SITA

It was almost a ritual to take bath and wear fresh clothes before sitting cross-legged in lotus posture, spine straight in front of television on Sunday mornings. This arrangement suited Maa best as we would not laze around and she could finish her cooking and washing, including washing her children in time. Ours was a big joint family and Dadi had to be Hitlerian, I’m not angry with her any more, now I understand her better. What a challenge it was to have three daughters and two daughters-in-law under one roof. ‘Everyone and everything has to be placed at the proper place, or life becomes untidy,’ she would say.

Maa was the eldest bahu, so had to be near ideal for all the younger females and I was the youngest. My Mom performed her role well, I say ‘performed’… I know you understand what I want to convey. She was quiet, submissive and daunted, given in-charge of my grandparents before my father went abroad.

All the daughters and daughters-in-law would sit on the floor and wait for Dadi. Dadi being myopic and aged demanded to be placed near the television so she could watch things clearly, but she would defy her age when she would jump to switch off the idiot-box wherever it went vulgar. There was a space to accommodate women and girls from the neighbourhood. But the same condition applied to everyone. Her sons and grandsons would excuse themselves conveniently and spend their Sundays as they wished. They were men after all, and needed to be left alone…

I was delighted to watch Sita being rescued and brought back after such a warfare. She was my favourite, such a comely and sweet-natured girl, who looked fabulous even in plain clothes and floral ornaments. How thrilling would it be to roam around in the jungle with bows and arrows with two family members and never having to go to school! But my fancies were getting chastised when she was kidnapped and tortured. Somehow, I could not understand why she was kidnapped? She had just crossed over a line drawn on the ground to give alms to an insistent Sadhu. Dadi goes out to give alms to sadhus whenever they come in our street asking for it. I have to share chocolates with my younger brothers, though grudgingly, when they finish their portion fast and start howling for more. Sharing is caring, isn’t it?

With Ramanand Sagar’s TV serial, I was growing too. I wanted Sita to be reunited with Ram and be placed once again in the safe environs of her home. For me, a girl of ten or eleven, it was really scary to be kidnapped by an imposter who turns out to be a ten-headed mighty demon. Unconsciously, I was donning Sita in my day-dreams. She was such a fine girl, everybody loved and respected her, even my Dadi was all praise for her…a litmus test Sita had passed to my dismay and my Maa had failed.

Maa cooked delicious food and kept her home and children so sparkling that my Dadu, his friends and Dadi’s friends, even my teachers…all praised her. My Dadi had cataracts and her vision had gotten hazy with age, but she had a vision of visionaries, had an expertise in the nuances of relations and was mindful of the nuisance of praise. Judicious as she appears to me today, my Maa always would have a greater share of her approval in comparison to her own daughters, though never in her daughter-in-law’s presence. Every episode of Ramayan would be discussed thoroughly and lessons injected in the younger lot, even the girls from neighbourhood who came on Sundays would not be spared these sessions.

Dadi had her own reputation in the mohalla as she was Sir’s wife, an educated, disciplined and respectable elderly woman who would have her final say in all the matters of household. Never meddling in men’s affairs, she had managed the network of relations like an expert and enjoyed a high TRP.

My favourite didi, Janaki from the neighbourhood, would never miss an episode of Ramayan and would be the first one to report on Sunday. Dadi also approved of her Nirma washed clothes, neatly pleated braids adorned with fragrant wreaths of flowers and a dot of sandal on the forehead. Janaki was frail and of medium height. Her kajal rimmed eyes reminded me of Bero, our docile and beautiful cow. My Dadi always told me that Janaki is a ‘good’ girl.

That day I was disturbed and did not like the firepit through which Sita would be passing through. I was scared and with teary eyes pleaded with my Dadi to switch the television off as I could not stomach my favourite Sita being burnt alive. It was not for the first time that I was getting introduced to Ramayan, but somehow, I had never seen the whole Ramayan in the Ramlila earlier. I would doze off early and had to be carried home by my Chachu who would refuse to take me along the next night, yet I enjoyed the fireworks and ice-cream on Dussehra the most.

So, this episode came as a bolt from the blue. To my wonder, Dadi was not angry. She pacified me and assured me that no harm could touch Sita as she was a ‘good’ girl. Sita’s virtues would defeat all the evil and she would come out unscathed. Reluctantly, I was made to sit and watch the events unfold. I couldn’t dare not to be a ‘good’ girl and invite Dadi’s wrath.  The episode seemed unnecessarily prolonged and I promised my share of Sunday sweets to Nandi, who conveys everybody’s secret message to Lord Shiva, to manage a ‘power cut’, but to no avail. I averted my face and closed my eyes tight as Sita entered that fire pit with a smile of a martyr. I, too, gave up as who could save her from her doom when even her husband was not on her side? At least she was not whimpering like my classmates when they got punished for being disobedient and not doing their homework. But the answer which I’ve been searching for all my life still eludes me…Why was Sita punished? What was her fault?

Lo and behold! Sita was unharmed and came out smiling. I could not believe my eyes and my child’s mind could not digest how one padosan Dadi chanted ‘Jai Siya Ram’ with folded hands and head on the floor, bowing in front of the television. Everybody seemed overwhelmed and I saw tears rolling down my Dadi’s cheeks. Astonished and embarrassed, as I had never seen tears in my Dadi’s eyes earlier, I held her close and whispered, ‘Don’t cry. Sita is not dead’. Lovingly she embraced me and told me “No harm comes to ‘good’ girls. Promise me that you will always be a ‘good’ girl.”

Four years later as I was on my way back from school, I saw a crowd in front of Janaki Didi’s home. I was in ninth standard at that time. After her graduation, Janaki was given in marriage three years ago and was so happy that she did not come to see her parents even once. I missed her. As a bride, she looked beautiful. Though it was crowded, the house was barricaded and the presence of police was intimidating. I somehow waded through the crowd to reach the veranda when my Dadu intercepted me and asked me to go back. The ominous silence was getting disrupted by intermittent wails of women. I could sense that some tragedy had struck the place. Was it Janaki Didi’s father? He had developed some heart condition as I had overheard my grandparents mentioning one day. But no, he was sitting in a cane chair crestfallen, all sagged like wet clothes. As I was dragging my feet out of the veranda I could see a bundle wrapped in white cloth, placed in the middle of a room. It was surrounded by women and Janaki’s mother was sitting and staring at it, unblinking. A sudden whiff of air disarranged the cloth a bit and what I saw would remain etched in my memory till I live… But Janaki was a ‘good’ girl…How could fire burn her?  Moreover, I have been taught in my Hindi class that Janaki was another name for Sita…