Tea Plantations, Oral Histories and literary and Historical References: A Collage

Tea for all: The Global Propensity for Consumption and Trade. In the mid 17th century, tea appeared in the written record, as Charles the Second, King of England who received Bombay as dowry, was presented with a tub of tea by the East India Company in 1664. The East India Company’s trade had been in pepper, but when tea was sold in a café it was much appreciated. The tea was shipped by Chinese merchants, and small orders were being placed by 1673(Goodwin 1993:60). Thomas Garroway, the proprietor who first sold tea in his café, had listed 24 disabilities that tea was expected to cure, in 1658. He had described it as useful in all seasons, at all times, and its virtues evident even up to the old age of the consumer (ibid). The production and transport of tea was very much a handicraft and household industry, and its route was complex and difficult, as it travelled to the ports where it was disbursed. Seeing that the Chinese guarded tea very carefully, the East India Company was hard pressed to find a way to export tea bushes to India, where the naturalist Sir Joseph Banks suggested in 1778, that it could be grown in Bihar, Rungpor and Cooch Behar (Macfarlane and Macfarlane 2004:100) In 1792, Banks in the company of Lord Macartney brought back tea seeds and plants for the Calcutta Botanical gardens. In 1816, the plants procured by the representatives of Lord Amherst were lost in transit (ibid 101). Seeing that the Chinese method of curing tea was cumbersome ( dried in the sun, curled by stamping on it like grapes, dried in the sun once more, and then fired in the tea merchants’ furnaces) the British believed that rather than household production variably suited to individual expertise, tea should be produced in plantations, and its preparation mechanized (ibid 105). The production of tea in individual homes in China was cumbersome, but the transportation from tea growing mountains to the Coast was even harder, requiring upto six weeks or two months from Bohea where it was grown to Canton where it was shipped (ibid 106). The labourers were carrying a load of over 150 kgs which was twice their body weight, over mountains, and across rivers, their lives threatened at every point. Millions of households were involved in the production of tea, and there was no possibility of standardization, check over quality and protection from pests. While the labourers transporting it over Tibet were poorly paid and risked their lives, the middlemen charged huge prices and made profits. (ibid 107-108). Silver had been the currency which paid for the tea, but in 1776, America’s independence from Britain meant that the supply of silver from Mexico was cut off, and British agents could not pay for the tea. In 1773, the British snatched away the illegal opium trade to China from the Portuguese, and monopolized the production of opium in India to pay for tea, which latter had increased demand in Britain. The East India Company sold opium to British merchants in India. These traders took it to China, where corrupt officials handled it. The silver that the traders received was sold back to the East India Company which then bought tea. The Opium War devastated China, and the link between Britain feeding the desire for opium and trading in tea was well established (ibid 110, 111). Moving tea production from China to India was the most crucial requirement, as the British saw tea as useful not for themselves alone, but also for their captive populations in India (116). Philip Lutgendorf suggests that it was only in the 1930s that tea was made available to Indians, first to the Bengali bhadralok in Calcutta, who had access to long leaf, and much later to the larger populations who began drinking tea in small vending shops where tea was boiled with milk, sugar and cardamom. In the 1930s, tea prices dropped because of the great depression and 350 million people in British India were to be initiated into drinking tea, as tonnes of tea were now surplus and could not be exported. The advertising campaign began in 1935 and has been described as the largest advertising campaign in Indian history, though Lipton’s Tea had been showcasing their tea as early as 1911 (Lutgendorf 2012:16) Discovery of tea bushes in Assam In Assam, in the early decades of the 19th century, the brothers had married local women, and as traders were on the search for tea. They had discovered wild tea, but the discovery was not followed up by the British government for up to a decade, as Assam was wild forested country and the local communities and borders were rife with conflicts. (Mcfarlane and Mcfarlane 2004: 130). Robert Bruce died, but Charles Bruce continued to look for wild tea in Assam, and in August 1837, more than ten years after the first forays, the Tea Committee was informed by him that the local Guam tribal chief informant had led him to tea bushes, and when the leaves were boiled up, they compared well with Chinese tea (ibid 134). Bruce’s ability to communicate with tribes people was sufficient to persuade them that he would be able to get money to them, if they cleared the jungles, grew tea bushes and prepared the tea for trade purposes. Bruce told the British agents that if he could get the Singhpos to make tea, all of Assam would become a tea garden, and ofcourse the tribal community with their Rajah would clear land at their own expense. In October of 1836, six ‘Chinamen’ had arrived, of whom two were tea men, and six chests of tea were prepared successfully and sent to Calcutta. The Singhpos were ready to clear land at their own pace, but they were too indolent to work at the orders of others, and so also with the Nagas (ibid 136). As a result the Tea Committee representatives suggested that labourers from Chotta Nagpur should be sent in, and once the gardens were set up, capitalists could move in and decide the administration of the gardens (ibid 137). Alan Macfarlane writes, “Stuck in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by jungles full of herds of wild elephants, tigers so plentiful they were referred to as pests like the leeches and rats, far from their families, without women or recreation, with only Singhphos for company, Charles Bruce did well to keep his Chinamen from absconding or collapsing under the strain” (Macfarlane and Macfarlane 2004:137) Creating the experimental tea garden was not easy. In Bruce’s Report of the Agricultural and Historical Society, India Office tracts, no 320 (cited in Macfarlane and Macfarlane 2004: 136) he describes how hardy they are in being transplanted, “I may mention that they were in the first instance plucked out by the roots by the village people who were sent to bring them from their native jungles, put upright into baskets without any earth, brought two days’ journey on men’s backs, put upright into canoes, a little common earth only being thrown among their roots, and were from seven to twenty days before they reached me, and then had to be carried half a day’s journey to the intended new plantation, and were four or five days with only a little moist earth at their roots before they were finally put into the ground; and yet these plants are doing well, at least the greater part of them (ibid 136).” The Chinese method recorded by Charles Bruce was cumbersome. It involved picking the leaves, spreading them in the sun, collecting them, clapping them in gloved hands for ten minutes, leaving them in the sun again, and the whole process repeated three times, till the leaves felt like leather. They were then heated on hot fire, taken out and spread, turned by hand and then back on the fire, and this process repeated three or four times. The leaves were then gathered into small piles and rolled into balls by hand, and then separated by hand. They were not allowed to fall into the fire or on the ground. Then they were left to dry on shelves until they were collected into baskets and placed on fires till they reached the right crispness. Then wearing clean stockings, they packed them into boxes. This was the method the planters used for many years not knowing any other, and learned by Bruce’s men from the ‘Chinamen’ he had gathered together. Still the British felt that the China bushes were better, and it was only in 1839 that the Assam bush was preferred, as the hybrid teas were quite disastrous (ibid 138). And the Assamese simply refused to be exploited, as wages were low, the work long and exhausting, and the seasons with its heat and moistness extreme. As a result, Europeans, Bengalis, tribal communities from Chotta Nagpur, Marwaris, Sikhs came in and this became the composition of the tea gardens. Consequently, the British thought it imperative to initiate factory production of tea in India, and technology was thus introduced for drying, rolling and crushing. Natasha Nongbri suggests that tea plantations were both part of the agricultural complex as well as the industrial system of social relations, and every tea plantation had a tea factory in its compound (Nongbri 2018:9). The Ripple tea factory in Munnar for instance serves its co-operative tea gardeners by sending a Tata van which includes an aircooling system ( a simple rotation fan) that allows the tea from different gardens to be collected without damage so it can reach the factory without bruising the leaf in tropical heat. This is the innovation of Dr Zubin Varghese, who is an innovator with international airconditioning systems. Simple though it is, it helps the tea gardens to optimize the delivery of intact leaves to the factory. In Coonoor, a tea planter told me that since his grandfather was a prominent planter who could not reach the factory in time and was shut out from the curing process of a multinational company which offered its services he started his own factory on his estate, to which tea from even smaller gardens would arrive. Baldeep Singh believes that ‘bought tea’, or tea bought from individual planters with small holdings might be the answer to climate change and obsolete machinery, so that tea factories would (personal communication 19th July 2025). Since tea was an important source of foreign exchange, plantations had been exempted from land redistribution, in the 1950s. The Tea Board took over, and many British owners quickly sold to native aspirants, who had long been ‘middle level staff’ (Lutgendorf 2012:18). Very often, it was to managers from upper echelons of South Indian communities who were Christians known to them with trading backgrounds, or to Marwaris from Calcutta. The Tea Factory The tea factory was a heavy duty ensemble of machines, and often so serviceable as not to be changed for an entire century, as I saw on my visit to Coonoor. Tourists are shown around a tea station’s gardens, horticulture nursery cum shop, eucalyptus oil factory, restaurant and grocery store for high end and everyday needs, and the tea factory itself. The young boys who are employed as tourist guides have finished school have come from Kerala, and are hoping to collect wages to pay college fees after the summer. What is interesting is how boundary crossing and hybrid Tamil culture weave with Kerala’s tea plantation workers, as one parent may be from Tamil Nadu and the other from Kerala. Conversely, workers from Tamil Nadu in Munnar who have been tied to the estate for three generations may marry their mother’s brother’s daughter whom they have known since childhood. In Kerala Tamil workers predominated, generations of them migrating from Coonoor, Kotagiri, and Ooty. In Coonoor, Badagas a tribal or cultivating caste community became tea pluckers, and Tamil workers repatriated from Sri Lanka were rehabilitated by tea planters as they knew the work, feeding into the Tantea plantations. Because of climate change and unseasonal rainfall, boutique teas in advertisement friendly packaging are preferred. Grading the tea is a responsibility that the tea planter must take into account. Clasically the three leaf programme was to have tea pluckers pick only the top two leaves and the budding leaf. That gave the best tea, and was called Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe. If the leaf was older it was called Orange Pekoe. If the tea leaf was broken it was called Broken Orange Pekoe. As the productivity of the tea bush declined, or bulk was required, or there was labour shortage, shears were used, and a coarser tea was produced for the mass market. Orange Pekoe was further divided into ‘Fannings’, as this was the tea that could be winnowed, and ‘Dust’ which was swept off factory floors. (Goodwin 1993:182) After it is dried and curled in the big machines, the tea leaves are taken out and allowed to ferment in cool rooms on stone or marble. Then they are allowed to dry again in ovens and further graded, with women workers clearing it of any twigs or fibres, and then once graded, they are packed into chests, boxes or sacks. Lutgendorf describes the cumbersome machine that crushed and fermented teas as ‘prone to breakdowns’. In 1931, a Scotsman called McKercher had invented a CTC (Cut, Tear, Curl) machine that used stainless steel rollers to crush the leaves and ferment (oxidise green tea leaves turning them into black). This machine was then improved by Indians to create the sliding block machine which was used to mass produce ctc so that 99 percent of Indian tea became rolled out in factories by this method (Lutendorf 2012:22). Boutique teas however continued to have a profitable and niche market using old machines as cultural magnets for tourism and export. The Hierarchy of Officers Managers and Assistant Managers report to their employers through written or oral presentations. Sometimes, Managers are asked to take over plantations which are dying, or beyond hope. Baldeep Singh writes of such a garden in his report to his bosses. Tea planters who took over after the British left after the 1960s were sometimes dealing with complex questions of gardens which had passed through other owners. What were the liabilities? As Baldeep Singh writes, it was questions of how to improve yields, consider pest control as fungus, termites and snails were predominant, to improve the production and value of the product (tea), reduce costs and manage labour. Bhatpara, a garden owned by Calcutta marwaris was almost extinct as a production unit, and the Manager had to deal with innumerable problems, as there was indiscipline and anxiety about its development. I paraphrase Baldeep Singh’s report to the owners of the plantation, as given in a report, Since growth on the bushes was very meager, a four year pruning cycle was set in place, from1997/1998 which would have the entire garden covered by 2001/2002. While chemical pesticides were being used, it was hoped that once the pest control was completed, organic fertilizer could be used for the mature bushes. Upto 15 percent of the tea was lost due to pests. From 2003 uprooting of those tea bushes which were above 50 years old was planned. Replanting will produce results only after 12 to 14 years. Irrigation depended on the amicable relation with other managers. Land was stony in patches, in the monsoon the damages to the drains led to problematic flooding, upto 100 hectares was under the control of illegal settlers who had built homes and cultivated the land. When fully utilized the garden could have 800 hectares and produce 26 lakh tonnes of tea. The pluckers unsupervised had been grabbing tea from the bush rather than being selective. They needed to be divided into manageable groups. And these groups had to be allotted to specific sirdars. There had to be clear definition of plucking programme, and the garden administration needed to connect houses to plucking areas with maximum efficiency. Employment of workers had to be within the specific rules of number that could be employed, and “hardship Labour” or those recruited in parallel groups had to be monitored, as they were brought in or managed by influential union leaders. Problems in factory maintenance involved the laying of lights, the substitution of newer machines, and the need to organize transportation of tea by trucks and dependence on external garages. New machinery could be considered only if the profits were sufficient, but measures could be taken to reduce the expense on oil for furnaces. Labour relations between pluckers and management was dismal, as the garden had been neglected by previous owners, and the outcome was that the pluckers depended on highway robbery, animal husbandry and forest produce to survive. Their problems as squatters were real, and once employed, the administration would have to concern itself with housing and water supply. A tubewell commissioned would be available in 2001/2002. Meanwhile the existing tubewells would require to be pumped for 14 hours per day, with its consecutive costs of energy consumption. Housing was the greatest problem, with 519 standard houses for 1327 families. The others live in shacks built from foraging the forests for timber. At 64 units to be constructed, it would take up to 2012, and the rest completed by 2040. Action by the Labour Departments and Plantation Labour Acts was imminent.The repair of houses was done by those workers who were in lesser power for those who were more dominant. The proposed measures were, major repairs in the cold weather for better supervision, closer control of material issues by maintaining records in building registers, repairs to be carried out by permanent workers rather than on contracts, Block Chart of labour maintenance to be kept. The hospital which had once been the best in the district was now in urgent need of repair, and a new Medical Officer to be recruited. The way forward was greater interactive field staff and management, the provision of good environmental and working conditions, and the socialization into computer efficiency by the administrative staff. The improvements in administration of the gardens is because of the hard work of assistant managers, welfare officers and trainees. The Estate’s executives have the total support of their wives, who faced with hard circumstances of living on a neglected garden have proved their strength with the help of those who are from neighbouring gardens. (authored Baldeep Singh, paraphrase of report to managers 15.2. 2000) The Managers and Assistant Managers were frequently transferred from successful gardens to neglected ones, and had to accept their fate starting from scratch when required. Wages were poor for pluckers, and unions were ever active. As a result humanitarian concerns were emotionally a sign of their commitment to human rights issues, but profit margins depended on keeping the price of tea low and wages concomitant to the ratio between cost of production, workers’ wage and profit motives. Role of Women and Corporate Social Responsibility Projects: Alka Singh and the Bodo Weavers Project Local historians are extremely important to the Sociologist, and their views integral to how a narrative is constructed. The role that women played in tea plantations were always substantial, as in lower strata they were pluckers, sorters and packers, besides contributing to the demographic maintenance of labour lines through child bearing, marriage and nurturing. As spouses of managers or assistant managers, women mediated between the house and the gardens. As the wives of the managers were not permitted to go to the lines, their institutional role was to provide support to the medical staff in the hospital or help out in the school or be involved in Corporate Social Responsibility projects. Since amenities such as water, electricity, houses and medical and educational support were provided by the Company to workers, low wages were considered to be legitimate. Unions worked hard to represent the difficulties and poverty of the workers. Since it was a capitalist endeavor with Marwari traders taking over from the colonial British companies, quite often Calcutta traders preferred their names to be kept out of view. Managers’ wives were consolidated in terms of their support to the plantation through the work that they did in unswerving loyalty to their planter husbands. Very few were known to step out of their jurisdiction, but with the emphasis of Corporate Social Responsibility, the wives began to contribute to the well being of the plantation. Alka Singh ran a weaving unit with great proficiency, the products were made by Bodo women, and the linen thus produced was used in the plantation guest houses and hospital. The quality was so good, that it was even bought in Calcutta by social welfare outlets for handlooms. She writes “It is thought that, among the many things introduced to Assam by the Bodo people, was the technique of weaving and embroidery. Each woman is a weaver and every girl is expected to spend atleast a few hours each day working on the family loom. Having acquired weaving knowledge, the women folk use their consummate skills to make intricate and fine fabrics. Besides the designs and colours that denote their tribal identity, the weavers take particular pleasure in using numerous patterns and colours, and allow their own artistic impulses full play. This has the happy consequence of limitless designs and an innovative, playful approach to a burdensome task. The Bodo Handloom Scheme came into being in September 1995 at Borangajuli Tea Estate and was soon followed by similar schemes at Corramore and Dimakusi Tea Estates. The three estates are located in Darrang district, the furthest being Corramore (approximately a four hour drive from Gauhati). The area is backward, with little development. Communication is poor and other than the tea estates, there is little scope for employment. Furthermore, the problem of insurgency plagues this neglected and deprived part of Assam, with all its attendant difficulties. The Scheme was started with a view to providing opportunity to earn a livelihood, to go beyond the boundary of the tea estates and to raise the standard of living of Bodo women whose weaving skills find little scope commercially. What the women lacked was easy access to cotton yarn, lack of finance to purchase the yard where available, steady year long flow of work, and finally a market beyond the confines of the weekly bazaar where, essentially, it is one poor family selling goods to another equally poor one. A few weaving centres have been set up in the vicinity by local entrepreneurs, but work often depends on the needs of a fluctuating and seasonal market and is, as a consequence, inconsistent in terms of livelihood. BHS stepped in to fill these needs. Yarn is procured locally at wholesale rates, and is then dyed near Borangjuli before distribution among the weavers. An office and store for yarn and finished goods has been provided to the Scheme of Borengajuli Tea Estate, and it is here that the weavers gather, twice every week, to collect yarn. Providing yarn free of cost to weavers, who then guided in design, colour combinations, sizes and finish of the products to ensure consistent quality. The weaver takes the yarn to her home, where among her numerous other duties will be the work of weaving for BHS. She will spend only as much time as she can spare on this work, as flexibility is given and allowances are made for sickness, festivals, marriages. Normally, finished goods are brought back within two weeks, sometimes earlier if the weaver’s need for money is urgent. The weaving charges paid are generous and amount to nearly 40% of the total cost. This in itself is unusual in the Handloom sector. Each weaver has been issued a card which she brings with her. The card serves as a brief record of the weaver’s capabilities, her promptness in bringing back woven fabric and her earnings. On the basis of this card, a core group of especially skilled group has each been formed and their particular skills are called upon when new samples are required to be made or when an order is received that requires special care. All yarn is weighed before it is issued, to ensure that wastage stays within acceptable limits and that women contribute handsomely to the household income, some earning as much as their husbands. She is then given more yarn for weaving and the whole process begins again. When the Scheme started, much time went in organising and administering the Scheme. After three years, the systems modified and devised by BHS are now being re-used by the same NGOS whose help had been solicited at the start of the Scheme. From the bolts of fabric that the weavers deliver, a variety of different items are made by the Scheme; we weave table covers of different sizes, napkins to match, table mats, co-ordinated bed cover and curtain fabrics, single and double bedsheets sets. Since traditional Bodo motifs and designs were little known, a conscious decision was earlier taken to make products that have constant and utilitarian appeal. As the Scheme grew and its products acquired a steady market, more ethnic elements were introduced and these have met with approval in the marketplace. Orders have been executed for well known outlets in Calcutta and Bangalore. Samples sent to Delhi and the U.K have elicited enthusiastic response. The Scheme was privileged, this year, to supply linen for the students’ hostel at the prestigious Assam Valley School. Efforts are made to introduce new designs and products regularly. The relationship between the weavers and the Co-ordinators of the Scheme is friendly and interactive. The result being that many new motifs and designs have been added, on the initiative of the weavers themselves, to the large selection of samples that are already being woven here. In the last three years, a number of sales have been organized in Gauhati, initially with the help of well known bodies such as North Eastern Women’s Entrepreneurs’ Association (NEWEA), the Crafts Council of India and at Aavishkar Gallery, in Calcutta. As the response was encouraging, sales have been held with regularity all over Assam. Many of these have been organized by volunteers among the Tea ladies, who worked readily and whose contribution to the overall sales cannot be underestimated. Mention must be made of the generous personal contributions from the Directors of Williamson Magor. Mr and Mrs RL Rikhye were unsparing in their enthusiastic support in procuring orders for the weavers here must also be put on record. The Scheme supplies the hospital linen requirements for most Williamson Magor tea estates in Assam, Dooars and Darjeeling. The inception to the present day, cannot be over-emphasised. The initial capital or seed money was made available by Williamson Magor, interest free, the orders from within the group have provided continuous, steady work to the weavers for over two years now, while infrastructural support from Borengajuli Tea Estate have been vital to the smooth running and well being of BHS. It is matter of pride and happiness for those of us involved in this welfare project that the sales in this financial year were nearly 10 lakhs rupees. The Scheme is now poised for growth both in terms of larger volume of sales as well as diversification. The process of vegetable dyeing of yarn has almost died out in this part of Assam. We are linking up with NGOs activists in this field and hope to send a few weavers from here to participate in workshops to re-learn this process. This is being done with a view to setting up a subsidiary unit for vegetable dyes, which with their huge export potential, could lead to greater monetary benefits and conseqent empowerment of the women weavers. As waste cotton yarn is generated by the scheme, a unit for manufacturing hand made paper can be set up with nominal investment. Both these spin-offs have an identified market niche and little would be required by way of promotion of these products. The Scheme already employs the services of 7 tailors and this number is expected to go up along with sales. Most of the weavers are illiterate and extremely poor. They have no access to any kind of formal financial institutions and almost all government programmes meant for socio economic uplift of the people in this area have failed. Attempts are now being made to organize the weavers into informal Women’s saving and credit groups. Inspiration has been drawn from the success of micro credit groups in other parts of India and an NGO specialising in this fields. Friends of Women’s World Banking (India) has been contacted. This, we hope, will have a ripple effect into other vital fields of health, hygiene and education. The valuable patronage of the Company would help realize the dream to materialize. It is indeed possible that this scheme could grow into a small scale industry that would provide a handsome livelihood to the weavers in Darrang and in the future their nimble fingered daughters as well. Williamson Magor has played a pivotal role in bringing to the forefront the potential, talent and skill that the Bodo women possess, and which till today was little known or recognized beyond the confines of Darrang district.” ( unpublished mimeo Alka Singh, 14.5. 1999) Wives of managers of plantations were brought up in similar class contexts (military or trading families). They were made to understand that setting a table and putting out cutlery in exactly the manner in which their use was prescribed was part of the crucial etiquette that was required of them when entertaining clients at the manager’s bungalow. Servants were many: cooks, bearers, gardeners, ayahs, chauffeurs, chowkidars and each lived with their families on the plantations and were under the care of the Badda Memsahib who also kept cows, dogs, cats and any number of rescued animals and birds, including snakes. Sociability was a life line, so the Managers being in a hierarchy of command were buttressed by the duties of their spouses to those younger in line, whose bachelordom had to be supported by food and advice. When the Assistant Managers married, their young wives had to be initiated into the hard work of cooking for meals at the Club festive occasions. It was rather like feeding a battalion, and the “pathilas” or large copper vessels brought to the club with 25 kilogrammes of chicken, across rivers and rocky roads were like a cross country race, threatened by the presence of jungle animals. Ofcourse, the Burra Memsahib apportioned duties to Assistant Managers’ wives, but the choreography of cooking, transporting and serving the specific tea garden’s contribution rested on the Burra Memsahib. Garden visibility was most necessary, as the planters had to show success in sports, the commercial viability of their tea, and sales there of, while the women represented the manner in which style and social skills along with domestic managerial skills made them partners in the tea industry to their husbands. This visibility of role was something understood, if not paid for or acknowledged. Corporate Social Responsibility was a drive that brought these nurturing and managerial skills to the fore. In Munnar, the Tata co-operative tea factory brought the children of tea pluckers to skills such as strawberry farming, bread and cake making, dyeing and tailoring of upmarket fabrics for sale at the tea station’s outlet. Interestingly, the children at the Bakery were handicapped, or mentally retarded, and had been sent to The Taj in Mumbai to learn from its bakers, bringing back astounding skills in pastry and cake making. The Local Historian and the Craft of Collaging memories Every tea plantation which saw itself as successful, or struggling to survive required to have a history which could be supportive of its continuities. The local historian again provides us with much information. Alka Singh writes, “Lingia was started around 1865 when two sons of German missionaries brought some 550 acres for 600 rupees. Andrew and Fred Wernicke were in their early twenties and while Fred had assisted Captain Jordan at Soom, Andrew was at the neighbouring estate of Tukvar, close to the mission where his parents had worked in the 1840s, when the family first came to Darjeeling. It was at Tukvar that Andre Wernicke met with an unfortunate gun accident that shattered his left hand and wrist. He was taken to Darjeeling the next day where his arm had to be amputated from the elbow. This did not impinge upon his lifestyle and he continued to work and to enjoy the occasional shoot. The land at Lingia was partly jungle and under native cultivation of maize. Work on tea planting had to begin from scratch. The terracing of the steep slopes to prevent erosion was supervised by the two brothers and planting of new tea was from established nurseries or seed at stake. The first tea was planted out by an ex-sergeant whose name is lost to history, around where the Manager’s Bungalow now stands with Fred riding over from Soom to supervise the work. Among the first things that required their immediate attention was the development of a system of roads and bridle paths to facilitate movement of both labour and leaf with in the estate, as well as communication between the warden and the outside world. They connected the mountain streams from nearby jhoras by channels to carry water to the large tank from which it was then conveyed by pipes to the factory to operate the water wheels and at a later date the turbines. By 1867, Fred had left Soom to personally control the work at Lingia, living in a small roughly built bungalow, he watched over the building of the factory and work on the garden. Ever strapped for money, he could not afford cement, corrugated iron, steel girders and beams for the structure of the factory. In true pioneer spirit, Fred improvised and innovated using materials available on the estate: sun dried bricks, foundations of stone and mud. The floors consisted of “sookri”, a composition of quicklime and sand, wood served to make the roof elements and beams. Fred devoted himself to developing Lingia while his brother Andrew managed Makaibari Tea Estate. However, the need for both brothers to be in closer proximity grew, as the neighbouring spur of Tumsong, acquired a few years earlier, began to produce greater quantities of leaf. So, in 1873, Andrew, his wife and children left Makaibari to join Fred at Lingia. Their first winter was spent in the long upstairs withering trough, which ran the length of the factory, and was divided by light partitions into bedrooms, a bathroom, meals being taken downstairs in a room in the factory. The winter of 1873 was a very busy one, for in addition to pushing on with the extension of the Manager’s bungalow, considerable thought and care had to be given in preparing the Lingia tea. When the factory at Lingia was planned, some estimate of the crop it would have to deal with had been made, but such calculations were at best guesswork, as nobody was sure of the full bearing capacity of tea at high altitudes. The Lingia factory could hardly cope with its own crop and as increasing quantities of leaf began pouring in from Tumsong, the need to build a separate factory at Tumsong became urgent. It had also become evident that running Lingia and Tumsong conjointly was both cumbersome and expensive, with a lot of overlapping of work. By the end of 1877, the Tumsong factory and go-downs were functional and the winter of 1878-79 saw Andrew and his family installed at the Manager’s bungalow in Tumsong. Fred who had in 1874 married a Miss Hannah Lindeman remained to look after Lingia. By 1875 or so, people began to realise that Darjeeling teas possessed some thing which was very rare and this is the intrinsic flavor of teas grown at high altitudes. Planters were also beginning to find out how elusive this flavor could be and how easily it was lost by damage to leaf. Attempts were now made to retain the characteristic flavours recognized by names such as lemon, strawberry, muscatel, which so enhanced the value of Darjeeling tea by simplifying and standardizing the process of manufacture. Experiments were already being made with artificial withering on other gardens and the Wernickes would often meet with fellow planters to exchange ideas of information. From 1870 onward, the comparatively simpler routine of withering, rolling, fermenting, firing and sieving adopted at Lingia and other progressive estates gradually became common practice. The break with the centuries old Chinese methods was certainly a brave step. No doubt the brothers would be delighted to learn of the Lingia Clone, a China hybrid stock possessing both high yield and characteristic Darjeeling flavor. The five grades of Lingia teas, picked in locally made wooden boxes lined with paper, were man handled along with other Darjeeling teas as far as Pankhabari and transported to Calcutta by relays of bullock carts. As dacoity and brigandage were common, all convoys travelled under military escort or armed “chaukidars’. Lingia is now a valued possession: a profitable property that supports a population of over 1600 people. Upon the tea bush and upon the people of Lingia are lavished an equal amount of care and attention. In the crisp mountain air, from 6000 at its highest to the comparatively steamier lower reaches at 2,500 Lingia is beautiful: an eloquent tribute to the men who nurtured the estate from it inception in 1865 to the present day.” (unpublished mimeo Alka Singh 2000) When the tea plantation at the Dooars managed by her husband was sold by the Calcutta Marwaris, they moved to Soom and Lingia plantations which allowed them to carry out their humanitarian works among the tea pluckers. Rules of Propriety and the Planter’s Wife What did women who did not adjust to the isolation and tea plantation life do? There were visits to the club, and that too was tied by etiquette and serious rules of comportment. Needless, to say, women were not expected to hang out with men in the bar, and were expected to discuss embroidery and the behavior of servants in segregated groups. Chanda Singh’s novel The Last Boga Sahib (2019) is a fictionalized ethnography of time during the1960s, when a young Scotsman falls in love inappropriately with a woman who was a gym teacher and a friend of his sister in the home country. His mother is against the marriage as they are a third generation British plantation family, and she says the age difference and his solitary life will be a handicap for the young romantic girl who pursues this bachelor living in India, who is known to be obsessed with every day duties. They marry, however, but on reaching Assam, the young woman finds life in the bungalow insufferable and the company of other memsahibs irritating and profoundly out of keeping with her own sense of valour and ‘coming of age’ in times which were so exciting back home. The Scots were still working in tea gardens in the 1960s since payments made to them were in stirling. They left according to Baldeep Singh because that was stopped, and it was not worth their while to be paid in rupees. But they had initiated the Indian representatives of multinational tea companies into their ‘way of life’ which was lavish entertainment, the courtesies of well trained servants who being migrants to Assam or Tamil Nadu were often keen to keep their jobs, and the general pursuit of occupational perfection as a kind of vocation, as well as the sports which made them hardy and competitive, such as football, riding, shooting and cricket. The British themselves, after Independence, found it cheaper to import from Kenya and Malawi, and since the China war in 1962 brought Assam into the firing line there were hardships for the British planters and their families. After nationalization, British companies could only keep 26 percent of the shares, but were happy to have a large internal market in India which got them their profits (Goodwin 1993:167). G.P Baroowah writes of how Anrew Gilis Bowles returned to a tea plantaion he had inherited from his family, as he had been born in Assam and planted tea bushes there, which were very much in demand in the American market. The first thing he does after getting off the plane is visit the grave of Charles Alexander Bruce to whose memory he offered prayers {Barooah 2006:18). In the Last Boga Sahib when the young memsahib cannot adjust, she runs away, sorry to lose her husband, and grateful for his passion and attention but never the less free to marry again after her divorce. The obsessive planter in the fictionalized account of tea planters’ life, which has its centralized tropes the garden, the house, the club, the forest, the hospital and the network of like mind friends returns to his solitary existence with the alcohol, gargantuan meals which his bearers and cooks serve up for him and his friends, and the fear of malaria and sundry tropical diseases against which immunity is sought. David Mitchell writes of his uncle Stuart who was a tea planter in Assam, and then fought in Singapore and died there in the Second World War, against the Japanese as follows, that he recognized, “that on the one hand he had loved being cocooned in a life with servants and staff waiting on his needs. He knew how he reveled in the exotica of such rare sports as pig sticking and hunting, and how he enjoyed the privileged atmosphere of the planters’ clubs. On the other hand he now had to face the immediacy of his solitary return to the limitations and remoteness of a planter’s existence.” (Mitchell 2012: 72) The Englishman had to balance his obsession with tea, with the solitude enjoined on him, and as a result liasons with tea pluckers was looked down upon, but not infrequent. In the case of Stuart, he genuinely fell in love with a tribal woman, who bore him two daughters, one of them posthumously. He had no idea how his family would receive news of their hybrid grand daughters, but on the other hand, on the boat back home, he fell in love with a woman whom he promised to marry as she was from a social class his mother was from, and while in England on that trip, he also connected to hisprevious girlfriends… promiscuity was not a grave offence in Britain in the 1930s and 1940s, though it was secretive. He tried very hard to get a job in England, but to no avail. On being forced to return to the plantation knowing full well that he could not marry by company rules for the next four years, he was pleased to see on his return to Assam, that his lover in the plantations was pregnant with their second child. The tragedy of war years, and the intense emotional life of the protagonists continues, as after Stuart’s untimely death in war, his sister’s husband also dies in the war against fascism, leaving behind a steadfast note of love and longing and mutual liberation. On the embers of these war time deaths, do the two cousins Anna, who is the daughter of Stuart, and David who is the son of Stuart’s sister Mary compile their evocative memories. The detailed accounts drawn from letters and hear-say tell us how recapturing the past of these hidden lives in the colonial period, and following it up with post colonial experiences, give us a window into people’s history through the weaving of discordant and often hidden narratives. Stuart’s intense emotions and his feelings for his lover and her children are always hidden from view. On the other hand he circumscribes their joy together as something remembered by those who survived him. He provided for them, and left them land and a home. Much of this emotional segmentalisation would be hidden from view of his intended English wife. Ofcourse, woven in that narrative of the solitary tea planter’s life anticipating marriage with his hypotherical companionate wife, if permitted to arrive by the Company, would be not just Monglee, the tribal lover, but the shadowy and instantaneous attraction for the lovely Isla Black (Mitchell 2012:69). All these loves are repressed and yet, like molten lava they exist waiting to consume him, should they all meet simultaneously. Before that happens, the Second World War conscripts him in 1940. Mary his older child whom he adores, and has memories of him, and Ann, whom he barely meets as an infant are both sent off to a convent school, where inspite of the good intentions of the nuns, Mary dies. Ann hopes to meet her father’s family, but her cousin Daniel dissuades her, as he was head bearer in a planter’s household and knew their ways, “The planters were out and as a special treat Daniel let me sit on the verandah in the big chair that he said my father had sat in. Daniel was clear that in the eyes of my father’s family I would be seen as an embarrassment. He said that they did not want to know children outside marriage. He went on to say that the English did not see the Indian people as equals, and that I would be seen as inferior. I knew all about castes. My life had been spent as an Anglo Indian, not accepted in our village community as either a European or as a true Indian. I saw the caste system everywhere I went and did not question that some people were born to clean latrines and perform other lowly tasks. Somehow I had not applied that thinking to the Europeans on the tea estates but as Daniel spoke to me my dream of acceptance by my father’s family began to fade. (Mitchell 2012: 291-292) As Barooah says, of tea labourers, “They were given shelter, food and clothing but the wage was minimal. They used to toil in the field and on the factory. Any indiscipline was ruthlessly crushed. Labourers were mortally afraid of their boss. Today’s concept of productive partners of progress was unknown then. Labourers coming from the different states of India developed a new culture of integration. Initially these workers were not acceptable to the local population. There was no intermixing between the native population and the newly created agroindustrial force.” (Baroowah 2006: 67; see also Shobhita Jain in Ed. Visvanathan 2001) Bodo insurgence was a vivid response to the rise of ethnic conflict in Assam, as well as of local communities rising against tea managers in the latter years of the 20th century (Jayeeta Sharma 2011, see also L.Lam Khan Piang in Ed Visvanathan 2018) In Chanda Singh’s fictionalized ethnography of tea plantation life in the hands of a last age set of colonial planters, the bride who is brought to Assam, constantly frets about her husband’s possible dalliance with nautch girls who come in for annual festivities. Her husband is thirty five and is discreet about past physical needs but her jealousy eats up their marriage, and the heat and lassitude become over powering obstacles to her staying on. (Singh 2019:109). In breaking all the rules at the club which are prescribed for memsahibs such as drinking overmuch, smoking with the men, dancing non stop with the bachelors, dropping her bath towel at the pool, being rude to the senior ladies, and generally being loudly argumentative with her husband David, Iris communicates her refusal to conform. So Chanda Singh systematically describes what it takes to belong to plantation life, and how conjugal solidarity was the greatest requirement planning a career in tea. In a charming essay written as an introduction for her anthropologist son Alan Macfarlane, Iris writes about her life as a planter’s wife in 1952, “It was full of fireflies and a canopy of stars, perfumed with moonflowers and lilies. I breathed in the sweetness and thought this is the last hot weather I’ll spend in Assam. When we went home on leave next year Mac would get another job and that would be the end of India. There would be no separations from the children, no terrible club circles waiting for the men to come and collect us, their shirts stuck to their pink stomachs, their fly buttons undone. I went to bed happily unaware that I would actually spend twenty years in tea; it would be 1966 before I was carried out on a stretcher from this beautiful, vibrant, exhausting magical county.” (Macfarlane and Macfarlane 2004:9) Iris visits the village school master’s house one afternoon, on her husband’s suggestion, so that she can learn the local language, and is given a delicious lunch by his wife, and returns to the estate glad that she has met Assamese who live a good life outside the tea gardens. “Clutching a bag of guavas I drove home elated. The first scale had fallen from my eyes. Assamese were not the ‘spineless sods’ planters had led me to believe; compared to the labour force in the lines they lived sumptuously. I could visualize retiring to a village shaded by palms, with pumpkins, bananas, coconuts and guavas dropping at my door. Mac, who had pitied me a dreary afternoon of very sweet tea and stilted talk, was surprised at my glowing demeanour. I glowed because I had the key to escape from the club circles, the coffee mornings, the weekend Polo Sprees when the conversation still circled round the paniwallah. In all my years in Assam I never met another woman who wanted to escape. I was considered eccentric, and Mac was pitied. Most of the time I didn’t care. (ibid 12) In the 1950s and 1960s the club in the tea estate didn’t approximate Iris’s view or anticipation of “polished floors, flower arrangements, chintzy sofas, tea trays and iced drinks carried by servants in white coats and cummerbunds... a library, a card room, a children’s playroom…where magistrates, forestry officers, policemen mixed with doctors and colonels and talked of their jobs and hobbies” (ibid 7). So she was horribly disappointed. “When we had disembarked and climbed a muddy bank a company car drove us past some bungalows and deposited us beside one slightly bigger, flanked with tennis courts.. We were to watch tennis, seated on a row of hard chairs, and then the men would retire to play billiards and their own bar. There was nothing for the children to do, no swings or sandpit: in fairness, there were no other children. There were no interesting Empire Builders either, nothing but planters, all of a red-faced, thick legged, sweaty Scottish variety it seemed, a stereotype that remains with me still.” (ibid 7) Iris never told Mac that she had found a holy man on an island. He was a large man wrapped in a white shawl, sitting on a platform, and people had to queue to meet him, as only a few were allowed entry at any given time. “What happened next I have remembered for the rest of my life. A hand rested on my bent head, and through it, onto my clammy forehead, into my dusty scalp, right inside my head and then flowing down my body, sweetness and strength filled me. It was like sunshine pouring into a dark room, like rain filling on dry earth. It was as if the windows of my mind had opened and all the beauty of the world flown in.” (ibid 15) Although she never told Mac about the holy man, or returned in person for another blessing, the first meeting was sufficient for her all her life. The passing down of the culture of tea with its material culture which embodied elegance and bourgeoisie values required a new generation of planters, who had to be drawn from the right back ground. This involved being the sons of military officers, or civil servants or people with wealthy agricultural or trade back grounds, able to marry women from the same class who knew the rules of maintaining beautiful homes and gardens and an overladen table and a large retinue of ‘staff ’, as domestic servants were called. They were anglicised and used to the hardship of service to the nation. The routines were rigourous, and the basic rule was that children had to be sent away to boarding schools so that the couple could serve the nation in the production of tea and foreign exchange. The years of hardship of LTTE refugees from Sri Lanka in Tamil Nadu and Bodo insurgency in Assam were occupational hazards that had to be suitably domesticated. Natasha Nongbri writes “Jayeeta Sharma’s work comes closest to examining the foundation of a plantation economy in the regions and assessing its impact in social and cultural terms in the region. Against the backdrop of the emergence of the tea industry that redefined the region and its people (in positive terms for the British) she further explores the transformation of the former service gentry into an assertive Assamese middle class and their attempts and struggles to forge regional linguistic ethnic and nationalistic identities for themselves and their imagined region.”(Nongbri 2018:7) Courage and visibility went together, and the disciplining of labour force on low wages was understood to be the cost of keeping tea prices low for an ever consuming public. References Barooawah, Gautam Prasad. 2006. Tea - Legend, Life and Livelihood of India. Guwahati: LBS Red River Publications Goodwin, Jason 1993 The Gunpowder Gardens – Travels Through India and China In Search of Tea. London: Vintage Jain, Shobhita. 2001. Plantation Labour in South and South East India in Editor Susan Visvanathan, Structure and Transformation: Theory and Society in India Delhi:Oxford University Press Lutgendorf, Philip 2012. Making Tea in India: Chai, capitalism, culture in Thesis 11 113 (1) 11-31 Sage Macfarlane, Alan and Iris Macfarlane. 2004. Green Gold – The Empire of Tea. London: Ebury Press Mitchell, David. 2012. Tea, Love and War: Searching for English Roots in Assam. Leicestershire: Matador Nongbri, Natasha: 2018 The Making of Assam Tea:The Social and Economic History of a Resource, 1830s-1930s unpublished Phd Dissertation submitted to CHS, JNU Piang, L. Lam Khan. 2018. Understanding Ethno-Nationalism through the Concept of Ethnification: The Case of Zo Political Movements in Indo-Myanmar Borderland in Edited Susan Visvanathan, Structure, Innovation and Adaptation, Concepts and Empirical Puzzles In A Post Modern Milieu Delhi Singh, Chanda. 2019. The Last Boga Sahib. Delhi: Speaking Tiger Sharma, Jayeeta. 2011. Empire’s Garden: Assam and the Making of India. Durham: Duke University Press

Sacred and Secular: Some Problems of Discernment and Judgement

THE SACRED AND PROFANE: QUESTIONS OF THEOLOGY, SPIRITUALITY AND JUSTICE Susan Visvanathan Retired Professor, CSSS, JNU 1st July 2025 In this essay I am concerned with certain well known problems of delineating distinctions between religious world views and definitive moral problems. Sometimes the question of ethics has a super boundary, that of cultural dimensions and the subjectivity enjoined by ideological associations. Those not sharing the world view of human rights as enjoined by 20th century charters following world war 11, will repudiate them as strictly belonging to a western world view. For a Sociologist this goes back to questions of Durkheim’s preoccupation with mechanical and organic solidarity. The two solidarities were ideal types, often understood in combination. Mechanical Solidarity is based on resemblance and likeness, while Organic Solidarity is based on difference, hierarchy and interaction. Clearly, they are problems raised by the 1st World War, and what was popularly known as the Dreyfus case, which was mired in anti Semitism. Today, we see that Zionist Jews have crossed all boundaries, and in their annihilation of Palestinians in the War which began in October 2023, and was widely televised, genocide became a daily fare. Evil knew no limits, and there were no laws against Israeli settler preoccupations, with grabbing land in Gaza. United Nations became a concerned observer, but in its bid to sustain itself as a purely European arm of nation states, it made Pakistan the convenor against terrorist organisations, much to the embarrassment of India. Durkheim discussed the manner in which social transformation could make evil appear as good, and be accepted by all who are subject to such an ideology as accepted by all in such a society. Here, I am concerned with certain theoretical problems arising from the relation of law to custom, and the place of the judiciary with regard to specific instances of morality and judgement. Let us look at them one by one. Segmentalisation of emotions, beliefs and occupations as a process of adaptation. Shankaracharyas’ arrest for alleged murder of the ecclesiastical bureaucrat, Sankaraman in 2004. The latter was a temple administrator, described as a ‘serial letter writer’ who would write letters on financial irregularities, womanizing and other faults of the Shankaracharya Jayendra, including his desire to travel across the sea to missionize for Hinduism. He was brutally murdered but out of 189 witnesses, 89 withdrew from the case, and after two years in jail Jayendra asked for bail from the Supreme Court. KTS Tulsi who was the advocate for Tamil Nadu said that Brahmins were put above the law. In 2013, the case was dismissed for lack of evidence. On 3rd December 2004, an essay “Ten minutes in a Life” by S. Anand, documents the Sankaracharya Jayendra’s confession to an all woman police station in Kancheepuram from November 19th to 21st 2004, that he was persuaded by two partisan devotees of Kanchi mutt, to pay for the murder of Sankaraman who had been writing corrosive letters to him for three years. He confessed to land deals, acceptance of black money from various highly placed officials, and womanizing by his colleague Vijayendra and his brother Raghu. However, Anand writes that confessions extracted in police custody had no legitimation in Court. I now quote from Sri Jayendra Saraswati vs State of Tamil Nadu and Others on 26th November 2005 www Kanoon accessed on 29th May 2025 author G.P Mathur : Bench R.C Lahoti and G.P Mathur 46. The Mutt is an organization of religious faith of innumerable people. So also is the Church, Mosque, Wakf, etc. There are several Endowments, Trusts and philanthropic activities attached to these organizations over which several devotees have personal interest, faith and sentimental devotion. One may or may not agree with the respective faith or belief of others. But they have a right to establish and maintain institutions for religious and charitable purposes within the framework of law and such right is granted as a fundamental right under the Constitution vide Article 26. Such an organization cannot be paralysed or closed down virtually by sending a letter purporting to act under Section 102 Criminal Procedure Code, only for the reason that the Head of the Mutt and few office bearers are alleged to be involved in some offences. A word of caution to the Special Investigation Team: By all means, take action in the criminal cases against the indicted individuals with a single-minded determination if you feel convinced about their guilt. No one is above the law. But if you divert and deviate from that direction unmindful of the rights of innocent devotees of the Mutt, it would result not only in diluting the prosecution, but also cast a deep shadow on it. If there is anything wrong with the administration of the Mutt, it is for the H.R. and C.E. Department which has to comply with the procedure under the Act and to look after the said issues in terms of the provisions of the Act and it is not for the police to interfere with the functions of the Mutt while investigating a case of murder or assault. Even if any commission or omission amounting to a criminal misconduct is brought to light in so far as the administration of the Mutt is concerned in the opinion of the H.R. & C.E. Department, it may be open to the H.R. & C.E. Department to file a complaint before the police for appropriate action against the individuals concerned. It is not for the Special Investigation Team dealing with a murder and assault case to plunge into the accounts of the Mutt, and paralyse its functions by invoking Cr.P.C. Section 102." (Accessed 20th May 2025.) Judges further said that 183 Bank accounts being frozen because of alleged irregularities by the petitioner was too extreme, as his guilt was being decided before the case was closed. Transfer out of Tamil Nadu was not permitted as the judges said that there was no atmosphere of anxiety in Kanchipuram, and that Indira Jaisingh appearing for Padma, wife of Sankararaman had said that all the witnesses spoke Tamil, and the correspondence and evidence was also in Tamil. So the proceedings were shifted to Puducherry. The Judges noticed that the respondents were intent on terrifying all those who were supportive of the petitioner and accused their witnesses of other crimes to keep them suspended from daily routines till the murder case was resolved. Shanti vs State of Tamil Nadu On 4th August 2005 Author P Satashivam, Bench Honourable Justice P Satashivam and AR. Ramalingam In the High Court of Judicature at Madras (accessed on 29th May 2005) All the petitioners had the detention order squashed as there was no proof against them of being wrong doers in the Sankaraman case, and the State of Tamil Nadu was accused of keeping 17 respondents in prison, when there were two murderers of Sankararaman It is not the case of the sponsoring authority that all the detenus on whose behalf these habeas corpus petitions have been filed were present at the spot and by their acts in the spot which is a public place, the people in the area felt insecured and fear and panic has been created in the minds of the people in the locality. On the other hand, even according to the sponsoring authority, only two persons entered into the temple and attacked the deceased Sankararaman and came out and sped away from the scene along with three others who were waiting outside the temple with motor-bikes. Thus, it is clear that the conclusion arrived at by the detaining authority as mentioned in the grounds of detention totally contradicts the case of the sponsoring authority. Rediff.com reports that Sankararaman’s father had served the older Sankaracharya for 60 years, and so he wanted everything to be as it was in the Senior Pontiff Sri Chandrasekharanda Saraswati’s time. His father was a close associate who had accompanied Sri Chandrsekharanda on his walk from Kanchi to Kashi. Seeing Jayendra’s new views on friendship with powerful people, missionary travels abroad, views on Dalits, he wrote on 30th August 2004 that he would go to court to get Jayendra dismissed. He was murdered on September 3rd 2004. They were a poor family, living in three room apartment, with a son and daughter who were college students with their father fighting a lone battle, on behalf of traditional practices of the Kanchi Mutt. (www. Rediff.com 14th Nove 2004. Who was Sankararaman? A Ganesh Nadar accessed 29th May 2025) April 27th 2012 NDTV: Wife Padma stated that she had been threatened in appearing in court. By 2013, she had died. Sacred and Profane: Sin as a theological concept It is quite often said in Hindu colloquial speech that there is no paap (sin as pollution), and karma theory will punish the offender. Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so also the concept of sin is differentially viewed by caste communities. Rebirth and status duties are prescribed. This consensus theory of caste was predominant in the 1960s, until Dalit Sociology found its voice through Ambedkarite representation. From then on, the voice of the Dalit intelligentsia became increasingly powerful, and by documentation and activist interventions, they were able to make the voices of the marginalized heard. In the Shankaracharyas case, chronicled extensively by media, come certain theological motifs. In an aberrant moment, a crime was committed. Deed is bad but the person is not bad: the separation of person as spiritual being, and person as unique where action is separated from his being. This motif is also found among activists against capital punishment, who argue that the murderer must not be beheaded as the State then repeats his crime, which was committed at a particular moment, and does not represent the actions of his/her/their entire life. Law as a system of justice had to take into account the representation of Hinduism in its gory practice. There have been attempts by the current political dispensation to remove the word secular from the constitution, and simultaneously to promote the cult of Ram, as simultaneously a representation of Kshatriya and warrior values. Veena Das’s early work on the ideology lying behind the living cow homologous with the Brahmin, and the dead cow representing the Dalit is very apt. Ravi Nandan Singh carefully takes her argument forward by analyzing both the homology of the roti cooked on the kitchen furnace and the corpse cooked on the funeral pyre, to the cannibalistic activities of the agora sadhus. Dread as these are, they are visible to everyone who visits Benaras as tourist, pilgrim or anthropologist. Very recently, the woman judge in the Madras High Court has argued that temples are not for tourists but for pilgrims. How does law then redefine the sacred nature of rules of exclusion? Mysticism is often defined as supernatural practice Handling tantricism in mysticism: sex and blood as vehicles The Courts have defined the rights of ordinary humans to be able to access the courts of law in case of murder, rape and molestation and embezzlement. There are innumerable cases where women and children have been denied right to life, property or their body, and have been coerced into unnatural sexual relations by so called Godmen. In such cases constitutional morality and Manu’s hierarchies are in contestation. As soon as particular classes, castes or genders are seen as subject to religious or sexual exploitation, they are able to access the law courts. When neglected, or forgotten , or as victims of traditional organization which see codes of conduct to be normative, then large scale form of vituperative behavior are seen to be culturally legitimate, if not legal. Ranging from kulin marriage to child infanticide, all of these will be fitted into the prescribed texts which have been ordained in the Dharma Shastra, so carefully collated by Kane for our scholarly use. The price of murder, rape, or the killing of a cow, will each have interdictions defined by Manu and differently placed according to caste status. As Parallel and co-existing structures these forms of repression and the reaction of victims have been chronicled by media. The Indian Express of 20th May 2017 reports the case of a young girl of 15 on being faced with repetitive rape by her predatory guru, castrated him. The report is titled “Controversial godmen of India: A list of self-styled ‘gurus’ and their sexual assault controversies: Several notable self styled gurus have faced criminal action or are presently lodged in various jails across the country in numerous sexual assault cases.” (accessed on 1st July 2025) The most well known is Nithyanand Swamy, who has fled India, as many cases of rape and assault are registered against him, and has enough followers in spite of his crimes (“No Country for Nithyananda: ‘Kailasa’ Falls, Followers Caught for Land Trafficking”, Mint 5th April 2025 accessed on 1st July 2025). How may we negotiate between the sacred and the profane? Let us now look at certain specific cases where the world is defined and redefined in the law courts by virtue of the responsibility laid upon the honourable judges. Refer to a hard working woman’s earning as Haram Ka Maal is defamation. (Nupur Thapliyal Live Law 24th May 2025) Delhi Court Convicts man U/S 509 Any word or gesture which affronts the modesty of a woman is a bailable offence, with 3 years imprisonment. Therefore, gestures, nuances of speech and tone and actions, written and spoken are liable to be analysed carefully. The agency of women as free subjects is a constitutional right, and may be protected by a court of law. Right to Privacy, Nupur Thapliyal India Today,23.05.2025. Army major request CCTV footage of his wife in an adulterous relationship with another Army major. Judge upholds that the request is against the Right to Privacy. (accessed 26th May 2025) Man stealing another man’s wife is an outdated concept. Judge Vaibhav Pratap Singh, Delhi High Court. The Court cannot be used as a tool for Departmental procedures. (India Today 23rd May 2025) Judge said “Courts are not meant to serve as investigative bodies for private disputes or as instruments for the collection of evidence in internal proceedings, specially when no clear legal entitlement to that evidence exists” said the court. Judge said it affected the right to privacy of the woman and her paramour, and the right to be left alone, and reputational harm. While free love was fought in courts of law in England, and included important cases of homosexuality, in India, customary law usually prevails, and those marrying outside their religion or caste are automatically defined as outside the pale. Since property rights are of crucial concern, children born of such marriages are not eligible to inherit from the co-parcenary holdings of the Hindu joint family. In the case of the Mary Roy case, the courts ruled in favour of equal rights to property, but as a consequence, the men began to write wills, and the priests defended patriarchy as they received tithes at marriage, and kept records. Rights of women in the late 19th century pertained to the giving of Stridhanam, and rights to maintenance of widows. 1925 saw the upgradation of rights to widows and daughters, if man dies intestate. Stridhanam seen as equivalent to share in property, but after the death of the father, brothers not obligated to provide stridhanam or share property. Stridhanam was not equivalent to property, it’s a money claim. The Christian Church in Kerala was anxious that 30,000 nuns married to the church should not create division in family of origin, asking for equal share of property. ‘Dowry as crime’ contests the claim but after Mary Roy’s case, it became clear that the religious and social values supported men. The profane is translated as the mundane and the everyday, but in truth it blemishes the sacred, it becomes profane. While we live in the mundane or routine world, dubbed as profane, both Veena Das and Gilles Tarabout have clearly shown the oscillating nature of the boundary between them, alerting us to the danger of ossification of oppositions. Can Sociology understand truth and falsehood or is it restricted to representation? Given in legal terms this encompasses “The right to forget”. Denial is one of the aspects of how law can operate to support the interests of political parties in power. The case of Najeeb, who disappeared on 16th October 2016 after a fight with ABVP students on the previous day, who were supported by their wardens, has been closed. Lack of evidence has been the conclusion by the court who says it will reopen the case in the light of fresh evidence (JNU Student Najeeb Ahmed missing case, www.MoneyControl 1st July 2025, accessed on 1st July 2025 ) Segmentalisation allows the radius of truth and falsehood to have boundaries, as transmission is the delayed space of retribution.Karma is accompanied by amnesia. Rewards and punishment for past life’s actions cannot be proved. The ability to co-exist, or a theory of relativity applies not only to time, but to morality and social obligations. Amnesia is sought because truth can be then denied, and freedom sought as Arendt proved in her concept of the ‘banality of evil’. Once religion is used as a form of ultimate praxis, ideology becomes a tool. This is prescribed action. No morality is applicable. Durkheim called it ‘when good becomes evil’ in the last section of his voluminous book “The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life”. Variations to the rule are described as ‘cultural customs’, or when catalysts in the process of change, as ‘agency’. Vegetarianism as a universal ethic is juxtaposed by the desire or the compulsion to murder humans who do not comply with vegetarianism. Here, no contradiction is perceived. Associational thought pervades – the killing of animals, particularly the cow for food is viewed as a crime.Yet, where political dominance exists, this rule may be foregone in favour of one group or another. Malayalis and Japanese permitted to eat beef, as it is their custom. One BJP worker even said, “ I am a Hindu but the cow is not my mother.” This adaptation is for political processes to seep into cultures which historically have seen no association between the cow and ‘the mother’. Socialisation is the catalyst – once it peremeates as ideology the laws also become osmotic. In the next section, I shall look at the way in which minority rights to the Christians of Travancore over marriage and property took on a specific intonation with the Mary Roy case of 1984. I draw from the work of Sindhu Thulaseedharan, Department of Law, Kariavattam, University of Trivandrum. Rights of women in the late 19th century; Stridhanam, rights to maintenance of widows 1925 saw the upgradation of rights to widows and daughters, if a man dies intestate. Stridhanam seen as equivalent to share in property, but after the death of the father, brothers were not obligated to provide stridhanam or share property. Stridhanam not equivalent to property, it’s a money claim. Church was anxious that 30,000 nuns married to the church should not create division in family of origin, asking for equal share of property ‘Dowry as crime’ contests the claim to property. I now look at the right to privacy, as this becomes essentially important to safeguard the rights of identity and right to life. It is well known that women who have not followed traditional customs are jeopardized, and the right wing fundamentalist state prefers to go by the morality of the epics thought to have been put together in 3000 years Before Common Era. Since these are the tales of warriors that have been passed on, by- hearted or learned by rote by bards, and copied by litterateurs, the influence it has on people has obviously reached mythological dimensions. Right to Privacy, Article 21 Ram Jethmalani vs Subramanium Swamy on 3rd January 2006 The right to privacy is implicit in the right to life and liberty guaranteed to the citizens of this country by Article 21. It is a right to be let alone. A citizen has the right to safeguard the privacy of his own, his family, his marriage, his procreation ,motherhood, child bearing and education among other matters. None can publish anything concerning the above matters without his consent, whether truthful or otherwise and whether laudatory or critical. If he does so, he would be violating the privacy of the person concerned and would be liable in an action for damages. Position may however be different if a person voluntarily thrusts himself into controversy or voluntarily invites or raises a controversy.(Supreme Court statement, Kanoon, accessed on 25th May 2025) The right to privacy is abdicated if there is a record, such as a press record or a court record, unless it is against decency (Article 19(2). Example in the case of rape or assault, kidnap or abduction when a woman has the right to her privacy and her name may not be publicized. Right to privacy is not available when it comes to public office and the surveillance on code of conduct. Is the statement a fact or an opinion. Defamation involves ruining the reputation of another. Since defamation and right to free expression go together, it is necessary to club the two together, as speech which is actionable comes under the purview of this law. Within this, comes the life of those who are in positions of power, and who are rendered continually transparent by their visibility. The secular domain demands freedom of speech, and therefore of action. The constitution permits aethism as it does sarvdharm, which is belief in all religions. How then will we look at the acceptance of rules as given by religious texts, and the multiplicity of these. This is the need of the hour, just as we anticipate the Uniform Civil Code. In the case of Dr Noorjahan Safia and I Anr vs State of Maharashtra and ORS on 26th Augus 2016, accessed Indian Kanoon.org on 25.4. 2025 there is a PIL which has been filed under Article 226 of the Constitution of India. The petitioners were social activists who complained there was gender discrimination and ‘arbitrary denial of access’ to women in the sanctum sanctorum at the Haji Ali Dargah in Mumbai. The petitioners stated that they were the office bearers of Bharatiya Muslim Mahila Andonal – a national secular autonomous mass movement of Muslim women In India with over 50,000 members in 15 states. According to the petitioners they had been visiting the mosque since their childhood, and were permitted to visit the resting place of the Saint through a separate entry. Till March 2011, they were permitted, in June 2012, when the petitioner No 1 revisted the Dargah to lffer prayers she saw that na onbstacel, a steel barricade stopped women from entering. When she enquired, the President of Haji Al Dargah said that women were now refused entry because they wore low cut blouses, and exposed their breasts, and it was for their safety that they were not permitted. Dargah administrators had not enforced Shariat rules in the mosque, and now realized their mistake. Petitioners sent letters to State Minority Commission, National Commission for Women, Chief Minister of Maharashtra, Trustee of Makhdom Shah Baba Trust and a few ministers. According to the petitioners, in January 2014, a letter was sent by the Dolicitores f the Hajji Ali Dargah Trust to the Minorities Development Department, saying that the holy shrine was open to all persons, the separate entrances was to avoid chaos. The petioners said that this was not so, as they were not permitted to enter. Petioners gave a list of dargahs, permitting women to enter the sanctum , and said the Trust violated the Constitution. Of India. The lawyer for the petioners said that the Haji Ali Dargah is on land land leased to them by the Government, and so the Government has control over the Trust, indicating the autonomy of the Haji Ali Trust.. This Trust being a Public Charitable Trust, the Ban on wmen was contrary to Articles 14 and 15. Article 26 says they can manage the trust, not impose rules against the Constitution. Nothing in the Koran according to the petitioners prohibited women from entering the Dargah. In response Shoaib Menon appearing for the Haji Ali Dargah said that Islam discourages free mixing between men and women, and that the intention of the said restriction is to keep interaction at a modest level between men and women. Prophet Mohammad had said different doors were needed for men and women. Since men were indulging in thieving and sexual harassment, the protection of women by Dargah administration was being called Discrimination. Let me close the argument by looking at why religion and spirituality may often be counterposed against each other, as discrimination is seen to be endemic in these ritual spaces. Why khaap panchayats had so much jurisdiction in Haryana, or why vegetarianism and cultic demonstrations of piety were seen to be necessary rules by which individuals were constrained to behave in particular ways was the stuff of much sociological literature. When infanticide became rife, and female demography took alarming downslide, brides were brought from Kerala and Bihar and communicated in interviews on social media, they were escaping from alcoholism and poverty of their men folk. They said that they took their daughters back home and assimilated them into cultic representations in family temples. This mosaic of custom, tradition and new world views were not problematic, migration and the search for a better life was seen to be perfectly comprehensible. Currently we see the break down of social values world wide, and the necessary and logical consequence is seen to be the safety of women and children by making sure that kitchen, church and kindergarten are the anvil all must concede to. Universities are the space which are now under focus, as free thought must be curtailed. And yet, they are not rendered obsolete, as intellectuals have a part to play in defining the vulnerabilities of the human condition and solutions for normlessness. References Das, Veena, Structure and Cognition, OUP Delhi: 1977 Singh, Ravi Nandan Death in Benaras Phd Thesis Submitted to Jawaharlal Nehru University 2010. Tarabout, Gilles. Magical Violence and NonViolence: Witchcraft in Kerala, in Ed. Vidal, Denis, Gilles Tarabout, Eric Mayer, Violence Non-Violence, New Delhi: Manohar and Centre De Sciences Humaines, 2003. Thulaseedharan, Sindhu. Inheritance Practices of Syrian Christians of Kerala in in ed. Susan Visvanathan and Vineetha Menon Chronology and Events, Delhi: Winshield Press, 2019 Visvanathan, Susan. Marriage, Birth and Death: Property Rights and Domestic Relations among the Orthodox/Jacobite Syrian Christians of Kerala, Volume 24, No 24, June 17th 1989, pp 1341-1346 (accessed on 6.10.15, jstor)

The Last Report: A Short Story by Susan Visvanathan copyright 2019

Morning brought her the brightest pleasures, the sun was drenched in its own spangled light, the moon wilting in the far distance could barely be seen. Yet she knew that it was there, quite incandescent, teller of time, keeper of tales. We were brought into the simplicity of our forest homes by the kindness of vagrant hunters. We knew our time was simply that of silence. No one would ask us any questions, we would be brought our food at appropriate times. All that was requested of us was that we obey the order to remain hidden for ever. Ofcourse, the boys were small, barely toddlers. They grew up knowing the forest as their only home. They feared nothing, often leaving their homes in search of honey, the dead-skull moth being their guide in this venture. Their mother would wait, never anxious, always smiling and murmuring prayers and songs, for without them, the hours would never pass. They had no servants, they were denied friends. They had to live in the clear light of the woods, where the trees were splayed, and otters frolicked in the water. They neither feared the snake, the bear or the tiger, hearing them sometimes, but so distant, that they knew they would not approach. Every night they lit a fire. They knew their only hope to life was to return to the earth, to be once more a part of it. They were unnamed, unknown, full of odd anxieties, never looking to the past for it had brought them nothing but shame. The sorrows of the years clung to them like cobwebs. Even in their mother’s womb, when they heard the whispers of those who wished them dead, coveting their father’s kingdom, they were sorrowful. It was as if there was no end to human desire, that the longing for another’s possessions was what made people what they were. War was only another name for lust, and the children knew that their mother cried often in the loneliness of the cool shade in which she slept every afternoon. They would see that her clothes were damp with sweat. The heat of the sun, her sorrow, her tears and sweat combined to lend an odour to the very air, a fragrance of neem and jasmines. Occasionally a bee hunter or a forager stopped by with things they could eat, hurriedly leaving when their mother, still young and beautiful, muscular, brown skinned and very strong like the bow she carried with her beckoned them, and whispered something to them. They knew of her royal clan, they were afraid of her, sometimes they said things which made her laugh, but then they would turn and run, faster than the gazelle in the face of the running leopard. She knew how to take care of herself, and those who thought she needed pity, often received a barbed remark. Sometimes, she turned away friends, afraid that they would give away her hidden palace of leaves, roots and flowers, disclosing where she now lived, away from preying eyes. The earth was always damp, the sky blazoned, things grew easily, they were never hungry. In the beginning she thought of their father, but as the years passed, and they were forbidden to meet, she forgot him. She did it without regret as she had been exiled without notice. They had been away from each other before, and while his company was dear to her, he was after all a stranger. The enemy had become more familiar, and memories of her escape still haunted her, the smell of burning flesh, the conqueror of a petty kingdom whom her once beloved husband had rooted out as a hated enemy. The washer woman’s often- told story sometimes got lost in the sound of clothes hitting the rock… It had begun with a grievous injury. Not willing to accept the love of the strange maiden, he had taken his knife and made to cut her lock of hair, but in a moment, it was the nose which got sliced off. They saw it lying on the ground, the bone was like a white scalpel, the knife was bloody, there was no going back. Suprankha, the woman with the large eyes and the long tresses of hair, had lain in her beautiful silken clothes, till her brother swooped down from the skies, and took her away. The brothers knew then that a careless gesture had taken away their right to freedom, to the possibility of return to the glades of their own country, where the forests were waiting for them. It was not the plenitude of these hills where they had lived for some years, the very land was continually harvested, leaving boulders and rocks, threatening existence itself. The flat plains were now golden with grain, their brother was well able to look after the people. He had drawn in the rivers, and life there under his care was gentler than when they had left it. This accident of pushing off a woman whose lust had irritated the lord of the forest made an enemy of the king of the South. No, he did not have ten heads. He was just a very intelligent man, dark, suave and worthy of his kingdom. He took his sister home, mutilated, dying and eager for revenge. And so, many days after the event, he came back sworn to take the Lord’s wife away from him. The washerman’s wife stopped in the telling of the story. She was a thin woman with a golden nose ring, and used to have a group around her, as she finished the tasks of the day. They expected her to keep them entertained, and as someone who went to the hidden palace everyday, she always had news of the events that she had seen, for the listening pleasure of the young boys who crowded around her in the lush afternoons when she was weaving brooms and mats.. So, you see, they were all very young, and helpless. The twin brothers were adept at climbing trees, and dropping fruit. Sometimes they were frightened by the wind, and would hide in their mother’s thick woven robes. Their father and his brother had come to visit them, but they had fled from them, hiding in the thick forest till they heard them galloping away. How could they return when once abandoned with the finality of civic virtue? How could they find comfort in the company of nomadic soldiers? It was as if they had been rendered insignificant, thrown out like a bunch of old clothes. The boys often pressed their mother’s stomach. Was it possible that they could have been hidden there? How could they have found space inside this frail woman, who now looked as if she had been reared in the woods, a tendril of vine, the white flowers of the bitter gourd could not compete with her for her beauty. And so, from their memory, of forgotten stories told by their mother, they dredged an unfinished story, a final report, saying that now that their mother had been absorbed into the womb of the earth, they would tell it, to painters and writers alike, with their father’s benediction. How pleased they had been when it always ended with their father bringing her home to Ayodhya, and in every city that they passed, people lit their lamps and came out to greet them. When she heard the washerwoman’s version, their mother had said abruptly, “That’s her account. There are many accounts, as people remember things differently when time passes, and the years bring us to new endings.” 1 So was the woman who owned the bow a giant? He lifted it. He was empty of thoughts. His father had sent him so far in search of a bride that he was surprised when he stood in front of the audience that watched him so closely. It was early summer. The cuckoos were calling, the mango trees had flowered. He rubbed his eyes, and looked at the bow. He lifted it without difficulty but his brow creased. He looked around. There was silence. He was a quiet man himself, and his teacher had explained the path to him. There was only one goal. That goal was his from birth. Anything he did was essentially a fulfillment of that promise. The perfection of his life was a seeming camouflage for the greater things that lay ahead. So in the silence that followed, he understood the bride was his now. She came to him with startling fleet footedness. She had nothing to say too, except to offer him the marriage garland. They saw no one around them, and with the very act of mutual acceptance, she was his. He had no language to communicate that he had been sent to win her, and she had no words to say that there was no debate. Whoever lifted the bow (and he had broke it in his eagerness) was hers to command. Her days of freedom were over. She had no choice, it was fortunate that there was such mutual understanding and love between them. They found themselves looking at each other, startled by their beauty, their immediate and instinctive conjointness. They knew fate had brought them together, and before the mangos ripened she would have left her father and mother, and accompanied him to his home. These things were not unknown to them, there were border crossings for other such marriages. Their dialects often fused, and she had to learn to speak like him. He didn’t mind how long it took, and he didn’t mind what mistakes she made learning the language of power. Secretly, she agreed to marry him, and secretly she agreed to accompany him. No one would know the pact she made with him. She was after all a young girl, it was easy to persuade her. Her home was all she had ever known. And now, this Prince immersed in his books would take her away on a white horse. She had never seen a horse like that before. It was Arabian, from across the seas, and ridden by soldiers in turns. He thought it would be easy to travel with her on it, and they would be home before the seasons had changed. But her mother sent elephants, servants, boxes of gold and silk, and enough cows to feed an army. He felt slowed down by it all. Yet, he said nothing. She was afraid that his silence was a sign of boredom, but he assured her it was not so. His world was different from hers, that was all. He felt comforted in her presence, he said, he found it peaceful. He liked looking at her, her skin was dark, her hair black and curly. This was pleasing to him. He did not believe that kinship was about colour, that preferred pale whiteness: he was happy that she was slim, young, clever. He was not looking for beauty or wealth. He had heard many times that she had been born in a furrow. He laughed, saying that was how the people would describe a woman who stayed home and kept her garden embellished by fruit trees. They never called each other by name, and nor did the people who accompanied them. Her mother came with her, and stayed for a few days to see that her daughter was well looked after. They had quarters in the palace all to themselves. They were accompanied always by an entourage of brothers. She remembered her father and his austerities, and the simple life they had led. She would wake up in the morning, as the sun was beginning to ride the sky. It would be the day that the dogs would gather under the mango tree, waiting for her to arrive. There were many of them, some were spotted and others were marked by the deer as their enemies, for their tongues were lolling out, they were greedy and sharp eyed. Sometimes when they saw her, they mistook her for a deer. Her colour was dark, and she was born out of the earth, dressed in deer skin, and in the early mornings she was full of a certain agility. Her hair fell down in the waves that were combed out carefully by her mother. Her father allowed her to ride on her own as she was his only child. He was not afraid for her, because she was after all the daughter of a king, and simple though he was, unafraid of greater warriors, he knew in his heart that he must give her away in marriage to one who surpassed him in wealth and learning. Her father had thought the Prince bored and willful, but to his great surprise he had lifted the bow, and with a simple shrug had broken it. It was the beginning of a new era. His wild and sturdy daughter, lettered and sophisticated, always dressing in deer skin in the cold winter months was now ready to roam in palanquins, wearing jewels and beautiful clothes. She was after all one of the greatest painters of her time, skilled with the brush and eager to squeeze colours and saps from flowers in the jungle, from the trees in the great woods outside her father’s home. The river where she bathed culminated into a simple lake, and it was here that the mango tree was revered, for they thought she brought with them luck, joy, bountifulness. It was their safeguard against famines and poverty, the lustrous fruit was their motif on weavers’ looms, on the paintings on their floors, on their walls. Each child in the agriculturally wealthy land was reared on these paints, and the Princess was as adept as the poorest and the highest born. Those days were now long past, almost forgotten in the grandness of her new world. So in her husband’s palace she learned to keep silent. It was required of her. He was always busy at his studies. His teachers continued to tutor him, and he was thought to be befitting as a warrior to concentrate on Bisrakh, the Lord of Death, ten headed, or so they said. It was his clan duty to kill him. Tenheaded! That’s another way of saying that he is intelligent, very very learned. Demon King, they call him, but we have often reduced his clan to ashes, and his brothers to aliens. It is my sworn duty, not just a vow, to defeat him. Sometimes she was sad that military strategy engaged him. They were children after all, surely there was time for play. So she asked her father to let her study too, and to convince her husband that it would not distract him, but only fulfill the promise that Bisrakh would be punished for his excesses. Her father wrote back, on her mother’s return that she had his permission, but while the Prince was at war, she was not to leave her new home. They were peaceful happy days, nothing could be better than the kingdom of the Prince, built ornately on the fecund plains, with the river beside, though not as broad as the one she knew. Every morning she woke to the sound of birds, and the sun rising promised her another day of learning to live in swathes of time which were evenly divided between his mother and him. It was almost as if she were married to his mother, something she did not find difficult to understand, it was true of most brides, they learned more from their husband’s mother than from their own. What was required of them was perfect obedience and polite speech. The language she spoke was not acceptable to them, so she had tutors who made her conform to the palace. And she was quick to learn. There was no way that her husband would find fault with her. She learned to control her temper, her moods, her desires, and to remain silent. He was appreciative of her beauty, and sometimes he said that he had never loved anyone before he met her. Her complaisance became her second nature. Her acquiescence to the customs of her husband’s palace became the jewel in his crown, the sparkling sense of wifely duty, loyalty and mutual affection. Bisrakh, their enemy’s home, was only a night’s journey away, and crowded into their consciousness. It had been evacuated many aeons ago and the dark knight was now a king in another land. There was no occasion to fear him, but he pervaded their thoughts. He was always there, they never let a day pass but they conjured him up, and invented his fabled warriorhood, how he venerated their uncle Krishna, but was contemptuous of their lineage. The Prince had teachers who saw that he was eager for war, but with a lovely wife, and an anxious mother, what need was there for journeys and conquest? So they waited, teaching him the verse that drew attention to his powers. No one could write a text as beautifully as he, no one meditate on the greatness of Indra with as much valour, no one could understand the texts of verse and divine will, the play of future and past in contemporary existence. His father left him alone, never seeking his advice for anything. This left him speechless most days, and he wandered endlessly, thinking about the reason for his birth, but then his increasingly powerful teachers took him away to the forest, and showed him the ceaseless wonders of the earth. Sometimes his wife followed him, and overheard the lessons. Silence was requested of them, they had to listen, they could not do else but memorise the instructions. There would be the hollow incessant sound of the blackbird, and the steadfast tapping of the woodpecker, and occasionally the guttural cry of the peacock, the blue streaking by, of the kingfisher, and the curious foraging of the egret. The drone of the teachers’ voices sometimes made them sleep, and the Prince would wake to see that his wife was chasing the iridescent brown speckled butterflies that were blue in the inner wing. How to be present while conspicuously invisible that was what was demanded of her, and sometimes she presented herself to him, but ran away before he could catch her. They lived entirely in the moment, and her friendship with his brothers extended to the white horse which they called the Ashvamedha horse. The rituals of fire, the ritual of wandering: these were almost instinctive. There was not much difference between her father’s longing to be absorbed in the Gods, and her husband’s ambition to rid the world of the demon king Bisrakh, now known as Ravana. To name him was dangerous, he was the one who brought fear and envy in the hearts of those who coveted his power over the firmament. What does one king have which the other doesn’t? It didn’t seem to her that any of these warrior kings were different from one another. They had different principalities, were used to servants and concubines, and when they married they did so to extend their properties. And there was Kaikeyi, always trying to rid the young couple of their property and their rights. Quiet! I can hear what you are thinking. As your father’s wife, I forbid you to talk to him. You may not come near our quarters. If you wish to speak to him you must send your mother. I alone will take your message to the King. The Prince went away without speaking to his father. It was years since he had done anything but take orders from Kaikeyi. So be it. He went to his own chambers and found that the Princess was reading as usual. His mother was a gentle soul who had been given the status of resplendent Queen who must not speak. His brother Laxman was always hovering around his wife, a kind of guardian, jealous of his duties, and never far away. And there was Bharat, with his shining eyes, his valour as great as his siblings, quiet, rule bound, full of enthusiasm and energy, never letting their blood lines be confused by a false ardour for priority. He was in awe of his brothers, and slipped across the lines of control with a certain brevity of speech. On seeing the Prince arrive, they stood up, his mother included. He demanded from them a certain propriety, he was the next in line, everyone should know it. This was in contrast to his usual demeanour of philosophical detachment, which allowed everyone to know that he was absorbed in other things. “Was the sky blue?” His servants, the priests and teachers, were absorbed in the same quest, if the sky has no circumference, and is not blue, how can we measure it? Yet, today, he was spurned from his duties by his father’s wife Keikeyi, and now he would have to wait to meet his own father as if he were an ordinary serf. It was unthinkable. Chapter 2 Did she really send you away? Yes, she kept me waiting for many hours. I could hear him, but I was not permitted to speak with him. Was there anything that you needed? No, mother. I just wanted to see my Father. Maybe she thought you wanted a share in the kingdom. Before he is dead? It would never occur to me. And yet, and yet, Kaikeyi fears us. She thinks we will take away your Father and make lives of our own, without her. How is that possible? You know he loves her. He sees in her the beauty of a young woman, she has access to his every thought, and she thinks she knows what we want, which for her is terrifying, the possibility that with my ascension you will be in power again. His mother laughed. She was now charmed by her son and his wife, the way in which they frolicked in the woods like deer. She could imagine them, lying side by side, thinking about the children they would bear together. SiiyaRam was how the people referred to them, they were indeed one. No one could separate them, for their bonding was in peaceful silence. Their being together was something that the people exulted in. They looked at them as if they were Gods, as if they could stand for the holy in all its manifestations. As close as siblings, sharing the same breath, lying on the sandy river bed, free of inhibitions, yet secretive in all they did, they were like a mutual blessing in a peaceful realm. Their siblings were proud of them, and as lovers they were respectful to one another, and to their parents. He had been warned of their separation even before they were married. He could smell the fragrance of the jasmines which had been her wedding wreath to him. Her sweetness filled his senses, and yet…yet.. it was not yet. He would enjoy her presence, the flitting sense of her shadow self. The duplicity of presence that accompanied her, they called it maya, the self that was her, yet not her. He wondered if she knew that she was spirit manifest, the keeper of the sacred bow, that he had accidentally broken when pulling its string. What was there to fear, in prophecy, or bad news, or events which were yet to happen? The Prince’s thoughts were on his Father. After his marriage to Kaikeyi, he was preoccupied with continuing the line, as if it was an obsession that came with his blood line. Was he, Rama, not enough? There was Bharat, Laxman, Shatrughan. And each carried the pride of their clan, the descent from the Sun, whose maternal uncle, accompanying him daily was the Moon. So why did he fear for his Father’s life? He was detached the whole day, speaking neither to wife nor mother, nor the troupe of younger brothers who followed him everywhere. He was concerned that they not think of him as the harbinger of bad news. It was as if his gentle face was wrought with sorrow, as if he knew intuitively that a man like him who had been asked to concentrate on his foe, by his teachers, could find no time for anything else. Who was the foe? He pitted his brain against this question. He was told he had been born to destroy evil. What was evil? He had no recourse with it in his young life. Ofcourse Keikeyi was the closest he had come to hating. She was the one who used her beauty to wrest from his father that should have rightfully belonged to Kaushalya and himself. She was herself a warrior, a woman, born to produce more male progeny. They were needed to continue wars which had not even been manifested except in the imagination of the protagonists of battle. It was, as if they, though rich and landed, thought of war all the time, like Parushram, and those cousins who were as if born from pepper seeds, where there were two, there were now a hundred. So hot, so full of wrath, neighbours of theirs who sought war with the Pandavs, first having reduced them to poverty and exile. He too had been told his fate, exile, and separation from loved ones. He thought these were assignments from the skies, what matter to him how it emanated, it would still be him, making choices with the set of cards that fate had given him. He felt no wrath or greed, he would proceed with equanimity of mind and strength of purpose. Chapter 3 Suprankha appeared, and the dice was cast. The game had begun. She was a visitor to the palace, bearing jewels and fine silks, and spices. He looked at her and knew that here was trouble. She was ushered into a beautiful room which overlooked the river, and there she stayed for more than a year, not disclosing her identity as the daughter of the Bisrakh clan. They would have sent her away politely, but it was their custom to maintain peace among princely clans, and since she arrived with soldiers and servants bearing letters, they gave her every comfort. He could not bear that she avoided his wife, and spoke ill of her to the servants who shared gossip among themselves. He thought it was apparent that just as he was busy with his studies with his teachers, the women would find much to do among themselves. On the contrary, they avoided one another, and behaved like rivals. It was as if some great spirit of war rode in the house with the coming of Suprankha. And the year passed with evil intent, as Kaikeyi too insulted him at every turn. It was difficult, but such was human nature. Kaikeyi wanted him away and out of sight, and Suprankha wanted to create a wedge from the covetousness and rivalry she felt and made instinctively known to the Princess. She looked at him and sighed every time he passed by. She walked past him, with the silk of her clothes touching his bare arm. She passed her fingers close to his, almost placing it over his, when they ate together in the inner chambers of Kaushalya who was always generous and courteous with guests. Supranka gave him fine gifts, constantly procuring them from her brother across the seas. They were gifts of gold and rosewood, sometimes crafted in fine furniture. After some months he knew she was a Bisrakh princess, come with the Sanghas from across the sea. Lanka. He didn’t dare say it. They had sent an emissary. He asked her. She denied it. She said she was in love with him. It was a familiar story. The woman scorned. So he snubbed her again and again, and left her to Lakshman’s devices, till at last she left of her own will, and appeared at her brother’s court, and said, “He cut off my nose!” Her brother, a valiant prince, who had ravaged many kingdoms, and desecrated palaces was always indulgent of her. “Not really, my dear. Your nose is as pretty as it ever was. Let me send you a nose ornament, a diamond which shines like the stars. I love that you are back with us after so long, though its true that I never lost sight of you.” “He cut off my nose. He loves that woman. He never looks this way or that. He reads his books. Just as you think of him all the time, so he thinks of you. You are a great Shiva devotee, so he knows that you cannot be harmed.” “He broke the bow that Janaka’s daughter has. So Sita is Kali, and I am devoted to her.” “Krishna is Kali too, and so I want to know what you will do for me. I must have my revenge.” “Oh my dear heart! You know I love you best of all. You are my sister. If he has hurt you, I will wage war.” “He has cut off my nose.” Bisrakh laughed. “If I didn’t know you, my dear, I would think you wanted me to go to Ayodhya and ask him why he did so. You must have behaved inappropriately, tried to get between his sheets, looked at his beautiful black skin and wanted it for your own. Your own line will not come near you for fear of your temper, and you dare to ask the Prince of Ayodhya to be yours? Shame on you. I have other matters on hand. Go quickly to my wife and tell her that you have returned, and if you keep saying that he has cut your nose, there will be war. In a mutual dream I picked you up from the ground, and sewed your nose back, a pretty piece of cartilage for sure, but no one would want a war over a displaced nose. Yes, he offended you, yes, you felt grievously hurt, yes, he punished you for pursuing him. As he is a happily married man seeking to bear male heirs with his wife Sita, the ambition or fate of all those Sun kings, you really must set aside your vagrant thoughts. I do not look to anger him, I do not want to enrage that fine prince, but your stories of his wife’s beauty have me very very curious.” Chapter 4 Kaikeyi demanded that the Prince be exiled, and sent him and the Princess away. They went without a murmur, bidding the weeping Kaushalya goodbye. She accompanied them to their wagon in which they had packed nothing of significance. The humiliation was more than she could bare. Laxman unable to stay away from Ram and Sita, went with them, and Bharat swore to look after the kingdom while they were away. To them 14 years of exile, and the loss of their home meant nothing: they had one another, they believed that whatever happened was fore-told, they would continue their studies, they would lead good lives, they would pray to the Gods, and keep the ancestors in mind. It was not as if they could judge the importance of anyone’s actions. Their weeping mothers, the wrath of their fathers and concomitant impotence of men in their prime of life, was of no consequence. Kaikeyi had spoken. She was the Queen, she demanded the right of rule, she had no enmity with anyone, no rancor, she only demanded her rights. This was how it would be. The pallor of the King went unnoticed, he could not lift his hand, he could only lie in a stupor. He said not a word, ate nothing, his sleep was marred by bad dreams and less than a week later he was dead. When news reached Ram and Sita in the forest they felt the dread that comes with a sudden unexpected death. They had thought exile was punishment for their worldly desires, and being young had accepted the will of the Queen. Alone in their simple home in the woods, they cried themselves to sleep, knowing now that they could never go back, or not till they were summoned. Laxman looking on Ram as his greatest and most loved Prince, got them food and water, made friends with wandering mendicants, got news of home, and kept them safe. They knew that the palace they had lived in was a dream, the past was of course sacred, their memories kept them secure. It existed, Kaikeyi’s ambition had destroyed them, but time was fleeting in its essence, for as scholars they lived entirely in the presence of eternity. Sita made friends with the animals, every wolf, deer, rabbit, tiger, leopard, even the lions, showed themselves to her, leaving her surprised and wonder struck. The elephants trumpeted outside their home, trampling the gardens and looking in through the windows, but never endangering them. They too were contented to see those humans who had become like them, accepting life for what it was, never communicating the finiteness of their dreams. The forest people allowed them to converse with them, and were not afraid of them. They lived peacefully for many years, till Bisrakh arrived looking for vengeance. The six days of Dashrath’s death were slow, accompanied by dreams and self flaggelation. No one could save the old man from this his fate, the loss of a son, the necessity of abandonment to the spirits that visit one, before the last breath is drawn. He remembered the chatter of birds, the secrets they told him, the way in which he would draw them to his breast, asking of each if it were well. He understood that they could circumscribe the earth with their little wings, travelling long distances in the company of their friends, forming patterns in the sky. He, too, would become like one of them as his spirit swept past the minutae of time. Nothing could stop his death, neither his fear of it, nor the heroic radius of the arrow pulled out from below his metalled coat. He was free to roam. It was with a shudder that he remembered how precious his life had been, how much he had enjoyed every moment, made amends with those whom he disliked. It was as if the voice of Kaikeyi demanding Ram’s exile would be interred with him in this long sleep. He did not fear death, he only longed for his son to return, so that he could question him about so many things he did not understand. Kaikeyi wanted to hold on to his body, she wished him to forego the next stage of his dharma. She thought that by keeping Bharat by her side as King, she would have Dashrath and the kingdom. But life is not according to our wishes. It was not he who was in the forest now, it was his beloved son, whom he had spent so many years with, watching him as he grew, marrying him to the loveliest girl that his messengers had found, seeing that he was educated by the wisest. Now the long sleep would fold him into its gentle embrace, he would feel that his days were numbered, with each dawn he would say goodbye to the world. He had nothing to teach Bharat, who had accepted Ram as his King even before the exile took place. What was there to fear? The boy understood his worth, through a process of delegation the empire would be ruled. If there was justice, it would come to its natural logical conclusion after 14 years were spent by his son in the forests. What was decided was the manner of rule in absentia. From his death bed, Dashrath could see his weeping wives, the mothers of his sons. He loved them all, inspite of everything it was his fate to think of each as having given him what he desired most. Each of those children they bore allowed the clan to extend itself, fructify, move forward. They had no rights other than through their children. They were carriers of virtue, they were progenitors of royal seed, the wives hated each other, but they loved him. He was independent of them now, they could do as they wished, live together or not, support Bharat or not. It seemed odd to him that each one of them believed that life was about the future, going on, living in the midst of ever changing seasons, seeing the trees bear fruit, leaves fall, flowers fade. Human life was the same, each was given a span of time. He could not bear to think that in his lifetime he had spawned so much hatred, so much dislike. Because of him, Kaikeyi hated Ram, Kaushalya hated Kaikeyi and the whorl of life went on. He had become attached to Sita who had always treated him with love and respect. He thought her ornamentation of the halls with her beautiful paintings of the fish-eyed goddess the most beautiful expressions of her devotion. Bisrakh’s sister had penetrated their inner halls and had been treated with courtesy. Even if they were enemies, the etiquette of their ancient people had been to trust, to welcome, to make others feel at home. Bisrakh himself had gone into exile in a far off land. It was thought that he would return and wage war on their kingdoms but he never had. When his sister had been recognized, she had been sent off, her gifts of cinnamon and mace (jathipathri) had been thrown into the river and her name forbidden to be spoken. Word had reached them that she had told Bisrakh that her nose had been cut off. Dashrath laughed. He thought that her language was always sweet and pleasant, her rage must have poisoned her tongue. How did one get rid of an unwelcome guest? One fed them well and sent them on their journey, espousing a variety of causes, including the arrival of wedding guests, remaining vague about what wedding and when. He denied the possibility of Suprankha’s nose being mutilated, his sons would never do that. As they had descended from the sun god, they could never never go against the honour that came from the lineage of Chaya, who protected the land and sought to keep everyone in the penumbra of her shadow. Cut a woman’s nose…never, his sons were not capable of that…the cause of war would be something else. And yet, and yet, he knew that tumultuous rage caused men to do things they were ashamed of, and hid from their father. If only she had been sent to him, the King, the purveyor of justice, he would have sent her home with many fine jewels, never mentioning to her or to her brother that they had felt rage welling up when she had broken the force of conventions, and sought to absorb Ram, into her own retinue. Like most powerful princesses, she was used to getting her own way, and her King had appeared before her in the heady assurance that if she brought Ram to him, he, her brother would crown her queen of Lanka. It was a lie ofcourse, but in a laughing wrangle, incestuous and amused, she had agreed. When found out by the ladies of Rama’s court, she denied it all. She had not been pleased to leave the court finally. She had wept, her face becoming quite swollen. Her love for Ram had become an embarrassment to the clan. They realized that having an enemy who wished to cross over was demeaning both to the king who had sent her as a secret emissary, rather spy, and to them too, who did not trust her at all. Kaushalya always believed people could change, but even she was alarmed by the many different ways in which Suprankha was intimidiating everyone. She was bad tempered, and full of a sour and vitriolic language, coupled with great personal charm which overrode these deficits. She could look through Sita as if she was not there, putting her hands on Ram’s shoulder as if it was a sibling bond which they shared from the past. It was difficult to shake her off, till one day, she accidentally said, “My brother Ravana thinks you to be easy to conquer. I shall tell him you are not, surrounded by these many lovely women by your side, your mother and your wife. Your kindness in giving me a home has enabled me to live the life I should have, were our countries not at war.” They had all stared at her, and then she realized that a moment of intimacy had suddenly turned on her, that her fictions which had been so easily accepted were no longer holding them enchanted, and her entourage was called, and she was casually but firmly dismissed. Chapter 5 Laxman and Sita were wandering in the woods when they saw the bird, and wondered from where it had come. It looked like it was made of some strong metal, but it was light and criss crossed with light. They forgot about it, because there were plants to be foraged for their day’s meal. Fruit was plentiful, the sky blue, the wind chill. It seemed to them that the forest had integrated them, made them one of its own children. They no longer felt afraid of the night, of storms, snakes, the roar of wild animals or the trumpeting of elephants. Sita was able to light a fire, and bake earthen pots. And everything seemed simple, till the arrival of the stranger. He was dark and tall, handsome, and able to speak their language without communicating that it was a foreign language. He introduced himself as a prince of a neighbouring kingdom. “My father knows yours” he said, politely, to Laxman. “I have no knowledge of such a friendship.” Laxman was a man of few friends. “Why should you? It was before you were born.” “How did you arrive here?” “By free will.” “Come! You know my meaning!” “A flying machine. You saw it I think.” “So that was what it was. We wondered.” “It was hard to make, but easy to ride.” They fed him, gave him a straw pallet to sleep on. He didn’t seem someone to be afraid of, even when he told them that his kingdom had been ravaged and burnt to ashes. They were children, after all, they had no knowledge of war, other than their assumption that they were victims of an incendiary family situation. They really did not pry into matters of state. Ram continued to study tracts and passages, memorise what his teachers had taught him. He was not there the day that the visitor arrived. It was another day in the forest, Sita and her boy guardian were not afraid of their guest. He stayed quietly in his room, only stepping out to enjoy the stars. He was a fine conversationalist, and he spoke only when they had questions for him. The only time he boasted was when he spoke of his garden. “It’s the first garden, its paradise.” Sita was intrigued. “What does it have?” “Mango trees, my dear. Many different types of mangos.” She was immediately interested. “Can I see it?” The visitor nodded and went inside the room where he had his belongings. Next morning, Laxman found the visitor had left, and Sita was nowhere to be found. Ram returned from his pilgrimage to Gangotri, and found the home he had built was empty. He had no idea where his brother and his wife were. Then after much searching in the woods, he found Laxman with the silver anklet. “You let a stranger into our house?” “He was such a gentle wise person. How could I know he was Bisrakh?” “Bisrakh came to our house?” “We did not recognize him.” “Was Suprankha with him?” “No, why?” “Because she wanted revenge.” “How would we know that? You know I have been awake and alert, yet, I heard no sound. Sita and I were always together, and we had news from Urmila that your father had died of heartbreak. We were spent with weeping, and you were hiding your grief by your pilgrimages to Ganga.” “This is absurd! You wish me to believe that its because of my absence that Suprankha has sent her brother to take away she who was most precious to me?”’ “Brother, the fault was entirely my own. I take full responsibility for it. I have been looking for her in the forest, and look here is her anklet. She dropped it for us to understand that she has been kidnapped. I know that every morning and evening she tightened the clasp so that she would not lose this piece of jewellery.” “You knew her better than me, then. I have no recall of this silver. What else do you know of her?” “Brother! This is not the time for suppositions. You know I got rid of Suprankha. It might well be her brother. That visiting prince must be Ravana. You dare to waste words, when we must be riding to save her.” “And how shall we find her? Can the squirrel tell us, this squirrel who has crossed our path? Sita is as sweet as these forest friends, she is full of an ancient calm distilled from mother Earth. Bhumidevi, (earth goddess) where can we find you?” The brothers watched the curtain fall. It was scene change, and the producers had to provide the backdrop of the sea at Rameswaram, for which they used many feet of finely woven silk cloth from Kanchipuram. They were confounded how quickly their lives had changed. Living in the forest had come easily for them, and now this space had been destroyed. The trees were still there, the boles of their trunks as large as buildings in Ayodhya. The trees had protected them, fed them fruit and flowers, and Sita’s presence still clung to the leaves which continually regenerated themselves after every harsh winter. The Prince watched his brother, wondering at his rage. Lakshman jumped about nervously. It was as if his brother felt the intensity of separation in every inch of his body, in every cell of his being. How would he calm him down? Sita was so precious, he could imagine her a prisoner, without food or water, but not vanquished. Ravan! He was punishing them for having what he could not have, he was their enemy by long lineage of remembrances. Vanquished once, as their neighbor, he was accosting them now from across the ocean. How would he cross the seas? He looked at Lakshman. “I have a friend, Anjaneya.” “Who?” “Anjaneya. A man like you, with few words, who is the greatest physician of our times. He is my brother, and worshipful of the Gods who have given him great spiritual powers. He can fly, heal through magical herbs, move mountains.” “Let’s go to him.” Chapter 6 “You can call me Hanuman” “This river by your home is very turbid.” “It joins the Ganga in the pitralok. Tell me how can I help you.” “Sita is a captive of Ravan.” “How do you know that.” “He is the only enemy we have. A former friend’s son, who wrecks havoc when he has opportunity to quell us.” “Old enmities are hard to heal. We heard about how you treated his sister.” “We were her hosts, but she tried to take Ram away from us.” “How can anyone steal anyone, I fail to understand.” “She angered the women of the house by her manners.” “So her arrogance was not pleasing to you? You insulted her?” “We sent her back from where she came.” “You kings are always full of guile.” “We are exiled princes with no home. My brother’s wife is captive. Ravan told her about his garden, he said he would show her trees she knew were different from those whom she had seen. A different variety of mango.” “And she went out of curiosity, hearing the sweet words of a visitor?” “I’ll chop off your head.” “Alright, alright. Now tell me what should I do for you? How can I help my friend?” “We need to cross the sea with our army. You know how we can do it?” “If Ravan can fly through the forest in a machine of light, then, my heroes, I can build a bridge for you.” The bridge was an archipelago, a construction of natural stones placed together. The bridge was their stronghold. They found that they could easily walk across, and tell the waiting audience that the play was over. Sita had been saved and they could return to Ayodhya. The audience was not pleased. It was loudly interactive, jumping on the stage, and demanding to see Hanuman’s tale. Anjaneya yawned and stretched. Yes, the matter was of grievous importance. A woman had been abducted. God knows where she was. He lay on the sand. The Tungabhadra in monsoon was always a sight. It flowed dangerously close to his home. The sun was hot. The river sand was damp, the tides were almost like they were sea coves, linking the marshes and grass lands. He swung from tree to tree, his arms long, his head powerful and the eyes sharp and bright. They would leave for Rameswaram tomorrow. It would be monsoon, and dangerous, yet he was sure his men would find a way. For aeons they had worked for others, their sinews rippling in every season, as they lifted loads, living on nuts and berries. Anjaneya knew that these princes who came to him for help were immensely powerful, and that Sugriva had finally given him legitimacy of work in every domain. His people asked for nothing but the blessings of these princes. The journey across the waters took almost a year, as it had to be done by cover of darkness, and then there were the monsoon months, which sometimes appeared twice across the archipelago buffeted by the heavy laden winds. They reached the other shore in batches, and being bearded and swift swinging across trees with great skill, they reached Sita’s garden. They looked and saw her, sleeping in a grove. Though it was bright daylight, she was not clearly visible to them. They saw that the groves of mangos hid her, and that there were guards and servant women constantly at watch. They also saw that she had become half her size, and no food was served to her all the long day. Yet, she seemed peaceful and quiet, accepting the gentle ministrations of her servants. At night there was a loud shouting, which they could not understand. Sita woke up, she did not look frightened. It was Mandodari, constantly quarrelling with Suprankha. What was it about? The reason for the quarrel was not very clear. That it was a regular occurrence that much was certain. Sita called out to both women. They stopped for a moment each to acknowledge her, but they did not stop heaping abuse on one another. The noise brought Ravan down from his loft. He was busy in his morning rituals though the early morning sky was becoming visible in the night sky..it was his patron, the venus that was at the same time pluto of the night, (or so the Yavana called them); for him, it was Shiva. He came to look at Sita. He was pleased by her austerities. Ten years had passed, and yet her husband could not make any headway with his plans. Clearly he was still in the clutches of the forest, the wiles of the monkey people who had professed their loyalty but had no sense of their worth or their value. It was odd how badly they were treated, left to their own devices. With the death of Sugriva, there was no camp, no follower, no leader. Ravan had heard that a man called Hanuman was leading the pack. He had devised a strategy where his ability to minister to his master’s anxiety had made him a prime favourite. We all do that, Ravan thought. We befriend those who can help us, and we bestow them gifts and honours. How would they find Sita? There was no chance at all. She was not even recognizable as so many years had passed. With the fall of the fruit, season after season, he knew that the creases on her cheek were now permanent. Fortunately, they are children who value their traditions, those traditional gymnasts. They believe that the earth was made for the education of their senses. The monkey brigade, he thought to himself, laughing. He loved them, truly, for they charmed him by their antics. He watched them up on the trees, offering them fruit when they came close. To think that their fingers have an opposable thumb. We dropped our tails, but are not very different from them, truly! They will never recognize Sita for the old woman she has become, it is pointless that they feel so deeply for her, think of her as someone with beauty and virtue. Age and loneliness are the price people have to pay for the passage of time. He had often looked out from his window in the turret, and seen that she was in a space of meditative quiet. Why had he thought that solitude would kill her? She was curled up, in the hollow of the tree. It was a large tree, with its leaves delicate and pointing upwards, full of the sap of life. The transparent leaves were a promise of life. She herself was unaware of its beauty, as her mind was constantly taken up by dreams of her home, her kingdom where one hut was sufficient, an abode of the Gods, the protective deities, who had kept them alive for so many years. It was not that she had aged in any way, she was after all still a young woman. It was just that age had appeared inconsequential to someone in the continuous landscape of death. There was nothing to do, except tide the day, from morning to evening, hiding from the sun and rain, and the gaze of the dark and awesome lord, her husband’s sworn enemy. She saw him every early morning, like the evening star when it shines brighter and brighter to become the early dawn planet signifying the start of a new day. He was always staring at her, his black eyes thrust into her vision, as if he had no other recompense than to look at her. She had heard that he called her “daughter”, to his attendants, described her as having filial obligations to him. She only turned her back to him, to drift into a longer sleep. There was no escape from this terrible prison. It was not that he said anything to her, vile or propitiatory. He just stared at her as if he would like to eat her. His eyes were large, hungry, slit eyed when frustrated as he often was, but in the mornings, when he first beheld her, they spoke volumes of his longing: incestuous, desiring and yet vanquished. Mandodari brought her food, when the sun rose. It was delicious food which she had cooked for Ravan and herself, but Sita would not open her mouth. She would not let her come near her, and when she left, she would tip out all the food under the tree, providing nutrition to the birds and insects. The ants would rush to the floods of food that came their way, reveling in the sweet things that had been meant for Sita. After the sun dried out the remaining morsels, left by the predatory dogs and mewing cats, the food was left to the birds who swept down from the high skies. Ravan was hungry for attention. He felt that whatever he did, he could never get away from Supranka and Mandodari. There they were, quarreling as usual, it meant the day would be just a round of invectives and counter invectives. If only he had not accepted his sister’s challenge and gone into the forest to look for the beautiful wife of Rama. Boredom was the curse of Princes, never mind their nation or rank. Everything was done for them, what was there left to desire, except war and its loot. He had always thought of himself as a handsome man, his darkness a kind of accolade to the night sky. Prince of darkness, his valour was much appreciated. He had lived in this torrid kingdom that he had wrested from the forest people, the rivers, lakes, lagoons and seas anointing him with their casual splendour. Their colours muted the sky, they were myriad in their hues. This beautiful green land, with its wealth of rubies in the rocks, how rich he was, and how completely in love with the earth. Going back to Bisrakh had never been an option, and with the many slaves at his command he had ruled Lanka wisely and well. The girl, the woman he called “daughter” was his only mistake. He had fallen in love with her as soon as he had seen her. He was so eager to please her, to show her his kingdom, to entrance her, to inhabit her body, that he had forgotten that she was married to another, that she was only a girl. Everything about her had enraptured him. If only he could have slipped away with her, without her husband’s brother following them, marking his trail, he could have vanished with his trophy, his new bride. Now, many years had passed, and with the respect that she was due he had instinctively protected her from her obvious slavery… what else could a woman be, but a slave. They had no will, no power, the husband was always ever present in their consciousness. for he spoke through her dreams, he promised her liberation. And she, the willing slave to the fantasy of the passing dream, lay in the garden, (ringed with Ashoka trees with their saffron star like cluster of flowers,) as if she had only to wait…only to wait… “Come, daughter, come with me, into the palace. I have made you a bed, so comfortable, so lined with fine muslin that you will feel as if you are girded by the softest hands.” She stared at him, her brown eyes were clear, and she did not suspect him of malice. He was much older than her, and his beard was flecked with silver. “My husband will come soon. He has told me, I have heard him whispering in the wind. His voice comes to me through the sweet sound of the blackbird in the mango tree.” “No, daughter, you have been in my palace for many years now. You can count the years by the length of your beautiful black hair. Mandodari, your mother has combed it and plaited it, twining it with these beautiful silver threads. See, my daughter, see how my hands have held you close while you were drowsing in the bole of the tree.” “My father will avenge me, and my husband will burn you to ashes.” “Don’t curse me my daughter, come lie with me. You are the answer to my prayers, never did I think that I would have a daughter who would be my bride. I wait for you, I long for you, I think of you.” The thought that the monkey watching her from the top of the coconut trees was Hanuman, her husband’s friend crossed her mind. She looked at him closely, yes, she was almost sure that it was him. “I am tired. Go back to your window, I have now no need of your stories, your lies, your death dealing words. I hate you for stealing me, so many years have passed, and I grow older, knowing that if my husband were to cross the sea and find me, I would be too old to bear children. You have taken away the right I have to hold a child in my arms.” “Not at all, my dear! You are my child, I can find you the most handsome husband that you would ever want. I shall plant him here, next to your bower. I can find him now. Tell me, who it should be. Who would you like for a husband.” “Your cruelty is without measure. Go away. Do not come near me.” “Are you withholding your friendship? After all that I have done for you? I gave you to Mandodari, a tiny seed, and she threw you into the furrow, and there you were found. She said you were beautiful but she had no need of a baby. Your father and mother found you, so exquisite, like a young sapling. Come, let’s forget this sad story, no one knows you are my daughter, no one knows how much I love you, no one knows what you mean to me.” Rage and sorrow twisted Sita’s heart. She looked to the trees but the man that she had thought was Anjanya was no longer there. In the hot afternoon sun she felt the strange languor that beset her every day, and she fell again into a deep sleep. It was not happening to her, it was a dread story that she had dreamed. So her husband was descended from the sun and attendant moon God, and like Chaya, the moon maiden, she too had a split personality. In her dream world, sleeping the day away, awake at night with the stars and the blood curdled moon, she knew that these were just passing fantasies. She who could paint and sing, laugh and weep did so in another world. These eclipses of the moon which sent the world, her world into darkness, was what she dreaded most. She was always awake when the first birds called, the sweet songs of the sunbirds, the ones who were so dear to her, bringing to her the sheer evanescence of dew and their bright colours, blue, black, irridiscent…when she saw them, she realized that the earth was indeed splendid, and found herself again. In the dream state she inhabited during the day, season after season, she lived with Rama in the forest, contented by his presence. Here there was no time, no history, no war, no exclusion, no venomous snakes. There was only the profound calm that accompanied them when they were together. Neither asked for conversation nor gave it. It was the silence that allowed them to believe there were just the two of them, in a love that caused the world to glimmer and exist as if it were new, not as a spiral of time, but in the deep sense of belongingness. Yet, she knew having seen Anjaneya that a battle was being planned, and in the silence of the garden in which she had been placed by her captors many things would occur. She could see it, the battle, the deaths, the end of the reign of Ravan. He was an odd sort of man, churlish, bad tempered, even elderly, one might say. Yet, his blood flowed, and his eyes flashed. He was given to sitting by the window and reading his books, looking at her all the while. She thought of her husband from whom she had been separated for these many years, every moment an aeon. “My dear, my dear, you are awake at last. The sun has been up, and the bees circling your bower. I will come down and see that your mother Mandodari feeds you.” “I threw the food she gave me for the dogs yesterday. If you come near me, I will pierce you with my dagger. You think I am unarmed. My hairpin will be sufficient to cause your death.” Ravan laughed. “Daughter, your venom is sweet. I have never heard such words in my life.” “You have imprisoned me these many years, keeping me away from my loved ones. Yet. I do not fear you, you make me sad, angry..but I feel sorry for you, you are kind to your people, and they look to you as one who is favoured by Shiva. My husband will never forgive you for what you have done to me.” “What did I do to you? You wanted to see my garden, I brought you here. A thin pretty girl you were those many years ago. Now look at you, fully endowed with all your faculties, none are harmed.” “You stole me from my husband.” “He left you alone. Now, don’t be angry. You belong to me. Mandodari and I care for you like our daughter. Everything about you is perfection itself. Tell me, what jewels, precious jewels can I gift you today. I know you prefer the fruits of the forests, just like those monkeys who now constantly visit us. Tell me, should I get you rubies like the pomegranates that you eat so readily from my garden? You refuse the food I send you, or which Mandodari brings for you, but you live on the vegetables you grow yourself…does that make you feel more free?” “However you may describe yourself, with your fatherly feelings or not, I know that you will die at the hands of my husband.” “Don’t curse me, daughter. You are what I most value, you have my heart. I have desired you since my sister described you to me…so many years have passed, and you are still as innocent as when I first saw you, playing in the stream in the early morning.” Sita said “You are nothing but an evil man, your love is nothing but the rapaciousness of one who claims his seed in incestuous union. You hate me, you imprison me, but you cannot vanquish me. Ram will come.” “Yes, ofcourse and burn me like an old faggot. I know. One day he will come, but today is not the day. Eat some bananas. I’ll put some new groves for you. The bees will enjoy the flowers, and you shall have their honey. See that monkey up there? I know that’s your husband’s friend. You think I don’t know that he sends his spies. Yes, I know I have very little time, but I will have you for my own, daughter, you who grew up in a palace, beloved in Mithila and beyond. I cannot forget that we who travelled by sea aeons ago to come to this beautiful island, the pearl island, still have memories that accompany us of our many travels.” She turned her back to him. She had become used to him, she felt that he was now as familiar as her own face. It was a frightening thought. She who was his slave, his prisoner, had become used to him. Every day he opened the window of his turret room and looked at her. She had nowhere to hide, she felt that he as a villain, as a predator, as a possible rapist, the old man who called himself her father, saying Mandodari had begot her…lies, such lies. She dried her tears, she walked to the edge of the garden where he could not see her as she disappeared into the surrounding woods. Ofcourse he had his inventions, he watched her through a display of mirrors, he had machines of all kinds, her world was circumscribed by his ability to be intuitive, to know what she wanted. She missed her mother, the woman who had given her through childhood, every conceivable skill and gift, who had labored to show her the meaning of the world. Mithila was as beautiful as its rivers, its plains of sweet grasses, its mango trees, its brick kilns. Here, in this rain forest she knew no one, and was allowed near nobody. The loneliness she had known was that of the deer and the leopard as they went their own ways, one in search of the other, the other escaping into hidden crevices. She knew that Ravan was engaged in a battle of wits, by keeping Sita with him he caused immense discomfort to those who loved her. His intention was to make them feel he was all powerful, and as for her, he treated her with delicacy and affection. It seemed to her that his sense of vengeance came from defeat, he had been robbed of everything by the powerful clan of the Ikshus, and now he had his sweet revenge. Chapter 7 “You must think I stole you out of revenge. Not at all. I had forgiven them for desecrating my lands, for treating me as a demon, for slaying my kin. It is the right of rival princes to destroy one another. But now, the battle is a different one. I have spent peaceful years watching over you who are rightfully mine. It is my quest to make you that brought you a life. You might deny it. Mandodari did not want you. She threw you as far as she could. Yet, nature tells us that we rightfully get back what is our own.” Another day, hot and full of the venom of an untiring sun. The rains were not yet due, the forests burnt with a single spark. Sita lay by the cool of the river, watching the dragonflies settle one by one on the white lotus flowers. The old fool was ranting again. There was no end to it. Every day he boasted of his many inventions, his many successes, the love that the people of his land felt for him. Sometimes, between heavy sleep laden lids, for the torpor of the rainforest made her eyes shut involuntarily, she watched him carefully, bleakly, reciting to herself the many shlokas that she and her husband had recited in their courtyards when they were merely children. How easily she had learned them as a young bride, sung them; invisible to the teachers as she hid in the boughs of trees, looking only to see if Ram could sight her as she dangled her feet, sometimes imitating the sunbird’s call when she thought he had forgotten her. Then he would look up and smile suddenly. Childhood, love, adolescence, adulthood…and then exile. There was nothing to be said for these years of imprisonment in Lanka’s garden. The language of lust and longing went over her head, and was forgotten until Ravan announced them over and over again. “Yes, yes, I can hear you, but it means nothing to me. I have married, I have loved, my heart is taken. What you feel is nothing to me, I cannot understand what you mean, calling me ‘daughter’ and ‘bride’ in the same breath. Is it the custom of your clan to marry a young woman to such a noble chieftain, renowned for his liturgy and ever present love for Shiva yet stealing a girl? You think your devotion to Shiva can save you, but no, my husband will avenge his loss. I only have to wait. I do nothing. Yes, its true I throw away the food that you give me, and eat from the trees and the labour of my hands in the furrows of your land. That is my true home, isn’t it, that I belong to the earth, and bhoomi devi protects me. You can never make me your own, however much you use the language of love and verse..it may come to you from your head, but it does not touch your heart, so filled with hatred and enmity. If you were happy here, why did you come in search of me? I bring you your death.” “One day, when your husband slays me, you will lay your cool hand on me. You will bring to me the penance I seek, remembering that I never caused you any harm, that I watched over you, that I loved you as a father might.” “I will remember only my tears that made your garden fertile, that I have lain by the cool of the river and in the dark bole of trees. You have made me someone who is known only by her skill at survival, who never meets anyone except the forest animals who make me laugh. Look, Anjanya is there. Look up there. Ram is close by.” “Haha! You have been our prisoner for ten years, you have lived in my garden, enjoying my hospitality, if you have cried and missed your simple hut, we have not known about it. Your silence has been our companion, we have learned to love you for your simplicity, and you have never spent a single day outside your present home. You think of us as strangers, as your enemies, but for Mandodari and me you are our guest, the beloved, the one who makes us acceptable to the Gods, for in your company the sun shines brighter.” Sita looked up at the torrid sky. The colours were blueblack, she could hear the roar of the sea, smell the sand as the wind brought to her its heated golden dust. Yes, ten years had passed. When she had first come here, she had been so certain that she would be rescued very soon. But there had been no sign of Rama, no sign of his army, the feet of Laxman and Bharat had not flitted near her…they were as light as dancers, they had the guile of the birds and the squirrels, always looking at her from afar. Now they must be older men, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. She smiled to herself. They had never forgotten her, nor she them. Ram thought of her every moment. He stood at the edge of that luxurious blue sea, at Rameswaram. He visited every ancient temple, praying to Shiva and Parvati, to Uttara who was always present. He was sure that Shiva would appear. “Even if he does not, I will set Ravan aflame, I will make him the column of fire that he seeks to see. I will set fire to him and his brothers, and his lands and fields. I will set light every single palace he owns, just as we set fire to the fields once the stubble has dried.” Sita could hear him, feel his rage in the dusty storm that had sprung upon them. Ravan was still watching her carefully, his eyes loath to leave her. He could not understand why she was smiling, why she appeared to him in a state of blissful contentment. “ She enjoys my presence. She is pleased I am always here, looking at her. She can sense my tenderness. My love cannot be quantified. All these years, I have watched her from a distance, seeking her to become used to me, to find me familiar as her father, her slave, her bondsman. Let her become used to me, let her forgive me my terrible covetousness. When she becomes used to me, she will not mind that I step closer. She did not know that I encircled her in my arms when she slept….she had no knowledge. Soon, I will become as familiar as her own skin, become her second skin. She will not know the difference between her body and mine. I will slip into her bed, when she lies in her afternoon slumber.” Mandodari was laughing. “You old fool. You thought you could trick me with your stupid invention, a seed, a sapling, a child. You think everyone sucks up your stories as you produce them. Yes, Parvati produced a child to guard her, and you thought that you could produce a daughter who would be your companion. You thought she would be in love with you, and replace me. Fool. Coward. I will deal you death, I will give you a taste of my anger, my rage, my jealous fumes will over power you.” Sita ran from both of them. There was little to choose, her two foes were locked in marriage, which was more like bitter combat. And yet Mandodari often protected Sita from Ravan. It was as if they, as women, had a common bond, it was as if Mandodari was able to understand that her piety which had kept her childless, had been recompensed by the birth of this beautiful woman who like a young tree, stood tall and graceful, her skin dark and gorgeous, her hair long and easily combed though it was as curly as the tendrils on the bitter gourd, the blue grape, the jasmines that she often smelled of.. Mandodari protected her from Ravan by standing between them, by blocking the poor child from the lascivious gaze of the man who claimed that he was her father and had rights over her. Adam’s peak stared down at them, and in the babble of the brooks she thought he actually chanted the dreamtime of an invention, which was about a shared rib. “Its nonsense, what he says is nonsense. My parents in Mithila married me off in great style, and hundreds of people came and were feasted. My parents have always stood by me. They would never believe Ravan’s story of me being born from a mango seed. It is what he says to hide his lack of shame, he says these things to distract people with his fabrications, just as people weave cloth, Ravan uses words to beguile. How can I have been born to you, Mandodari? What is the meaning of these words with which he covers up my birth. Who am I? I shall ask this question till the day I die. Ram does not spend a day, no, even a moment without thinking of me, and how he may wrest me from my captivity. I am only the excuse… the real question of fate lies in Ravan’s death…only his death can free me.’ “You can think what you like, and spend as many days and years plotting and planning against me. But I shall die of old age, with you by my side.” “This marriage that you conceive of with your own daughter is against nature.” “Mandodari, I produced her from nothing, she is my daughter, but I can marry her, because she is not of my blood.” Day after day, Sita had heard the couple wrangling and felt that in his drunkenness Ravan had absorbed the legends by which a man could marry his brother’s daughter, first claiming her as his own, and then distancing her by suitable phrases. She found his lust at first alarming, then she was amused by it, wondering what had caused him to look towards her from his flying machine as she played in the cool sparkling streams when she was but a child, exiled to the forest by her husband’s jealous step mother. Ravan had fallen into a rage. Just like Mandodari and Suprankha, he could vent in a language which made Sita hide for days. It was as if he could imagine whole worlds into existence, and at every syllable he took Ram’s name. She thought it was odd that for someone who hated her husband, and wished him dead every day, he spent all his time thinking of him. “Only a lover thinks of his beloved as much as you think of my husband. You take his sacred name all the time. I am sure it can only bring you good fortune. Your venom will be the cause of your death. His vengeance will be total, for he has sworn to burn you like dried kusa grass. Wait and see, Ravan. He will come for you, your beauty will bite the dust.” “No, dear daughter, he is busy with his books, he remembers you, he thinks of you, but my time machine tells me that his army of good friends keeps him busy. He has to feed them, he has to stand up to the seasons, it is true that he loves you but he will not be wresting the waves to rescue you. I have a time machine, I am the greatest inventor the planet has ever seen. I can see him, I know where he is now. I tell you, he is busy with his tasks, as all his forest friends see him as Prince of the Universe.” “There is no need to gnash your teeth…you can never come near me. I am girdled by the great serpents that keep you at bay.” “I can wear your serpents around my neck. I can smash them, I can pull out their forked tongues.” “You will never find me, because I can disappear. You seek me, but you are always empty handed”. “You think your words mean anything. Your husband has been searching for you since you were a young girl. Now, look at you, at the pride of womanhood, wearing thin white muslin clothes, my prisoner, fed by my wife. Come, come, you are just a used up old rag, a wasted bedraggled foot mat. No one even notices you. I look out my window every morning, and I remember you for your great beauty.” “I have no mirror to look at myself. I never grew old because I knew that my husband would come, and for him I preserved my youth and my innocence. For him, I preserved my virtue. There are no ways into the wood, except from the boughs of the trees. My illnesses are few and they are cured by eating the berries in the woods, and drinking the bitter juice of boiled bark of trees. You, old man, you have committed the double sin of desiring me, and simultaneously adopting me. Your virtue remains in that you take my husband’s name everyday, and in repeating it, in the hope of seeing him, you have signed your death warrant and foretold your redemption.” “Alas, dear daughter, your theology is homespun, and you are only too wise in warning me that your husband will one day be here. We shall greet him with fire in the woods, we will burn the woods and hunt him down.” “He says the same of you. He says he will burn you like wild kusa grass.” “So you are also adept in telepathy. I too carry the messages the wind brings. I too know his plans by virtue of the airwaves. I keep my head blank. I do not like my thoughts to wander, but they intercept the thoughts of others. The virtue of Kings is to keep their empires strong. I have made this island my own, my renown spreads beyond its borders, and my learning runs to the realms of magic. No one understands the future as well as I. With my flying machines I have travelled across the oceans. They fly faster than thought, and according to you, I am merely the fool that hangs around waiting for his own death.” Mandodari appeared, and started chastising Sita for talking back. “You should have respect for him. He is your honourable host. He has protected you these many years, and found you wandering in the forest, while your husband was chasing the river’s source. How could you have wandered off and lost your way. Now, come, it is hot afternoon, you must rest. We will look after you as long as you need our help. Do not think of us as jailers. We are only here to help you in any way we can. “ “Every day, I have to hear all this nonsense. These lies. I know how much you hate me, you have done nothing for me except make fun of me, blaming me for my misfortune. I have no fear. I lack nothing. I live with my husband as I always did. He knows that I am your captive, but he longs for me to return to him, and he reassures me with his many promises that the breeze brings to me. The voices I hear are always comforting. You believe me to be foolish and impatient. What you do not realize that very early we understood that time meant nothing, we were bonded,he and I can never be separated from one another. These bodies are but symbols of history and time, but in reality we are the keepers of the earth, of existence, of love, laughter, the seasons. Do not be fooled by our manifestations.” Ravan stared at her for a bit. He had no idea that she could twirl him around her thumb. He was transfixed by her speech. His eyes were glazed, he felt that he was swallowed up by her beauty, her poise. He felt that all the universe was caught in her brown eyes, which through some star crossing made her different from other women. “There is something foreign about you”, he said hesitantly. She started laughing. There were times when this ferocious elderly man, who should have treated her tenderly and kindly as her father had, behaved like an adolescent. She was not afraid of him. She staved him off with kind words, she reminded him of the existence of her husband, she restricted his approach by putting obstacles in his path. She had grown used to her enemy, he had become familiar, a little idiotic. He fumbled with his weapons, he rolled his eyes, he looked for Anjaneya, whom he too recognized watching them from the trees. He had an odd sense of foreboding, for Sita said, “Ram will come for you, he loves me, he prays that I return to him unharmed. I will tell him that you guarded me, your prisoner, never let harm come my way, that you protected me from the elements and the wild animals. I came to you as your guest, eager to see your orchards, never imagining that I would become a prisoner. I cannot protect you when my husband comes to claim me, he will set fire to your kingdom, and you, and all that you treasure will go up in flames.” “Go catch a bath my dear. No point threatening me with words, your images have a certain vitality to them, a sense of how warrior wives must behave in captivity. I have put some beautiful black fish in the lotus pond. The are speckled with divine patterns. Why not go look at them. They will calm you down. All this talk of my imminent death confounds me. I have been up since dawn and now must go up to my rooms. A king must not spend all his time with his pet deer and slaves. You are neither, my dear daughter, I have given you freedom of speech, and it is that you use against me.” Sita thought that if she went towards the pond with the white water lilies it would look like she was obeying him. Instead, she wandered away further into the woods. Bisrakh’s fort stood out in the afternoon sun, somber and huge. He had built it to protect himself from his enemies, namely Ram and Laxman, adding rooms and turrets at every turn, expecting a siege. Sita thought that to live in continuous fear was against nature. Rivals had their reasons to go into combat, but war was a terrible thing, it destroyed more than it could ever be possible to gain or recover. Her beauty and her youth were no longer in question, as petals must fall, so must she. Ram often called her Bhoomi Devi, but now, it was absorption in the earth that was her fate. Just as she looked towards the sea and the horizon, wondering when Ram would arrive, Anjaneya beckoned. Chapter 8 “I thought it was you.” “The years have been kind to you.” “Ravan and Mandodari pose as my parents and have given me every comfort.” “Ram is near, just on the other side of the water. You will hear his bugle soon.” “I am glad to hear it. “ “You will have to come with me before the war starts, before the fires begin. Between rival kings there is no mercy. So we must leave soon.” “They were enemies aeons ago, but now Ravan has slided into indifference, he does not care if he lives or dies. He truly believes that the years have been kind to me, and that I have adjusted to my condition, living under the Ashoka trees. He plies me with rich foods, hoping that will put me into a delicious slumber. He is fascinated by my flat belly, and constantly wishes to touch me, as his ‘daughter’, he says…but I know by my prayers that Ram recites the shlokas we learned as children, I do too, which were destined to keep me safe. What are prayers to the Gods! It is that moment of utter concentration, that utter belief I have in our lives as mendicants. We were thrown into that condition by the avarice of Kaikeyi. She did not wish us to have a home. Her jealousy of our mutual love was enough to throw us out of our own home. She would not let us even enter. Now I know that Ram is coming to save me, the mountains, rives, lakes and the sea echo with my happiness. He understands me as no one else.” Anjaneya looked at Sita. “Lady, your husband has been planning this for so many years. Every step has been discussed with me. The forests are filled with my army. They have long arms and they twist themselves around the tree trunks, and hide themselves in clusters of leaves. We have been living here for many yeas. We know the lie of the land, and how to run and hide when we have been spotted. Ravan’s many magical viewing glasses and sound capturing deivces have not been able to locate us. Leave it to me, I am waiting for the next eclipse, so when it’s a pale clotted moon, your husband will land on Lanka’s shore and wage war. They are fulfilling their destiny. Each one knows the outcome, but the battle has not been won, yet. We cannot jump the claims of history or time. Now, for a year or two you must act as if everything is the same. I promise you that we will be here soon.” “A year or two. He has been at my bedside every morning, saying the oddest things. I have befriended him, to allay his suspicions. The years of my youth have been lost. Should Ram not come soon, I will never be able to bear heirs. My life will come to nothing. We who are women we know that we are born to serve. It frightens us, for we may not ask for anything but this privilege. If we do not, then we are thrown out, cast away, we become as nothing. We are taught that we exist only because we carry out other people’s wishes. We are here only by virtue of our consent to carry out the will of the men who give birth, or marry us. Ravan says that I am his child, born of misfortune, sneezed out like a misplaced pumpkin seed. On better days, he says I am born of a mango seed, he planted in a furrow, and gifted to his wife, but she didn’t want me, and threw me, and her aim was so good, I landed in Mithila. Have you heard such lies? My mother who oiled my hair, scrubbed my feet, and taught me to paint is now nothing but a foster mother. I have spent many years in the company of Ravan and his wife, and that Suprankha who is the cause of all my troubles. She was jealous of the love Ram had for me, so she sent her brother to look for me in the forest.” The little squirrel ran into their path, it’s grey coat was streaked with black stripes. “It looks like you do not have to wait that long!” “Why?”Sita asked hopefully. “Ram has sent his emissary to me.” “Ah, yes, the little grey squirrel with the black streaks…. Delightful fellow, travels close to his master’s heart. I didn’t see any ships or flags in the sea…how could Ram have arrived unannounced. I was dreading having to wait another year or two. You have no idea how slowly time has passed in the company of these people, my hosts, who have demanded that I see them every day and listen to their long stories, always the same, about how long they have waited for revenge against the lords of Ayodhya. Now, fires will rage, we will all be in danger, but so be it..better than absorbing all that hate clothed in fine words which Ravan and Mandodari bring to my bed every morning. Mandodari says that when I was born, I was very tiny, they did not think I would survive, and so she had me sent to Mithila, and left me in a furrow….as if I would have survived such a long journey..but then Ravan says I was born from his temple, meaning his head, and then transported in his flying machine. They can say anything, they just have to believe their own lies, and then it becomes truth for everyone. I have survived only by my ability to be polite, to make them feel that indeed, I am their guest, and I am their honoured friend. They fight among themselves, but to me they have only been most courteous, and ofcourse they never let Suprankha come near me. They know that she would try to kill me. I hear her shouting at her brother and his wife sometimes. Its enough to make one deaf. She keeps saying, “I know you have let someone in. I know it. Didn’t I tell you to keep the doors shut.“ Her brother fears her, he always try to make peace. He says, “Beautiful eyed Suprankha. So you fear invaders. Cannot you hear the silence. Breathe, my dear. You are too lovely to behold. I could never marry you off to a stranger. Your temper makes life difficult for Mandodari. Everyone can hear you screaming. You live in a torpor of unfulfilled desire. You still think of Ram. You remember him, and wish the years would roll back and you were their guest, unknown, a stranger, but loved. Oh, my dear, I stole his wife from him, only out of curiosity. You could not have him, so I wanted his wife to be robbed of the pleasures of bed and his constant company. Is that not proof of my love for you.” “Can you imagine! What wicked people I have fallen into the company of. They rejoice that I am alone, they puncture my solitude with their errant behavior. They feel that if I am left to myself I will surely die. But Anjaneya, I was always alone. They would have married me to the peepal tree if they could have. It’s the custom, when they see a girl like me, they think I would be safer in the company of my ancestors. I was never afraid. Now, I know that when Ram arrives, I should be ready. I will pack my few belongings and make ready to leave with you.” Anjaneya laughed. “It’s not that easy. We have to take you away secretly. Not a mistake can be made, or else if you lose your life in the accompanying battle then all will be lost. I have been asked to take you away without Ravan’s knowledge. That gives me only a few hours when he sleeps. You know he chants all night, with his eyes open…his only wish is to bedeck you with rubies, and keep you by his side. He is one minded. They call him rakshasa in the Northern kingdom, but here in the south, we know him well as a careful and honourable king, who studies the scriptures and prays to Shiva and to Krishna. He is the enemy of your husband, he has however many lineages who can burn you down to ashes. You think hatred is the only catalyst between two kings? No, when it comes to loyalty it is much more resilient. We do not know how many are followers of this king who is known to us by name only. But we talk too much. My Lord will not like it. He swears us to silence so that he can plan your safe return. He has spent many years learning the maps of the sea, the monsters that lie below, the strange caverns that bedeck the ocean floor. If anything happens to you, it is us who will have to pay with our heads. My men are also courageous, but sometimes they are fool-hardy. I have to be careful with my instructions, lady. They sometimes get into fights and become visible. We know that Ravan has planted mirrors in the forks of trees which radiate back to him through sunlit glades, recreating images. He knows where we are now, he sees us as warm emissions of light…He then sends his men, come, you must return to your garden. No one must know that we have spoken.” Sita hurried back, stopping to swim in the lotus pond. She sat on the swing below the large tree, whose boughs were black with age, their thickness proof of the years that she had spent in this garden. The trunk was larger than any she had seen before, and its leaves sharp and pointed and green, transparent in the evening light. It had been many hours since she had gone, but no one seemed to have noticed. To have seen Anjaneya atlast, of whom she had heard so much as a child, was a great gift. She felt safe, secure, hopeful. What he said, he would do. He was like a rock, patient, logical, just. Now all she must do is not show that she had understood the plan: wait, be still, have trust. Anjaneya knew what to do, he had received a sign. The army hid in the trees, they were many, they were adept and fearless. It seemed odd that the day was coming close that she had waited for, hoping it would bring her the one she longed for most. Had he forgotten how time would change her? She had tried so hard to keep her jewels, but Mandodari had taken them from her as soon as she arrived. As for Ravan, he promised her the treasures of his mines, but they were just words, for he would never bring them to the garden for his prisoner to look at. She had been happy with the flowers she saw every day, and the exquisite colours of the butterflies. Nothing pleased her as much as the beginning of each day, and the colours of the morning sky. She was only a girl, and when she saw the moon, the stars, the sun, she thought with pleasure that her husband could see them too. In the garden, Ravan was waiting. “So you met with Hanuman. You think I did not know. You think I am stupid. No, Sita! I know every plan you have, your value to me is not your servitude…it is the opposite..that you actually think you are a free being. It makes me believe that I am generous in letting you live. You become the wick of the candle I light every day in prayer, I am the humble devotee to the great Lord Shiva. He gives me every wish, I bring for him the choicest fruits and flowers, and burn the sweetest incense. We who live in this earthly paradise, value our every possession. For us, this is the new world, we do not miss what we lost, nor do we think about it. Bisrakh is still the place where our ancestors roam, but you, my dear are my trophy…even Mandodari has no share in you.” “How can one human being own another. We are not cattle. We have thoughts, feelings. We know what we want. I have never coveted some one else’s things. I grew up with my husband. It is true we were children, but he put me in the care of his mother. She fed me first, putting all the other children aside. If you demand that I behave to you as a girl to her father, why have you let me grow old, waiting in your garden. What is the reason that you robbed me of my youth, took away everything that was most precious, left me alone and without reason or thought, allowed me to while away the hours in your garden. It’s the cruelest thing that any man could do, to pretend love, even fatal desire, and leave me uncared for, with no one to talk to. You left me alone.” “Its not I who left you alone. It was your husband, making kidnapping you ever so easy.” “So you admit it. You admit that you robbed me of my life, and made me your prisoner.” “My sister was humiliated by your husband and his brother.” “Let’s not go into that old story. Its not the first time we have visited it. She tried to steal my husband.” “And for that she was summarily banished with no explanation.” “My husband will come to fetch me. He is close by now.” “So I have got the information I sought.“ Sita turned away. She would not let Ravan win battle after battle, it was as if in these conversations, he sought to be her friend, and then catapulted back into being that most familiar persona, her enemy, insulting her in a very convivial tone. She had grown old waiting. Ten years had made her wise. She had no idea how her husband had spent the years. He was attractive to women, they were always pursuing him, and he gave them fragments of time, which they cherished, believing that it was equally precious in memory to him. She had seen how many of them sought his promise to return, and to each he said. “My marriage to Sita is inviolable. I will see you again, and I thank you for your company.” These simple courtesies were sufficient for these languorous women, and even the most active of them, who had spent many years in pursuit of Ram would withdraw to their household responsibilities, care of parents, care of immediate members of their recognized family. They understood that he did not want them to abnegate the rights and privileges of family life, their every day routines, their marriages past or future. All these lovely willing ladies, throwing themselves at her husband…how many more had appeared while she was absent, swearing fealty to him and his clan, promising him male children. Sita wept. She herself had always been so loved, so full of an ephemeral evanescent joy, nothing tangible, nothing visible, an aura of contentment that followed her like the perfume from the earth after a drizzle of rain. So be it. She dried her tears. So her enemy had foreknowledge, he would use it to expand his army, but he did not know that the battle was won only when he was dead. She would wait. Let him die, by fire or sleep, it did not matter to her. She did not seek vengeance. Just suppose this incestuous bastard was actually her father? Chapter 9 Rameswaram had been hot. The blue waters of the beautiful sea ran side by side with the tree lined roads maintained by the princes of small principalities. The blue sky matched the waters. Hundreds of people walked in line to see the temples. Ram’s ambitious plan to recover his wife was part of the shared mission of many hundreds of people, who saw it as their divine quest. His goodness and justice had been bequeathed to them by many delegated orders that his brother Bharat carried out for him. Bharat had not a streak of vanity, or envy, he always acted merely as his brother’s envoy. And Laxman was forever impatient, that they cross the sea to Lanka. The sea stretched, but it was indeed blessed with a horizon. It seemed as if the winds were in their favour, and his people were ready to cross the waters with him. They were men and women, not all warriors, but simple farmers who wanted their princess returned back to him. Hanuman had left a huge stone in a pond near their homes to remind them that he could move mountains for his princess. They knew that he was now in Lanka, in visible sight and radius, if not in the company of Sita. Those who had heard of the plan to bring Sita back had just picked up their bows and arrows, and axes and clubs, for who would not seek to bring back their lovely queen? Though many years had passed, they remembered her for the curly haired child, with the quartz eyes, resplendent in her simple clothes, loved by all for her free will, and her love for her husband, which she had carried like a talisman. Everyone knew of the mutual love between them. Even their adversaries knew that they could not be separated from one another, though many tried. Word had come to them from Hanuman that Ravan had tried to conquer Sita by guile and lies, while keeping her captive in his garden. He was known for his wit, his malicious intent, his enmity to all those who stood in his path. Yet, the monkey army had been able to penetrate his well known fort. They had arrived in small groups, hiding themselves in his garden, waiting for the appropriate moment when they could take Sita and run. They had no magical bird, they only had their will to defeat a common enemy, and take her and run, with the intent of escaping through the forest and reaching the shore. Boats would be waiting for them, and while Ravan gave chase, Ram and Laxman would arrive. There is no innocence in war. Everyone knows their role, they each know what they must do, and not do. Ram’s army of ordinary people were ready to give up their lives for their Lord. They only knew that laying down their lives had not been demanded of them, and they had voluntarily arrived. The local people, subjects of Ravan were not their friends or enemies. They were mainly villagers too, some writers, soldiers and politicians among them, who stood firmly supporting Ravan. For them the insult to their Princess Supranka was answered by an abduction of Sita. They were sorry that that virtuous couple had lost the opportunity of spending beautiful years together, eating food from their villages in the forest. When were they ever exiled when even the forests were their private property? The grass cutters, keepers of cows, bee hives, fruit orchards, the hunters and farmers were all their own beloved people. They were known to be good paymasters, never allowing favours to go unnoticed. They could have spent 14 years in ‘exile’ very comfortably together in the company of the obsessively loyal Laxman, who not only got them their food, he also regularly sent his carrier pigeons with news to his younger brothers and his wife. Being born of different mothers had never made any difference to them. They were all very joined together in love and loyalty. Ram lay under the great tree that marked his camp in the precincts of an ancient temple. The stones were quarried from the mountains. They had absorbed the heat of the sun, but Laxman, always attentive had sprinkled water. It was late evening, and a transparent moon could be seen. It was a thin slice of moon, like a sliver cut from a water melon. He stared at it, thinking it was some days since the new moon. Sita had always been afraid of the dark nights of eclipses and new moons. She would plaintively say that it was a time when the monks never spoke to women, and shaved their heads. She looked anxiously to see if Ram had shaved his hair. Would he repudiate her? Would he keep her away from the marriage bed? Well, she was only a child. He had been always patient with her. Since the time that Sita had been abducted, she had slept in the grove of trees, the servants always protecting her from bats. Termites, ants and bees and snakes and wild animals, by the sacred fumes of tree resins brought from the groves. They had boiled her cinnamon water for her bath and for her early morning infusion. It was only Mandodari’s choicest foods that she threw away. For the rest, she lived like any hermit would, not looking for human company, but not declining their attentions. She really could not tell the difference between night and day, there were no events to mark them. Her dreams ran through the hours, linking her to her loved ones. She had no idea about their whereabouts, because she averted her face when Ravan told her about her kin, for he had news of all kinds, every day, for nothing escaped him. She knew that he was trying to be kind. Yet, she shut her ears. Ofcourse, it was revenge that had motivated the abduction. He had admitted it himself. In his magical garden, where fruit trees abounded, and the silkworms made their cocoons, she crooned to herself the beautiful verses her mother had taught her as a child. When the early morning fires were kindled with the first rays of the sun, she chanted those verses she had learned in the company of her husband. What was she going to do, when she met him again? Would he be bored by her, now that she had wilfully chosen the path of silence? Would they have anything in common? Earlier, he had basked in her peacefulness, said his best work was done in her company. Ofcourse, they had known that he was being trained as a soldier to fight and vanquish a famous warrior. There was no getting away from a destiny they had been warned of. They needed, then, the manifold ignorance which romantic love provides as a shield. They had disclosed their fear of imminent separation from their mothers, who had merely comforted them, saying that soothsayers always used the light from the stars which were indeed very far away to explain to their clients their obscure calculations. Anyway, the time was not now. And so they had gone back to their well loved pursuits. It was necessary that he continued his studies of military histories, and she started to note down in detail which of the shlokas that they both knew by heart which were to be painted. The gorgeous colours entranced her. She knew that after her death, for they were mortals after all, these paintings with the fish eyed goddess would remind her people that she had indeed been loved. There was no use in trying to avert fate. As soon as she had seen Suprankha, she knew that this woman had enough ambition and energy to separate her from her husband. “There is no fairness in love and war!” Supranakha would announce loudly to all present. Sita and Kaushalya had been surprised at the invocations of their guest. They had looked at each other, puzzled. Their goodness and piety was a dirge for their visitor, who sought to humble them at every turn. And yet, yet, their melancholic good manners prevailed. They tried very hard to be accommodating, for these guests usually brought alliances and political weight with them. The women were taught to be in accordance with her husband’s ambitions, but in this case, they were not very clear who they were appeasing. Since she came in with so much valour and beauty, they presumed that she was known to the clan. How could a guest enter the private chambers and be accommodated? How could she be allowed to access the intimate details of their inner lives? Yet, now, languishing in a garden with no hope of any kind, as her husband had not sent any further emissaries, Sita wondered how much longer she would have to suffer imprisonment. Every morning, Ravan asked her in the kindest terms, whether she had slept well, whether she had eaten the meal that Mandodari had made for the family? He knew he would be met with an averted face, but still he persisted. “And how do you feel today? Give me your hand. Let me feel your pulse.” She felt anxious, hearing his soft confidential burr. It would be hard proving that he had not touched her. He boasted to the servants that he had lain with her. Would it be possible? Had she encouraged him? Had she by some form of unacknowledged gesticulation communicated that she was his subject? So many years had passed in his courteous company, that she was now anxious that her tears had not dissolved her heart which was made of stone. Fear rent her awake. Yes, it was true, the claims that he was her father were in themselves lewd. He assumed that his learning was sufficient to prove his case, that as the keeper of mysteries he was a most powerful person. Only his wife understood his claim to being the great priest king, and forgave him every calumny. Sita wondered where Ram was. What beautiful damsel now held his attention, promising him sons: the eternal demand that vainglorious men had in their small principalities, which women sought to fulfill. The coexistence of dream time meant that he could always assure them he would return, but in this life, he belonged to Sita. She had heard that many times. Ram’s absence, Ravan’s continual assurance that he would never hurt her, all of it was beginning to confuse her. When would Ram find a way to release her from this bondage? She had heard that he was at Rameswaram. She knew the beaches well, and the long queues of those who waited for the sight of the Gods, and the supplication of the men and women who sought boons. Ofcouse the Gods and their consorts waited. They lived because the people breathed life into them with their faith and their ceremonies. It was now late morning. Sita wondered if she had dreamed of the conversation on the beach. It had made her head spin, thinking of how close escape was. When would they come to fetch her? Who would it be? Would Ram send Laxman? No, she doubted it. He would be in the front line of war. He had invented a new form of artillery not requiring human presence, just a press of a button. Ravan had boasted of such a weapon in his armoury, but Laxman had made one ready too. They would not be needing a large army, if that were the case. Preparations for war had taken a very long time indeed, but with such a disaster weapon, they would need less than a night to mop up their victory. She waited for night to descend. The candle in Ravan’s turret burned late. He slept very little, like his sister he needed very few hours of sleep. As Sita lay, twisting and turning, she saw that the sky was suddenly alight, it was on fire. The war was on. Chapter 10 Her sons had asked her, “Was it ten days that you were prisoner? That’s what the parathi (washerwoman) says when she washes clothes and tells us stories.” “Perhaps. It felt like ten years. I went into the enchanted garden a girl, and came out a woman, who was creased by time and nothingness. I was to hide in the boat when the war was waged, but it went awry, because it dashed on the rocks, and brought me back to shore. I had to wait knowing that if I was found I would be locked away. That war, it burned the garden where I was hidden, and would have killed me too, as it spread from the beach at a rapid speed. The fires which Ravan started were lethal, not just annihilation but a fog of poisonous fumes which spread everywhere. And Laxman’s weapon with the newest technology did not work. It rained, the fires were not extinguished, it grew dark, your father and his brother were wounded. As were Hanuman’s men. He had with him the sanjeevini which he had got in bulk with him, bringing many herbs together not recognizing the real medicines among the multitude of plants. I too managed to survive the poison fires because Mandodari came to our help, and hid us, and told us where Ravan and his brothers were, giving up through her whispers their secret lairs, in revenge for his many betrayals. Whatever be the cause of our victory, it was hard won. Ram came to fetch me, as I lay hidden, refusing to leave with Anjaneya. He was a bachelor, you know that, so even if I had accompanied him when he wished to leave with me before the war began, I had explained that I would leave only with my husband. I never imagined that my cautiousness about my virtue would come to naught because as we were leaving, Ravan, dying from the fires that melted his kingdom, suddenly held my hand. “Remember your promise. Remember the benediction. Pull me out of my grave. Drag me out from the hole your husband has left me in. Help me.” I could not wrench my hand free, and so I gave him the blessing of Bhoomi Devi. I could not withhold it. It came to me as easily as Mandodari passing us state secrets. Something asked, something delivered. Sometimes we don’t know why we do what we do. His large eyes were beseeching, he was already melting with the heat of his own warrior inventions, and Ram’s wrath coupled with Hanuman’s dexterity and bringing things to a conclusion. There was no end to the treachery of war and mutual hatred. I wanted him to be peaceful at last. Bisrakh of the lost kingdom, the heart gone astray, the man thought to be a demon by some, including my husband and all our kin, and yet, in hindsight, an intellectual loyal to his own. Was I mistaken, that I should have shut his eyes when he died? He was our enemy, but he had been my constant companion for ten years…can you imagine? Knocking at my heart every day, asking for my love, begging for my tenderness, clutching at my hand but not receiving even a glance from me. How his wife must have hated me. She watched us with a deadened gaze, hurting from his indifference, and the insults of his sister. She was after all someone who understood that his lust was knitted in his very being, that he longed for coitus with a woman whom he had conjured to meet this very need. How repulsed Mandodari was that he tried to pass me on to her, as his ‘daughter’. Constantly asking her to cover up his sly attempts at seducing me, watching me as I aged from day to day, knowing that my tragedy would one day be his downfall. And Ram looked at me, thinking, “What is she doing? Why is she giving Ravan this moment of condolence, why is she the last thing his iris sees and imprints in his dying brain. This is odd.” Hanuman gave me an odd look too, I am sure that the parati, your washer woman, was not wrong when she said that the war took only a week, ten days at the most. They say that in Adam’s hill too, it took seven days to create the universe. And six days for my father in law to die. Is time so graspable, counted only by full moons? And Ravan also said to his wife that I was Hava, born of the rib cage of the first woman born from man. I was born from that relic bone which he fermented in obsidian glass, and so he explained my brown eyes and black hair…they were merely genetic hand-me -downs which he had nurtured, and created me. So I was not born of him, and he could marry me, if he wished. Such a beautiful man, full of odd longings. Every day I saw him, and I was repelled by his lust. Every day he came to me, bathed and shining, full of an unnameable ardour. So that’s why the washerwoman says that it took only ten days to find him, and then in the palace in Ayodhya she would wink and say, “ She lay in the garden, and when she was asleep he lay with her.” Did I know that? My heart was full of that leaden hatred, that sense of being continually vandalized by his hate. As for his ten heads, which she boasted were buried with him, that was the fantasy of those who interred him in the soil while I redeemed him from his wounds and sores. I had that much humanity, to know that my jailor is capable of pain, and believes himself to be omnipotent when alive, and merely a soft spineless venomous creature when defeated. He was on fire, I saved him with the beneficence of the cool earth which makes no distinctions between friends and foes, and absorbs all easily. So as a joke, they buried a well worked effigy of nine heads which fitted well together. he was buried with it. Ram was pleased to burn the many effigies that came up. Only a vast turbulent sea had stood between him and me. Why would he not burn Ravan a thousand times? Or perform sacrifices to commend me after my death? All his life, and he lived long as warrior and king, he burned Ravan. We who are human, we hate with a terrible intensity, while avowing love for the gods. We are without mercy when we accost those who took that which was most precious. And so it was with Ram and Ravan, whose stories were told differently in Lanka and Ayodhya. I was the catalyst, the manner by which a prophesy became fulfilled. It was about the punishment meted out for a borrowed time, both the lust that served Suprankha well, when she desired my husband, and for the reciprocal lust that Ravan had for me. This is what Ravan said, “So! He invites my sister as his guest, and introduces her to his wife and mother. He takes her to the family chambers. He lives in proximity with her. He says she invited herself. She left her garments on their marriage bed. So she was ousted by his brother Laxmn, for her covetousness. In return, I will steal his wife, and show him what absence does, how corrosive it is. I will show him my sinister face, let him think on it, every time that he reads his kinship charts and speaks of his ancestor Karna. I, Bisrakh will tie his hands with an amulet, the kind which brothers tie on their sisters. He will try to release his wife, and fail. He will try to kill me, but the amulet of memory will absorb his wrath. He will seek her return but she will be my ward, my daughter and she will not remember how she arrived or how she left.” But such a man did exist, the handsome warrior who conquered and raped without compunction. Our soldiers have done the same, when they came to Lanka. They killed all those whom they could lay hands on. They raped many women, and they attacked many small children. War, they said, loftily. These are our enemies. They would do the same to us, if they ever set foot on our lands. Hanuman knew he could not control his foot soldiers. His only intent was to save me. He would do anything for me, but he was also very knowledgeable. He knew that others would spy on us, disgrace us, with rumours and lies, so he always laughed and said “Not now” every time I asked him to take me to Ram. Then, I got tired of waiting, and I said, “I will only go with my husband.” Yet, I agreed to go in the boat waiting for me, but then, the battle got dangerous, and I was hidden away so that I did not have to see the continual violence. Being wooed by Ravan every day for ten years was a splinter in my soul. Every day, he called me by sweet names, endearments I dare not describe. Mandodari read the poems he wrote for me. She was shocked, but she trusted me, and in the end she became our ally. We could do nothing in all that time as Ravan sat by me, longing, looking, demanding. At night, I called his name, beseeching him to leave me alone. Mandodari heard me. She cooled my brow, and tried to awaken me. Did the washerwoman hear what I felt, how I cried, how my heart broke in two? She was always present, accompanying me, fearing for me, my intimate because she knew every aspect of my life. And so it was to her that Rama turned for advice. “Did she menstruate while I was away” “Yes, my Lord.” “Were her sheets wrinkled with shapes other than her own.” “No, my Lord!” It was not surprising that my husband asked these questions. If not him, Laxman would have. They knew every detail of what happened when I was a captive. They even knew the names of my pet deer, and their fawns. They were jealous of every passing breeze, and they had heard Ravan shouting that he loved me, that I was his creation. They assumed that meant ownership, and they sullied their warrior minds with the thought that Ravan had possessed me. How could I convince them, when I myself did not know what had happened when I slept. The dream time that I entered was so horrible, so full of death and vituperation, that even the continually hallucinating Suprankha could not tolerate my cries for help. The garden where I was hidden away became my refuge, it was where the small grey crickets took over the surface of the clear waters of the pond. It was where the dragonflies came to rest, where the well dressed tree frogs came to dance in their yellow coats polka dotted with red…I had never seen them before, these lovely creatures, amphibians of a lovely land. That’s why when your father put me through the test of the gossip of the people who did not want me to be by his side I returned to the rain forest. I came here, to Pupally, because I had ways by which I could meet the hills and trees and grasses, the forest people, smell the fragrance of the kundrikam, the tree resin, when the local people burnt their fire wood, and yes, I learned to live with my memories. Here, with every torrential season of rain, I knew that one day I would die, that the land would rent me open as if I was nothing but a jackfruit tree, scoured from inside to store clear water. These kennis, like the bee hives, each so round and rich and thick with the sponge that stored honey were my symbols for continuing life, which I had to promise you. I was put aside for purposes of state craft, my very identity was absorbed into the golden image, as if I was a deer to be crafted by goldsmiths and paraded. So be it, the malice of my own servers, who could not bear our coupling, who could not be witnesses to the great passion that your father and I had they became the questioners of my virtue. They passed every rumour, exulting in my loneliness, my loss of speech, my selfhood which no longer existed except as the shadow of who I had become. Interred for ten days, or ten years, separated from my loved ones, how could I expect to be what they wanted to be. A mendicant living on the fruits of the deranged lord of another land, refusing the cooked food from his kitchens, speaking to myself, watching the monkeys in the trees…I who had a vulture for a pet! So, we returned to Ayodhya, spent by our passion and our renewal. We lived together for the duration of our journey, the people of the South as vehement in our joy, saying a demon has been destroyed, and the people of our own allied kingdoms delighting in our journeys and our successes. How were we to know, that this placid love which had withstood every calamity, every possible obstacle would fall into the pit of this continual dissonance, the chant to prove my chastity while in the hands of Ravan. He was greedy, it is true, his eyes always lit up with hope when he saw me. He tried to touch me, in the presence of his wife, who was sympathetic to me for the travail that I had to undergo. Yet, he knew, and I knew that his head would burst asunder in the memory of previous curses which had been heaped on him. There was nothing for me to do, really. He had to meet his fate, as just as I met mine. And Ram, my husband, was he not a scholar, as much as he was a warrior? He got tired of the questioning that continually led to suspicion about me. He thought the easiest way would be the agnipariksha, the mouth of the volcano, of agnilingam. “Go prove your chastity! Do your job. Calm the people! Let me get on with my work.” It wasn’t easy, but I had no choice. Sometimes, love and longing throw you into the abyss unasked. I walked through the fire, remembering to cool my body with water (all water is holy) and then I ran over the coals so fast that my feet did not burn.” And then? “We couldn’t go back to each other, and the needle of suspicion always hovered over my head, so continually was it poised. That murmur, that glance, that raised eyebrow, that sudden laugh..suspicion like Suprankha’s continually missing nose is our punishment for taking a path which others do not. And that is the assertion of a common humanity. Its not easy to say that I was virtuous. The word is a description of actions, and I had none other than staying alive, believing that my husband would return for me. He had to fight a war, they say I was the cause. No, it was that they were enemies pitted across aeons, and would always recognize each other and go for the kill. I had no one to fight for…and your birth, my sons, was to avert the ashvamedha, which according to legend, required me to lie under it. There were many things the scriptures ordained, and I lacking teachers or texts, being there by chance, heard them in the wind. Here the rainy season rages. We are hidden away for four long months. If your father or Hanuman comes, I will ask them why they made me undergo the agni pariksha, the fire travels, the fire trials. I will lock up your uncle and make him witness to my agony. I will keep him here as my prisoner till he answers my question. I am no longer that girl he watched from tree tops in the Ashoka groves…I am a woman who has known hunger and death, and the friendships of the poorest people of the land. I will not go away without asking these questions.” Hearing this, her sons became witness to the earth opening up and swallowing up their mother when their father after a long absence returned only to ask his wife, “Ready to return? Ready to face the enquiries of the people, my people. Were you faithful, loyal, careful of your virtue?” We tied up our adoptive uncle, whom our mother called Anjaneya. We sought answers for her suffering. He could say nothing, except smile and say, “That was her fate. She encountered it with courage. Bhoomi Devi gave her great strength to face what was her lot. We were there to help her when she most needed it. You cannot punish your father. He is what he is, his burden is his to bear. If he forgot your mother in the long years that she lived in the forest with you, well, that was fate too. He was busy with his studies, he always felt that he needed to take care of his kingdom, his people. What they wanted, was what he wanted. He was always loyal to your mother, turning away these many eager women who accosted him at every turn. Your mother always said that his kingdom meant more to him, but truly, these are obligations which are ours by our very birth. We seek to avoid them, but they follow us, saying, these are our primary duties. And your father made no distinction between subjects treating them all equally. Trial by fire, well, my dear brothers…it is a tradition among the Ikshus, you know that. They burn everything that comes in their way, it’s a cosmic havan if you like, they are used to it. When they are peaceful, calm, they light sticks of sweet smelling incense to substitute. Trial by fire…she could have done it again..she knows that is asked of women when they live apart from their husbands and seek to rejoin them. You know that your father had quite forgotten that she had been sent away. But he knew what the people want, its always trial by fire. Say something a little different, and all the people respond, ‘Camera! Action. Cut!’ Nothing changes. What’s your next question?” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx