(Excerpted from The Living Legend by Vayu Naidu with permission from Penguin Random House)
The Living Legend reimagines the saga of Rama, Sita and Lakshmana. Set in the Dandaka Forest, it skillfully highlights the far-reaching influence of The Ramayana across South and East Asia. Nature is a central character in this novel, which weaves in contemporary environmental concerns into the narrative, offering readers a unique blend of ancient myth and modern eco-consciousness.
Mithila
It is exhausting to undertake a journey. First, there is the excitement of preparation, and then the actual journey to look forward to. Imagine the adventure of experiencing new smells and tastes, hearing different languages, and watching different customs that range from a ‘welcome’ to a ‘goodbye’ in other cultures! Listening to a story is about travelling. You start by listening, not knowing who the characters are. By the time you have finished listening, you are familiar with the characters because you have travelled with them. You are there in their time of trouble, laughter, love, anger, despair and happiness. At the end of the story, you come out of it like you have been visiting another country, and something about that story has changed you and the way you look at life. There are so many characters to meet and names to remember; some we instantly like, others we find instantly odious, but learn to tolerate. Then, of course, there are surprises. We have to have strong stomachs because the twists and turns of life are like riding on a roller coaster.
Rama and Lakshmana had eaten soft kala jamun that had stained their fingers and lips a deep purple with its tangy sweetness, and laughing at how each other looked, lay down on the ground to rest. Lakshmana was delighted he had had a battle with a real rakshasa. His eyes were shining with pride for his beloved Rama, who was his hero. As Viswamithra walked with the brothers through the forest, Lakshmana would frequently look over his shoulder hoping something was lurking around so that he could leap into action. Rama was cool. He enjoyed listening to Viswamithra’s stories. He felt as if he were entering the very heart of people’s lives, in a way he could not at the palace in Kosala, where everyone loved him and only showed their best side to him.
He was puzzled and pleased in turns by Ahalya’s story. ‘So strange to be a woman,’ he thought. She fulfilled her time of punishment, for a mistake that was not of her making, and as there was no forgiveness from her husband, she bore the weight of his curse that shifted her shape into a big black rock, ungiving and unfeeling. Finally, when she was looked upon with compassion, she felt released from the past, and thanking Rama, she left in a cloud of effervescent light.
They walked barefoot through forests and waded across streams and a wide river with steep embankments. They trusted Viswamithra, who would not reveal the next destination, in the stride and pace he set for travelling by foot and stops to rest. Viswamithra made them listen to different birdsongs and watch their migratory patterns, understand the mating season of the fish, and see the harvesting of wheat and paddy. Rama began to see different kinds of fields. Some were lying fallow, while a set adjacent were fertile for farming.
‘Even the soil needs a rest to restore its nutrients,’ explained Viswamithra.
‘We don’t do this in Kosala. It makes perfect sense, though,’ said Lakshmana, ‘to give the soil a rest before sowing it again. If we don’t care for the land, who will?’
‘Every forest, hill, field, river and mountain is as good as the men who sow and tend to it,’ said Viswamithra with a contented sigh, having been rid of the rakshasa. Rama knew these words would ring true to his heart, throughout his life.
In the distance, they could see paths and soon these broadened into paved roads. Viswamithra was now almost sprinting and the young men had to quicken their pace. They entered a city named Mithila. The gateway was ornate, with thick stone held together by sculptures of dancing men and women, elephants and birds. The cornerstones were engraved with a hunting bow and bordered with Kama, the God of Love’s arched bow and a spray of arrows.
Rama and Lakshmana quickly looked at each other. Was this a hostile city under the cover of friendship? They swiftly concealed their curiosity and were soon overtaken by this awe-inspiring city. People had no need to lock their doors.
It was safe in Mithila, the kingdom of Janaka. Precious gems such as emerald and sapphire were bought and sold in the street markets. Prosperity abounded and there were no beggars. Those who were disabled were occupied with creating crafts. There was the vibrance of life lived to its fullest in this capital. The traffic of elephants and horses and bullock carts halted as passenger carriers moved swiftly.
It was close to midday and drinking-water carriers began to line the streets. Rama had stopped for a drink and was checking out the time of day by the position of the sun. It made him look up and at the same time, look at a young woman who happened to be playing ball with her friends up on a balcony. She looked down at the ornamental ball that had fallen on the street below by Rama’s feet.
One fleeting glance. That’s all it took. It was a turning point. Their worlds would never be the same again. Up to that point, each, in their own little universes, was alert to the senses of this world. But as they caught sight of each other, it was like lightning.
(Vayu Naidu is Royal Literary Fund Fellow, Visiting Fellow at Royal Academy of Dramatic Art teaching Indian Theatre, and Professor of Practice at SOAS in the School of Arts)
