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Destroying in itself is an incomplete act if you cannot also absolve and protect. When you absolved Ahalya, you showed me and yourself that you are a protector. You were spontaneously drawn toward Ahalya’s suffering, and you touched her with a compassion so strong it went through the solid rock.”
King Janaka’s eyes expressed his amazement at these revelations.
A number of people crowded around the king wanting his attention; the contest was set to begin shortly. Vishvamitra continued, “That said, we are here only to observe, Your Highness. We are on our way back to Ayodhya but could not ignore the opportunity to witness this great contest.”
Accepting Vishvamitra’s words, King Janaka arranged elevated seats for the princes and the holy one, given their high rank. After Rama was seated, he surveyed the large arena.
He had never been to a contest like this before. Unlike the Summit of Fifty Kings, this contest had only one purpose: to win Sita’s hand. At the summit, the subordinate kings arrived with attendants and soldiers in the hundreds. Here, each king’s entourage was considerably 336
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smaller, with just a handful of guards and servants. Rama thought he knew why. In the last contest for Sita’s hand, Kashi had rallied together a formidable army to attack Mithila. King Janaka had taken precautions against that happening again by limiting the number of soldiers. Today the number of Mithilans far outnumbered the visitors. Behind the kings, thousands of spectators had gathered.
As the sun began to rise in the sky, King Janaka made a signal, and musical instruments started playing, including the blowing of conch shells. A pair of large doors opened on the south side of the arena, and two lines of men emerged, pulling a rope, moving forward ardu-ously step by step. Rama counted over a hundred of them before he could see the large iron case with wheels. When the bow came into view, the kings cheered. The bow was mounted inside the case—a daunting sight. It shone, almost vibrated. It took the power of all five hundred men to propel it forward.
Lakshmana whispered, “That is the largest bow we have ever seen.”
The ancient bow had become like a deity in Mithila and was treated with the same respect. When the bow was in the middle of the arena, the five hundred guards stepped away, moving to the sides of the arena. The throng quieted.
King Janaka rose to address the assembly of kings. “I welcome you all to this contest for my daughter’s hand. I commend your courage. Some of you are here having heard about Sita’s beauty and her supernatural birth. Others among you may be eager to prove your strength. You know that the task before you is of the highest challenge. Many men have tried before you and have failed. I have great hopes that today one of you will enter the legends of time and master this bow. This bow is Mithila’s treasure, handed down through generations of Videha’s kings. It was crafted by Vishvakarma, the divine architect for Shiva, the lord of transformation. May the thirty gods infuse the right man with power to lift this bow. May Shiva, for whom this bow was crafted, empower the worthiest one here. Whosoever proves his strength today by lifting and stringing this bow will win the hand of Sita, who is my pride and the daughter of the Earth.”
As soon as Janaka finished speaking, a handsome prince stood up. His thick golden belt shone in the sun, and he wore bright purple silks draped around his hips. His hair was drawn into a topknot and hidden under a large golden crown. He walked down from his seat, trailed by his guards and flagbearer. The flag too was bright purple, and when the prince drew near, Rama saw the sigil, a trumpeting elephant. Just as Rama identified the sigil, Lakshmana leaned toward him and said, “The prince of Hastinapur.”
The elephants from Hastinapur were just as famous as the horses from Kekaya. The king of Hastinapur, Jayasena, had evidently sent one of his sons to compete. When the prince of Hastinapur stepped onto the arena, his guards stood back. The prince approached the bow confidently, waving to the crowd.
“He looks like a baby elephant,” Lakshmana commented, “approaching an enormous tree.”
The prince waved one last time at the crowd and then planted his feet firmly on the ground. He placed both hands on the bow and made every effort to lift it. Nothing happened, 337
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save for his face and neck turning red. After several long minutes of this, he stepped away in defeat, eyes lowered.
The next contestant, a king with thick arms, approached more cautiously, yet also appeared confident. His silk garments billowed in the wind as he strode toward the bow. He ambitiously attempted to lift the bow with only one hand. As he clamped both hands on it, he clenched his teeth as he willed the bow to lift. For several minutes, he strained this way and that way until, his strength spent, he collapsed, falling onto the bow.
Thinking he had fainted, the crowd’s murmurs changed to chortles. Hearing the laughter, the king lifted his head. He too was stunned by his own failure; the laughter of the crowd did not make it easier to stand up and return to his seat.
What king after king discovered was that this was not so much a contest as a circus. The spectators could not contain their mirth at the failures; Rama could understand why a warrior would leave feeling humiliated. Nevertheless, the brothers also laughed, joining in the atmosphere of merriment. When a king approached the bow with humility, Rama would not laugh, even once he failed. But he did not spare the arrogant kings, laughing out loud and slapping his thighs, as Lakshmana did, no matter the countenance of the king. Many, in their eagerness to prove themselves, clamped their hands on the bow and tried to jerk it up as if they were champion weightlifters. One king actually jumped on the box, squatting astride the bow, struggling to pull the bow up. The Mithilan guards rushed to restrain him and escorted him back to his seat.
The sun was high in the sky. The kings sweated in their seats, their confidence visibly melting. Rama studied King Janaka where he sat, high on his throne. King Janaka did not laugh, not even once. As a father, this was not a light matter. His daughter’s future lay in that bow.
When there was a lull in the action, King Janaka lifted his hand, sending forth refreshments to the participants. Rama and Lakshmana were offered both cool water and sugarcane juice with lime. Another brave soul stood up, drinking down his beverage. He approached the bow with a confidence that everyone could see was forced. His smile quivered and he sweated profusely. And why not? He had seen stronger kings fail. As he too failed to budge the bow, there was no laughter. The gravity of the situation began to dawn on the assembled crowd. Silence descended on the arena. About half the kings had tried their luck. The other half shrank into their seats.
King Janaka stood up. “Witnessing you today, my worst fears are coming true. I fear that there is no one on Earth who is a match to my daughter. You see, strength alone is not enough to lift this bow. But it can be lifted. I deliberated carefully before I set this bride-price. Many of you may have wondered why I chose this test. When Sita was but a girl of eight, she lifted this bow with only one hand. That settled the test.”
“Do you really think an eight-year-old could lift that bow?” Lakshmana asked.
“Remember the missive we read with Father,” Rama said. “In the last contest, Sita lifted the bow in front of all the kings. That’s when they went mad, their egos crushed. She did not lift it with muscle power, as King Janaka pointed out.”
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Lakshmana settled back into his seat.
“I have reminded you of this,” King Janaka said, “to give you hope. I encourage the remaining contestants to gather all your resources and approach the bow. Do not let the failures you’ve witnessed dishearten you. May the best man win!”
Rama looked at the remaining kings, but no one rose. The cloth of the bright flags flapped in the wind, the sigils obscure in the distance. Rama’s gaze returned to King Janaka, who was still standing and looking out into the arena.
King Janaka then commanded, “Bring Princess Sita to the arena! Bring the garland that she will place around the neck of the winner!”
Rama smiled. King Janaka was an expert conductor. When the contestants had grown hopeless, he was reminding them of the prize. Rama leaned toward Lakshmana to speak of this, when the princess of Mithila entered the arena on a palanquin. Conch shells blew and the crowd went wild, chanting, “Sita! Sita!”
The princess stepped out from the palanquin.
Rama’s heart stopped. It was the girl from the balcony. The girl who had kept him sleepless through the night, the girl who had stolen a piece of him, who had made a place for herself in his heart; he had not even known her name. Until this moment, Rama had only observed the contest. Now he whispered, “Sita.” Knowing her name, he was closer to knowing her.
“They worship her,” Lakshmana said. He seemed mesmerized by the reaction the princess provoked. Hence, he had not noticed Rama’s. Rama unwillingly took his eyes from Sita to see that the other kings were leaning forward in their seats, swooning at the princess.
She belongs to me, Rama thought, with a possessiveness he had never felt.
Now she had turned her back to them, walking up the steps to join her father. Her long white veil trailed behind her, as did her maidservants. The veil was transparent, displaying Sita’s long black hair and her shapely form.
Rama wanted to shield her from all their eyes. When Sita turned to face the arena again, there was a collective sigh of admiration. Her beauty was dazzling them all. For a moment, Rama was awestruck, feeling every emotion that had carried him away the previous day.
His heart beat faster. His skin felt hot. His spirit danced, yet he was acutely aware of this moment. Of her.
That’s when a giant of a man stood up. Rama’s heart plummeted. It was Kashi, the king of Kashi. Rama had not expected to see Kashi here and had not recognized him earlier. Kashi seemed to have doubled in size since Rama last saw him. He was more menacing than Marichi, the blood-drinker. Just one arm was the size of two maces.
“If he can’t lift it,” Lakshmana said, “no one can.”
“He looks like he could easily lift an elephant,” Rama said. The words were hard to speak.
Rama’s heart stood in his throat, his nightmare taking form. The king of Kashi was taller than most men and stronger than any man Rama had known. King Janaka’s face was inscrutable, and Rama knew his hands were bound. Although an aggressor, Kashi had not strictly speaking violated the warrior codes in his previous siege of Mithila.
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Kashi’s glaring prowess raised a great anticipation in the air. Every eye followed the king of Kashi as he strode forth, marching toward the bow. He waved to the crowd and then clamped his hand on the bow. The crowd hushed, and Rama covered his eyes.
The king put both his hands on the bow. Slowly, the bow lifted up an inch. The crowd gasped. Kashi howled with victory. The bow hovered where it was. The king of Kashi’s face turned red, the veins in his neck bulging. Thousands cheered him on. With a loud crack, the bow smacked back down into its place. The king’s hands trembled as he backed away from the bow, but his ego remained intact. He spat on the ground and looked up at Sita.
The guards took a step toward him, and he returned to his seat.
Immediately Rama stood up, his heart alight with relief.
He raised his voice. “May I join the contest, Your Majesty?”
He felt Lakshmana’s total surprise by his side but kept his eyes on King Janaka, who looked just as startled. Rama didn’t dare look at Sita again. Not yet.
“You are most welcome, Prince Rama of Ayodhya,” King Janaka said.
Rama turned to Vishvamitra, who encouraged him with a slight bow of his head. For extra luck, Rama touched Vishvamitra’s feet and broke the solemn moment only when he smiled at Lakshmana. Until this moment, they had reached all their landmarks of growth together. But Rama was moving ahead now, into that sphere that made him absolutely a man.
As Rama made his way to the center of the arena, he felt every eye on him. There were as many reactions to him as there were people, and Rama felt them all around him: excitement, doubt, derision, admiration, hope. What did she feel? He still did not dare raise his eyes and seek her out. He kept his eyes on the bow, following his instincts. It was only him and the bow.
Nearing the bow, Rama felt something awakening within. Rama’s hands went out to touch the dark wood and to feel the heavy fiber. Even at the narrowing ends, the cir-cumference of the ancient bow was greater than Rama’s upper arm. He reached out and stroked the smooth surface and, to his surprise, the bow was alive; Rama could feel it as a distinct presence.
The prince walked slowly around the bow. The people watched his every move. No one spoke at first, but then the murmurs began. Despite the forceful pressure of expectation, Rama was in no hurry. He let his hands explore the bow, gliding across the wood and under it, holding it but not lifting it. He studied it. Rama circled the bow a few times in this manner, feeling its power. Finally he stopped in the middle, where he would be able to put his hands on each side equally. Rama closed his eyes and started praying, hands palm to palm. The buzzing crowd quieted, intent on Rama. As he stood still, the crowd swelled with curiosity.
Rama stood in silent supplication seeing something through the darkness of his eyelids.
A face appeared before him: the former owner of the bow. He was dark skinned and effulgent. Rama realized it must be Shiva, the lord of transformation, the last one to master the bow. He had guarded it ever since, not wishing anyone unworthy to use it. Rama’s heart was pure and his intention clear.
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“I do not mean to harm the bow,” Rama murmured. “I will revere it as if it were my father’s.”
Rama saw a brief smile on Shiva’s face before the vision disappeared. It was only then that he opened his eyes, for the smile had reassured him that his certainty was true: he would master the bow. Now seeing the bow with this knowledge, he noticed a change in its physical structure. It did not shine so brightly. Rather, it had begun to look like a normal bow, though unusually large. The presence that had infused the bow with so much power was gone.
Rama quickly took action. His hand slid under the bow and lifted it in one swift motion.
Anyone slightly inattentive would have missed the feat. Rama heard loud gasps and cries fill the arena. He remained calm. He stood the bow upright, leaning one tip on the ground. Putting his foot on this tip to steady the bow, he gathered the string into his right hand. The bow was so large he had to stand on his toes to reach the other end of it. The old wood creaked as he shaped it to his will. Slowly it bent, Rama’s muscles flexing to bring it into a proper shape.
The bow was nearing a perfect arch when suddenly it exploded into a thousand pieces. The Earth almost shook with the explosion, or so it seemed to the people in attendance.
Rama had been as gentle as he could be with the bow. It had destroyed itself. The legend of its greatness had been shattered and lay in the pieces of wood scattered on the floor. Now a new legend—how the great bow finally broke—would replace the old one. The bow had fulfilled its final purpose.
Rama grinned, and the next moment everyone was cheering and clapping tumultuously.
Rama was poised, but his heart beat in unison with the enthused claps of the people around him. They were bringing Sita to him. Lakshmana ran down from their seats and threw his arms around his brother. Vishvamitra’s hand was raised in blessing.
Rama’s mind took a leap away from boyhood, leaving Lakshmana behind. He lost all trace of boyishness in those moments when he stood waiting for Sita to approach, waiting for her to see him and to garland him as her husband.
Two thoughts struck Rama. First, a question: How did Sita feel about his victory?
And then a realization: He needed his father’s blessings to marry.
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chapter 39
Sita’s Soul
ita had been instantly drawn to the rich, manly voice filling the arena: “May I Sjoin the contest, Your Majesty?”
As she turned her gaze to the speaker, her breath left her body. It was him.
“You are most welcome, Prince Rama of Ayodhya,” her father had said.
She had to control her lips, which wanted to curve into a sunny smile. Her inner voice sang songs of love, warming her heart. Her happiness in those moments was so deep that she didn’t know what to do with her eyes, which darted here and there like black bumblebees. She prayed every prayer she knew, wishing him success. Hardly breathing, she watched every minute move he made. When he lifted the bow, she was lifted into the sky. When the great bow shattered, she too fell at his feet.
Her father touched her elbow, waking her from her trance. “Prince Rama, son of the emperor, has won your hand,” he said.
“Rama,” she whispered, feeling so happy that pieces of herself were scattered across the sky like unseen stars. She blushed with joy as her father led her down to Rama, accompanied by all her jubilant friends.
When Sita stood in front of Rama, drops of perspiration lined the arches of her eyebrows. Teardrops clung to her eyelashes. Slowly, she looked up into his face. After that, she looked nowhere else.
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Her eyelids fluttered, and the tears rolled down from her eyes. A light mist began to rain down on them, cooling the entire assembly. Sita’s garland trembled, and she took deep, deep breaths. Whatever emotion was strong in her, she saw mirrored in him.
Her father put one hand on Rama’s shoulder; the other was already resting on Sita’s.
“Prince Rama, son of the Sun dynasty, you have conquered the bow and won the contest.
Sita’s hand is now yours. Will you accept my daughter as your wife?”
Rama suddenly looked stricken, as if he had made a mistake.
Sita turned to ice. The stars fell from the sky. She cast her gaze down.
