civilization calls
“conscience” churned within her. Later, she began to get bouts
of trembling; her forehead would sweat profusely when she would hear the cats
calling at night. She would often say, “Oh, why is that child not being
fed with milk?” and make her maids of honour run out to see if there were
children roaming in the dark. She felt a tenderness for baby rakshasas long after
her son had grown up. Her crying really got Ravana upset. He had high regard for
her, but the outbursts became frequent before the war. I wonder if she could see
that she was going to be widowed.
‘But back to this prize
business. I was curious. So there I was, bright and early, at the contest. My word!
You should have seen all those princes; their bare upper bodies glinting with all
that jewellery and marked with sandal and vermilion. It was arousing to say the
least.
‘The city was festooned with
banners carried by the entourage of the participating princes. All banners were
embossed with images of the princes’ guardian deities—some were
embossed with a lion, some had an eagle, some an owl, another a cobra, yet another a
peacock, and on and on it went as the procession stretched beyond a mile.
‘Each entourage consisted of
the princes’ poets, masseurs, astrologists, musicians, councillors,
palmists, poison detectives, historians, portrait painters, sartorial advisers and
accompanying brahmins to invoke the respective gods of strength to win the contest.
The people of Mithila had swept and washed the roads till they gleamed in the sun.
Sugar cane juice in clay cups was offered as a welcome drink. Water carriers stood
along the roadside ready to refresh any member of the entourage. There were elephant
sheds and stables provided for each visiting principality. Food, drink and diverse
entertainments were provided by the royal courtesy of Mithila. Perhaps at any other
contest, a prince’s entourage could stir a little trouble by drinking too
much, losing at gambling or the cockfight, or because a dancing girl slapped them
too hard. But here, on this occasion, the contest and where it was being held had a
special significance.
‘It was Mithila—a
coveted city within a coveted kingdom. The princes had been waiting eagerly for the
announcement of this swayamvara for months, even a year. They had been training for
longer. Each prince wanted to exhibit his skills and show his prowess. Nothing and
nobody could cast a slur on that one ambition that filled each prince as he
journeyed to Mithila. But why?
‘Because each prince dreamed
of winning the prize of the contest. The prize was Sita. Sita’s wit and
fiery spirit had caught the attention of poets and won the praise of singers when
they had attended arts festivals at Mithila. They had created legends about her; and
when they returned to their courts and sang, each prince grew to love Sita and
wanted her as his wife.
‘The whole of Mithila was
bustling with guests and the streets hummed with languages of other kingdoms. The
kitchens were steaming with cuisines for vegetarians and meat-eaters. Stalls were
dressed with sweets of all colours and shapes, glistening with silver trimming, and
the air was heavy with the subtle scents of condiments like green cardamom, clove,
nutmeg and saffron mixing in sweetened, thickened cow’s milk. Weavers
spread out their bales of rich turquoise- and ruby-coloured silk. The stone
cutters’ chisels and hammers created early morning music as they carved
out of soapstone and alabaster statuettes of women in all forms of movement,
subliminally celebrating the vivacity of their princess Sita—not wishing
to disclose her identity for fear of staining her fiery and pure spirit by
replicating it in stone and wood. “How can we,” the master
craftsmen would cry with dismay and pride, “capture that spark that lights
her eyes?”
‘Sage
“conscience” churned within her. Later, she began to get bouts
of trembling; her forehead would sweat profusely when she would hear the cats
calling at night. She would often say, “Oh, why is that child not being
fed with milk?” and make her maids of honour run out to see if there were
children roaming in the dark. She felt a tenderness for baby rakshasas long after
her son had grown up. Her crying really got Ravana upset. He had high regard for
her, but the outbursts became frequent before the war. I wonder if she could see
that she was going to be widowed.
‘But back to this prize
business. I was curious. So there I was, bright and early, at the contest. My word!
You should have seen all those princes; their bare upper bodies glinting with all
that jewellery and marked with sandal and vermilion. It was arousing to say the
least.
‘The city was festooned with
banners carried by the entourage of the participating princes. All banners were
embossed with images of the princes’ guardian deities—some were
embossed with a lion, some had an eagle, some an owl, another a cobra, yet another a
peacock, and on and on it went as the procession stretched beyond a mile.
‘Each entourage consisted of
the princes’ poets, masseurs, astrologists, musicians, councillors,
palmists, poison detectives, historians, portrait painters, sartorial advisers and
accompanying brahmins to invoke the respective gods of strength to win the contest.
The people of Mithila had swept and washed the roads till they gleamed in the sun.
Sugar cane juice in clay cups was offered as a welcome drink. Water carriers stood
along the roadside ready to refresh any member of the entourage. There were elephant
sheds and stables provided for each visiting principality. Food, drink and diverse
entertainments were provided by the royal courtesy of Mithila. Perhaps at any other
contest, a prince’s entourage could stir a little trouble by drinking too
much, losing at gambling or the cockfight, or because a dancing girl slapped them
too hard. But here, on this occasion, the contest and where it was being held had a
special significance.
‘It was Mithila—a
coveted city within a coveted kingdom. The princes had been waiting eagerly for the
announcement of this swayamvara for months, even a year. They had been training for
longer. Each prince wanted to exhibit his skills and show his prowess. Nothing and
nobody could cast a slur on that one ambition that filled each prince as he
journeyed to Mithila. But why?
‘Because each prince dreamed
of winning the prize of the contest. The prize was Sita. Sita’s wit and
fiery spirit had caught the attention of poets and won the praise of singers when
they had attended arts festivals at Mithila. They had created legends about her; and
when they returned to their courts and sang, each prince grew to love Sita and
wanted her as his wife.
‘The whole of Mithila was
bustling with guests and the streets hummed with languages of other kingdoms. The
kitchens were steaming with cuisines for vegetarians and meat-eaters. Stalls were
dressed with sweets of all colours and shapes, glistening with silver trimming, and
the air was heavy with the subtle scents of condiments like green cardamom, clove,
nutmeg and saffron mixing in sweetened, thickened cow’s milk. Weavers
spread out their bales of rich turquoise- and ruby-coloured silk. The stone
cutters’ chisels and hammers created early morning music as they carved
out of soapstone and alabaster statuettes of women in all forms of movement,
subliminally celebrating the vivacity of their princess Sita—not wishing
to disclose her identity for fear of staining her fiery and pure spirit by
replicating it in stone and wood. “How can we,” the master
craftsmen would cry with dismay and pride, “capture that spark that lights
her eyes?”
‘Sage
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