smallest achievements and he enjoyed that. He allowed her to fuss over him—laying out his clothes, fixing his favourite dishes—and this gave her great satisfaction.’

  A few years into their marriage, Kaushalya gave birth to a daughter, Shanta. Dasharath gave the girl to his friend, King Romapad, because of a promise he’d made earlier. Kaushalya didn’t like this, but she took comfort in the belief that she’d provide her beloved husband with a male heir soon. But unfortunately, no other
children came. Dasharath began looking for another wife, finally choosing Kaikeyi, daughter of Ashwapati, and forming an alliance with the powerful kingdom of Kekaya. That, too, Kaushalya accepted. Royal marriages were often strategic, and the kingdom did need a prince.

  ‘But what wounded her to the heart,’ Ram said, ‘was that my father fell completely in love with Kaikeyi: her beauty, her intellect, her courage. All his nights—and many hours of his days—were now spent with his new wife. To make matters worse, Kaikeyi had been trained in the art of war. The next time there was a battle, she insisted on driving Dasharath’s chariot. She performed superbly, and Dasharath won the battle—which further strengthened her hold over him. She drove his chariot in other wars too, and twice saved his life. Totally captivated and deeply indebted to Kaikeyi, Dasharath gave her the best chambers in the palace and sought her counsel in all matters. He spent all his time—except for a few minimal hours in court—with her.

  ‘Demoted and forgotten, my mother felt her life was over. Even the servants, aware of her powerlessness, ignored her.’

  ‘But Kaikeyi couldn’t give him the son he wanted, could she?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Father made a third alliance, bringing home Sumitra, princess of Kashi. But Kaikeyi somehow managed to retain her position as his favourite queen.’

  The problem was clearly with the king, but it was the queens who had to pay the price for it. Bitter words filled my mouth, but I prudently held them. What was the point of venting my outrage on Ram?

  Finally, the desperate Dasharath managed to get the famous Rishya-shringa muni to perform a putra-kameshti yagna for him. Out of the sacrificial fire came a luminous being, carrying a vessel of kheer. Drinking this, he said, would make the queen pregnant.