The Princes of Ayodhya-The Ramayan Through Short Stories

Aftermath

No amount of rain, wind, or clouds could stop Ram and Lakshman as they walked down the forest trails. Thankfully for them, however, there was none. It was sunny, but Ram looked upon the sun that shined down upon him with scorn, his lip curling. The sun had no right to shine. The day had no right to be so perfect. The wind no permission to blow. Clouds no reason to pass. Sita was in the clutches of a demon, and everything seemed normal.

How long had it been since he had last seen her? That round face? Her long, dark hair? Her soft, pretty eyes? It felt like years, longer than the vanvass, longer than his life, longer than a Yug, longer than it actually was. Maa Kaushalya had once told him that sorrow and separation from a loved one made time pass slower than it did. Maa Kaikeyi said that happiness determined perception of time. Maa Sumitra told him that it was not emotion or separation that affected time, but how one reacted to it.

Was that true? Ram closed his eyes shut and tried to imagine himself happy. He couldn't. But he could do something else. The day felt so normal, too normal. If he wasn't trudging through the forest, if his light orange angavastram didn't have a few spattered drops of Marich's blood displayed on it, if every second did not remind him of her, her words, her actions, then perhaps he could pretend. He could pretend to be happy, just to make time pass faster. Ram wished he had shot that Brahmastra off when he had the chance. The anger resurfaced like all anger did when faced with regret; as if a dagger dove into a new scar, defiling old wounds with fresh ones.

Lakshman watched his brother's back, swallowing down his words like one would do a mouthful of medicine; with a grimace of disgust, and somewhat one of regret that they had not spat it out. Anger was something, that unlike all else, did not grace his brother Ram. Anger was something that Ram did not employ to his advantage. Anger was something that Ram threw aside without thinking. And yet, anger was what he knew Ram felt, overpowering anger. Lakshman exhaled, swallowing again. They were nearing the edge of the forest. No longer could they pretend to be frolicking in the warm, welcoming, familiar arms of Chitrakoot. Now it would be a harsh wind that greeted the princes.

Harsh, and unforgiving. Strange, Lakshman thought, that something he looked upon with dislike and uneasy apprehension was something that he was described as. Something that he would not change. Stubbornness was like the cool, powerful wind; it hit against you, never ebbing, refusing to yield, and eventually, you went along with it. Was that how everyone behaved around him too? Avoiding the puddle of anger he was? When did he get so poetic? Lakshman shook his head, ridding his mind of all thoughts. What would happen next, would he start playing bagpipes, tap dancing, and reciting dirty little limericks ending in rhymes? Well, truly, anything could happen, but he certainly hoped not! What was the point of building up a reputation over years, only to have it demolished in seconds?

The third prince, beloved of Urmila, was jolted out of his thoughts when the branches stopped brushing against him. Ram had stopped, and now stared at the Rishyamukha Mountains with barely concealed awe. "Look, brother of mine, at how tall and proud these mountains stand!" Ram straightened himself too, puffing his chest out, broadening his shoulders. "I cannot afford to be weak. Let's go!" Lakshman followed his footsteps. Such trust his brother had in him, enough to believe that he would be tall and proud without saying. But what if he was not? He couldn't afford not to be either. Lakshman too straightened himself, simmering in barely controlled anger. His bhabhi was somewhere, somewhere unforgiving in its hostility. And he would not stand here, allowing it to happen.

-----O-----

Ravan and Sita landed on the island of Lanka. It was truly breathtaking in its splendour, and even if they arrived in distress and struggle, all the visitors took a second to have their breath pulled out of their lungs as they took in the grand city. But not Sita. She may have noticed it, in the corner of her eyes, but in her mind, the most beautiful kingdom was the one which she ruled with her husband. And if not that, then her dear Videha, her birthplace. Sita found beauty not in gold and shimmer, but in what happened in the city, what it was made for. And she saw nothing great about a city of slaughter and evil.