‘I want her alive!’ screamed Kumbhakarna from behind the protective Lankan cordon.
More soldiers joined those already moving toward Sita, their bamboo lathis held high.
‘Raaaam!’ shouted Sita, as she pulled another arrow from her quiver, quickly nocked and shot it, bringing another Lankan down instantly.
It did not slow the pace of the others. They kept rushing forward.
Sita shot another arrow. Her last. One more Lankan sank to the ground. The others pressed on.
‘Raaaam!’
The Lankans were almost upon her, their bamboo lathis raised.
‘Raaam!’ screamed Sita.
As a Lankan closed in, she lassoed her bow, entangling his lathi with the bowstring, snatching it from him. Sita hit back with the bamboo lathi, straight at the Lankan’s head, knocking him off his feet. She swirled the lathi over her head, its menacing sound halting the suddenly wary soldiers. She stopped moving, holding her weapon steady. Conserving her energy. Ready and alert. One hand held the stick in the middle, the end of it tucked under her armpit. The other arm was stretched forward. Her feet spread wide, in balance. She was surrounded by at least fifty Lankan soldiers. But they kept their distance.
‘Raaaam!’ bellowed Sita, praying that her voice would somehow carry across the forest to her husband.
‘We don’t want to hurt you, Lady Vishnu,’ said a Lankan, surprisingly polite. ‘Please surrender. You will not be harmed.’
Sita cast a quick glance at Jatayu. Is he still breathing?
‘We have the equipment in our Pushpak Vimaan to save him,’ said the Lankan. ‘Don’t force us to hurt you. Please.’
Sita filled her lungs with air and screamed yet again, ‘Raaaam!’
She thought she heard a faint voice from a long distance. ‘Sitaaa …’
A soldier moved suddenly from her left, swinging his lathi low. Aiming for her calves. Sita jumped high, tucking her feet in to avoid the blow. While in the air, she quickly released the right-hand grip on the lathi and swung it viciously with her left hand. The lathi hit the Lankan on the side of his head. Knocking him unconscious.
As she landed, she shouted again, ‘Raaaam!’
She heard the same voice. The voice of her husband. Soft, from the distance. ‘Leave … her … alone …’
As if electrified by the sound of his voice, ten Lankans charged in together. She swung her lathi ferociously on all sides, rapidly incapacitating many.
‘Raaaam!’
She heard the voice again. Not so distant this time. ‘Sitaaaa … .’
He’s close. He’s close.
The Lankan onslaught was steady and unrelenting now. Sita kept swinging rhythmically. Viciously. Alas, there were one too many enemies. A Lankan swung his lathi from behind. Into her back.
‘Raaa …’
Sita’s knees buckled under her as she collapsed to the ground. Before she could recover, the soldiers ran in and held her tight.
She struggled fiercely as a Lankan came forward, holding a neem leaf in his hand. It was smeared with a blue-coloured paste. He held the leaf tight against her nose.
As darkness began to envelop her, she sensed some ropes against her hands and feet.
Ram … Help me …
And the darkness took over.
Chapter 2
38 years earlier, North of Trikut Hills, Deoghar, India
‘Wait a minute,’ whispered Sunaina, as she pulled the reins on her horse.
Janak, the king of Mithila, and his wife, Sunaina, had travelled a long way to the Trikut Hills, nearly a hundred kilometres south of the Ganga River. They sought to meet the legendary Kanyakumari, the Virgin Goddess. A divine child. It was believed across the Sapt Sindhu, land of the seven rivers, that the blessings of the Living Goddess helped all who came to her with a clean heart. And the royal family of Mithila certainly needed Her blessings.
Mithila, founded by the great king Mithi, on the banks of the mighty Gandaki River, was once a thriving river-port town. Its wealth was built on agriculture, owing to its exceptionally fertile soil, as well as river trade with the rest of the Sapt Sindhu. Unfortunately, fifteen years ago, an earthquake and subsequent flood had changed the course of the Gandaki. It also changed the fortunes of Mithila. The river now flowed farther to the west, by the city of Sankashya. Ruled by Janak’s younger brother Kushadhwaj, Sankashya was a nominally subsidiary kingdom of Mithila. To add to the woes of Mithila, the rains had failed repeatedly for a few years after the change of Gandaki’s course. Mithila’s loss was Sankashya’s gain. Kushadhwaj rapidly rose in stature as the de facto representative of the clan of Mithi.
Many had suggested that King Janak should invest some of the old wealth of Mithila in an engineering project to redirect the Gandaki back to its old course. But Kushadhwaj had advised against it. He had argued that it made little sense to spend money on such a massive engineering project. After all, why waste money to take the river from Sankashya to Mithila, when the wealth of Sankashya was ultimately Mithila’s.
Janak, a devout and spiritual man, had adopted a philosophical approach to his kingdom’s decline in fortune. But the new queen, Sunaina, who had married Janak just two years earlier, was not the idle sort. She planned to restore Mithila to its old glory. And a big part of that plan was to restore the old course of the Gandaki. But after so many years, it had become difficult to find logical reasons to justify the costly and difficult engineering project.
When logic fails, faith can serve a purpose.
Sunaina had convinced Janak to accompany her to the temple of the Kanyakumari and seek her blessings. If the Child Goddess approved of the Gandaki project, even Kushadhwaj would find it difficult to argue against it. Not just the Mithilans, but many across the length and breadth of India believed the Kanyakumari’s word to be that of the Mother Goddess Herself. Unfortunately, the Kanyakumari had said no. ‘Respect the judgement of nature,’ she had said.
It was a disappointed Sunaina and a philosophical Janak, along with their royal guard, who were travelling north from the Trikut Hills now, on their way home to Mithila.
‘Janak!’ Sunaina raised her voice. Her husband had ridden ahead without slowing.
Janak pulled his horse’s reins and looked back. His wife pointed wordlessly to a tree in the distance. Janak followed her direction. A few hundred metres away, a pack of wolves had surrounded a solitary vulture. They were trying to close in and were being pushed back repeatedly by the huge bird. The vulture was screaming and squawking. A vulture’s squawk is naturally mournful; but this one sounded desperate.
Sunaina looked closely. It was an unfair fight. There were six wolves, weaving in and out, attacking the vulture in perfect coordination. But the brave bird stood its ground, pushing them back repeatedly. The aggressors were gradually drawing close. A wolf hit the vulture with its claws, drawing blood.
Why isn’t it flying away?