A Lot of Bridges Cross Sarayu

Sunset's Crook

After the yajna of the horse, Rama had fallen. Throwing himself upon the rangoli on the floor, he had sobbed until the sun had set. Nestling his face in the flowers of the rangoli, he had felt his fingers painfully scratch the hard floor as if to pry his beloved away from the depths of the Earth itself.

Even as the impossible happened, Rama had felt himself go numb. Yes, he had run after her with outstretched arms, uttering threats of destruction if she wasn't returned to him at once. But alas, even as he had heard himself screaming and drawing at his weapons, he had seen the end of that road. That ship had sailed, never to return.

As the yajna ground had crackled and split, swallowing up his beloved, Rama's eyes had flickered. A desperate cry had escaped his lips, seeking but a sliver of amnesty, but his beloved had turned away, disappearing in the storm of dust that had risen alongside the goddess of the earth. The dust had then met the sacred fire and climbed in billows of smoke, shrouding him and his wife from the rest of the sabha. In there, he had seen her face. Her rosy cheeks streaked with tears, she had looked to his right, searching for someone else. Rama had run up to her, his palms only a hair's breadth from cupping her face. For a second, their eyes had met.

Rama hadn't been sure what he had expected but Seeta's eyes had carried bitter dissent. Yet, looking up at him, just as she had on their wedding night, her eyes had seemed to communicate a desperate plea. Then, she has disappeared. Almost on cue, the storm had scattered, leaving Rama standing on the edge of the rangoli, palms outstretched. Then, the entire world had spun round and round, and Rama had fallen.

Slowly the light of the day had faded away. Through his tears, Rama wondered why no one had lit the lamps yet. He smiled briefly to himself. With the very light of his life taken from him just then, how ironic it was to worry about the lamps of the mortal world. Eventually, someone knelt beside him, holding a forlorn, twinkling diya. Rama lifted his head with difficulty finding Lakshmana staring at him worriedly. His eyes too appeared swollen and dull. "Bhrata," He whispered to Rama.

Rama looked around as his brother propped him up. The bristling Ashwamedha sabha was empty now.

"I sent them home," Lakshmana said softly.

Rama opened his mouth to speak, but Lakshmana held up a hand, "Not now, please." He whispered.

---

Lakshmana turned to leave after tucking Rama in his bed, when he felt his brother's trembling hand wrap around his arm, pulling him back. Lakshmana slid onto the floor beside Rama's humble straw bed. The brothers sat side-by-side for long, staring at the bejewelled wall before them. After almost an hour, Rama broke the silence, "I should've fought harder," He whispered, "For her. For us." He continued almost as if he was talking to himself, "I should've listened to you and, left this wretched place along with her! None of this would've happened if I'd just been stronger! But I had to go ahead and listen to them! Do what they said, me?! King Rama?! I couldn't even keep my wife from-" Rama seemed to break out of a trance. Suddenly, turning to Lakshmana he asked, "The boys?!"

"Valmiki took them, Your Majesty," Lakshmana replied, his head bowed.

"So you couldn't stop him?" Rama fumed, "They're the heirs to my throne, they belong here, with me!"

"He had a point, you know that," Lakshmana nudged his brother softly, "Their education remains incomplete. Also, everybody they know lives in the ashram. I thought this way it might be easier for them to cope...after all this."

Rama sighed deeply, "I have Seeta's answer, but them? Will they ever forgive me?"

Lakshmana silently refocused his gaze on the sparkling wall before them.

Rama smiled sadly, "Lakhan, do you remember Panchavati?"

Lakshmana turned to look at his brother. Such a long time had passed since Rama had addressed him by this nickname. Rama had first called him by this name when they had been mere toddlers. It was one of the first words Rama had learnt to say after maata and pita. The last time Lakshmana had heard it, was in a dream. Lakhan, my Lakhan! You have to wake up! You can't do this to me, you have to! Lakshmana still didn't remember those days of recovery very well. The only thing he remembered was that he had never been left alone on the battlefield after that.

A nickname that had gotten lost somewhere in the din of the graces and majesties.

Lakshmana cleared his throat with some effort, "Yes, bhaiya, and that wretched deer."

"I don't think we'll get to forget that one in this lifetime at least." Rama laughed ruefully, "But don't you have any good memories? I know I have no right to claim happiness from them now, but still, humour me."

Lakshmana's mind wandered back to the dense but welcoming stretch of forest. He did indeed have some good memories hidden under the bitter ones. That one time he and Rama had gotten into a playful straw fight, trying to thatch the roof of their hut in vain. Lakshmana smiled to himself. Seeta had laughed herself silly that day. Even then, he had noticed how Rama's eyes had constantly darted to meet Seeta's basking in her approval.

Or, the first time they had set down the ingredients for lunch at Seeta's feet. To their bewilderment, Seeta's eyes had welled up immediately. After gentle coaxing Seeta had finally admitted, "I only know palace recipes, to be prepared in glittering golden pots. I do not even know how to make a stove here, never mind what to do with these berries!"

Rama and Lakshmana had laughed heartily at Seeta's adorable anxieties and that lunch had turned into a group effort of the brothers teaching Seeta the tricks of the jungle they had learnt on their previous expeditions. Since then, it had become somewhat of a tradition for them to invent new recipes from the scarce resources they all scraped together, and spend half of the days having lazy cook-offs.

Lakshmana smiled softly as he recounted the little, bristling scenes that popped up in his mind. Seeta's laughter seemed to escape his words and fill the vast, empty castle once more. He stopped only when he felt Rama's deep, steady breath falling on his shoulder. Sighing, Lakshmana closed his eyes as well. After all, he didn't need to stand guard in this impregnable, wretched palace of Ayodhya. Nothing worthy was left to guard anyway.