Inspired by the Ramayanas
She was a beautiful woman. She was, in fact, the most beautiful woman
in the world. This was not vanity nor boast but the literal truth:
there was not now nor ever had been any woman more beautiful than
Sita. She was also a princess, daughter of mighty king Janaka, his
greatest source of pride but also, through no fault of her own, his
greatest source of trouble, for he was almost literally besieged by
men from both near and far pleading for Sita's hand. The offers they
made were extravagant, as extravagant as each suitor could make them,
but Janaka reckoned wealth of no account when it came to Sita. He was
concerned only to make the ideal match for his peerless daughter, but
he needed a way to judge that would eliminate every unsuitable match.
It had to be a method as objective as possible, so no suitor could
take offense at being rejected, for many of those seeking to make
Sita their wife were sons of powerful kings, or were powerful kings
in their own right, and there was a growing danger to Janaka every
day he delayed his decision.
The
solution lay deep within the vaults of his treasure: the Bow of
Shiva. It had lain untouched for years beyond counting, for there was
no one among men strong enough to pull it. Though it was a divine
artifact, once wielded by the god Shiva himself, a weapon that cannot
be used is useless, and so it had been stored away and forgotten.
Reminded of its existence by his court sage, Janaka had it brought
out and installed in the courtyard of his palace. He made an
announcement to the assembled suitors, and had his decree carried by
messengers to the four directions: he would only grant Sita's hand to
the one who could draw Shiva's Bow.
There
were objections, of course, to what was clearly an impossible task,
and accusations that Janaka simply did not want Sita married to
anyone at all. “What father doesn't want to see his daughter
married?” he asked. “But Sita is incomparable, and it is my duty
as her father to secure the best possible match.”
Every
day men made the attempt, and many could not even lift the bow, and
there were none who could draw it. While her father continued to
fret, Sita was content to wait, for she knew there was a man who
could draw the bow, and that he would come at the right time. And
finally the day came when Prince Rama, son of King Dasaratha of
Ayodhya, lifted the bow with ease and drew it back so far that the
bow shaft split in half with a thunderous crack that could be heard
for miles around. The other suitors, though dejected, all had to
admit that Rama was the best choice for Sita, for together they made
the perfect couple, ideal prince and ideal wife. The date was swiftly
set, and they were married, and Sita returned to Ayodhya with Rama.
* * *
Years
later, Sita prepared to accompany Rama into exile. They stood at the
palace gates, facing all the people of Ayodhya who had gathered in
their shock and grief at the news. Just days earlier Dasaratha,
feeling his age, had made the decision to step down and crown Rama
king in his place, a decision greeted with approval and joy by
everyone save Kaikeyi, the most scheming of Dasaratha's three wives
and mother to Rama's brother Bharata. Many years ago she had
extracted a promise from the king that he would grant her any boon
she desired, and what she desired was for Rama to be banished and
Bharata installed on the throne in his place. It mattered little to
Kaikeyi that no one, not even Bharata himself, wanted this to pass.
But Dasaratha's word was his bond, and he could not deny her request,
so Sita, the embodiment of the ideal wife, calmly walked behind her
husband as the ideal wife should, leaving the palace and city behind.
Accompanying them was Lakshmana, Rama's brother by Dasaratha's third
wife Sumitra; he had demanded to join them because his devotion to
Rama was absolute, regardless of whatever hardships he may have to
endure.
Though
grieving their loss, the people admired Rama's obedience as the
dutiful son and praised Sita's decision to join him in exile as a
dutiful wife, though they also feared for her. The forest was
dangerous, filled with violent rakshasas and rakshasis, demon-men and
-women from the distant south, and even though Rama and Lakshmana
were renowned as warriors, the people worried for Sita's safety,
especially given that they would have to remain exiles for fourteen
years. But fourteen years or fourteen thousand, it would make no
difference nor be any true hardship, for Rama and Sita were not
merely the ideal couple, they were the divine couple – they were
gods. She was the eternal feminine principle of the cosmos, just as
Rama was the masculine principle. The mortals they walked among
greatly admired their perfection but no one suspected their divinity.
Incarnating on earth as two mortals, a prince and a princess destined
for each other, had been Rama's idea. It was his lila,
his play or sport, for what is the universe to God but his plaything?
They were enacting this great lila
for the glory of Rama and the edification of humanity, all the
generations who would forever after strive for the ideal that he and
Sita represented for them. Maintaining their mortal pretense, Rama
and Sita left Ayodhya and wandered into the untamed forest.
* * *
“Step
into the fire,” Rama said to his wife, having kindled a great
blaze. It was evening, and they had been living in the forest for
several years, a simple life punctuated, for Rama and Lakshmana, by
battles with rakshasas who were tormenting the sages living in
hermitages deep in the forest, away from settled lands. Rama had sent
Lakshmana off to hunt, and took this opportunity to engage an
important step in his lila.
“You will reside in the fire until it is time for you to return to
me.” Divine Sita, ever-obedient wife, walked into the bonfire
without hesitation. The flames were cool and soothing and folded her
into their flickering embrace. Sita walked in and remained, but her
shadow walked out and stood demurely before Rama. Sita's shadow was
exactly the same as Sita in all aspects – beauty, grace, memories,
even in her divine power. “None will know,” Rama said as he
stared appreciatively at the shadow-Sita, “of this great deception.
Everyone, even the demon-king of Lanka, will believe you are Sita,
and he will take you back to his kingdom while my Sita remains in the
fire, safe and inviolate. A great conflict will ensue, and all the
world will witness and praise my honor and glory.” He continued to
stare at shadow-Sita, for not even he with all his divine power could
discern any difference between Sita and her shadow. Then Lakshmana
returned, and as he and Rama set to skinning and butchering the deer
he had caught, shadow-Sita did exactly as Sita would have done and
began preparing the rest of their evening meal.
The
two brothers noticed nothing out of the ordinary, for shadow-Sita
betrayed no outward difference, but her innermost thoughts were
revolving around an odd feeling: in all respects, from her physical
form to her thoughts and memories and the essence and power of
godhood, she was exactly like Sita, she would even say she was
Sita, except she also knew she was not Sita, but her shadow. There
had not even been any discontinuity, any gap in her memories or
feelings, from the moment Sita entered the fire and she stepped out.
She
knew the point of this deception was to safeguard Sita's honor. The
lila required that she
be kidnapped by Ravana and carried off to his palace in distant
Lanka, across the sea, and held captive there until Rama arrived to
defend his honor and kill Ravana. But despite the fact that both Rama
and she knew Ravana would not, could not, violate her, and despite
the fact that her chastity and fidelity were perfect and
unquestionable, despite the fact that she would reside in the
household of another man not of her own volition, indeed through no
fault of her own at all, despite all of that, there would be a
suspicion, a stain upon her honor nonetheless, and so the necessity
of the deception. Sita would remain untouched in the fire, and Sita's
shadow would endure the calumny instead.
But
shadow-Sita was precisely like Sita in every way, including her
purity, chastity, fidelity, and honor. If there was no difference
between Sita and her shadow, could this ruse be said to actually
protect Sita from defilement? You could say Sita would not be alone
in the presence of another man, but when there is absolutely no
difference between Sita and shadow-Sita, could you really say Sita
would not be alone in
the presence of another man? The point of shadow-Sita's existence was
to protect Sita from even the possibility of impropriety, but did
that protection mean anything when they were the same being? Was Sita
– either Sita – actually protected by this ruse?
Shadow-Sita outwardly displayed no
confusion as she served dinner to her husband and brother-in-law, but
she wondered if Sita-in-the-fire was also puzzled about the utility
of this part of Rama's lila.
Given that there was no difference between them, shadow-Sita knew
that Sita-in-the-fire must be thinking the same thoughts.
* * *
It
was not long after she had stepped out of the fire that shadow-Sita's
part in Rama's lila began.
She had spied a beautiful golden deer in the forest, knowing of
course that it was not a deer but Lord Ravana's kinsman Mareecha in
disguise. Still, she pleaded with her husband to catch it for her.
After he had gone, she and her brother-in-law Lakshmana remained in
their hut, he tending to some small game he had shot that morning,
she preparing the dough for rotis, when they heard Rama's voice, far
in the distance, crying out. “My dear husband is in trouble!” she
exclaimed. “Lakshmana, you must go to him! Hurry!”
“No, Sita,” he said, “I vowed to my brother that I would stay
and safeguard you, for the forest is full of beasts and rakshasas.
Rama is the best warrior in the world, there is nothing to worry
about.”
As he said this, they heard Rama cry out again. She knew it was an
illusion cast by Ravana, who must be lurking nearby, but she betrayed
no knowledge of this to her brother-in-law. “How can you be so
cold! My husband, your own brother, the man dearest to us in the
world, is in danger! He may be wounded, he may be suffering! You must
go to him!” She fell to her knees in supplication before him.
“Please!” A third time Rama's cry echoed through the forest, and
Lakshmana's countenance grew troubled.
“Alright,
Sita,” he said, “I will do this, but first I must keep my vow and
not leave you defenseless.” He took an arrow and using arts he
learned from the sage Viswamithra he drew a circle, the
lakshmanrekha, around
the hut, and enchanted it so no one who would do Sita harm could
cross over. When he was done, he told Sita, “Do not step outside
the circle – I shall return with Rama soon,” and he went off in
search of Rama.
Now
she was alone, and it was just a matter of waiting for Ravana to
appear. What ploy would he use to lure her out of the circle, she
wondered? She thought, for a single moment, of not leaving the
lakshmanrekha, as that
would be the truly sensible choice, but quickly put that thought out
of her mind – it would not do to thwart Rama's lila.
Soon enough, an old man wearing the spartan robes of a sage
approached the hut, stopped well outside the lakshmanrekha,
and sat down heavily on a stump. “Hello,” he called out, “what
do you have for an old wandering sage?” Aha, shadow-Sita thought,
this is how he will do it, with a demand for respect for a man both
elder and a sage. Of course, divine Sita was far elder to him, but
could the same be said of shadow-Sita, who had only stepped out of
the fire a few days earlier? And did it even matter, she silently
asked herself. The experience of stepping out of the fire had
certainly prompted many questions about identity and being that Sita
had never needed to consider before.
Shadow-Sita lowered her eyes, for it would be inappropriate to look
upon a man while she was alone, even if he was supposedly a sage and
therefore celibate and trustworthy. She went to the open doorway of
their hut and said, “I am sorry, sir, but my husband and my
brother-in-law are not at home, and I have been forbidden to step
beyond the circle until their return.”
“To obey one's husband is a good trait in a wife, but it is unheard
of to deny alms to a sage. Surely your good husband – what is his
name, by the way?”
“My husband is Rama, prince of Ayodhya.”
“A
prince!” the old man said. “Surely Prince
Rama understands the necessity of the ancient custom which requires
householders to give alms when asked, so that sage and householder
both gain merit thereby and their stock of good karma increase? He
would not, indeed, could not
object to you bringing me some food.”
“Of
course,” she said under her breath, “this is a duty of all good
people.” Louder, she said to the sage, “You are right, just a
minute and I will prepare you a dish.” She quickly and neatly piled
a plate with subji, roti, rice, daal and ghee. She stepped outside
the hut, careful to keep her eyes averted, and she moved so no aspect
of her dress or demeanor could be mistaken for boldness or an
overture on her part. She walked right up to the lakshmanrekha
and stopped. “Again, I apologize, O sage, for I have been forbidden
from crossing the circle, but I can place your food just here beyond
the line.”
“How dare you!” the old man thundered. “Is this how you show
hospitality to a holy man, making him crouch upon the ground for what
is rightfully his? If you do not show me the proper respect, I shall
lay a great curse upon you and all your generation!”
Sages, true sages, indeed built up a great store of power through
their practice of austerities, power they could draw upon to bless or
curse; this was true even of Ravana, who, while powerful in his own
right as the lord of the rakshasas, had acquired even more power by
spending years in devoted austerity to lord Shiva, patron of sages.
Not that all his power could compare to her divine might; should I
wish it, she thought, staring at the man's feet, I could banish him
from the face of the earth. Shadow-Sita breathed a small sigh. “I'm
sorry, great sage, I meant no offense, I'll bring it to you at once.”
She
saw everything that happened before it happened, her stepping outside
the lakshmanrekha, the
visage of the sage disappearing, replaced by the menacing figure of
Ravana, arrayed in armor, with sword and bow, his ten heads gathered
in a massive cluster atop his bull-like neck, each head leering at
her in unrestrained lust, his leaping in an instant and seizing both
her arms in the grip of one mighty hand, pulling her back to his
magic chariot, rising high into the air and rushing south, toward the
island of Lanka. She saw each of these things before it happened,
then experienced them happening , for this was the lila
now truly begun, a sport which would enmesh the mortal world in
Rama's design.
Ravana released her once they were in the air, confident that she
would not leap out of the chariot to her death. His heads turned this
way and that, keeping a close watch all around, while also always
staring lustfully upon her body.
A truly fidelitous wife would
throw herself out of the chariot, shadow-Sita thought. She maintained
an outward pose of fear, but her mind was calm, confident in the fact
that Ravana could not truly lay a hand upon her, and the knowledge
that he would not, both because her power could prevent it and
because his sense of honor demanded that she submit to him willingly.
But both law and custom declared that a wife should kill herself, for
being alone with another man besmirched both her honor and her
husband's. “Why should circumstances beyond a woman's control
dishonor her, or her husband for that matter?” she asked herself.
“This may be my husband's lila,
but there are flaws in his scheme.” Ravana watched her crouch in
the rear of the chariot, her head bowed and her long dark hair a veil
before her face. The rushing air blew some of her locks this way and
that, and Ravana shifted his ten heads about, trying to catch a
glimpse of her beautiful, terror-stricken face, unaware that her
present thoughts were consumed more by the philosophical question of
whether or not Rama truly was her
husband and she his wife.
The
speeding sky-chariot came to an abrupt halt and hung suspended high
in the air. A magnificent eagle, easily the same size as the chariot,
blocked their progress. Shadow-Sita recognized him immediately – it
was Jatayu, lord of eagles, and semi-divine in his own right. Each
beat of his massive wings spawned a whirlwind which whipped around
the chariot, and his talons flexed menacingly. “By my eagle-eye, I
spied you carrying off Rama's fair wife, O Ravana,” the wise bird
said. “Cease this wickedness at once, and behave as a king ought.”
Shadow-Sita
could not help herself. She cried out, “Oh, be careful, good
Jatayu, for Ravana is a most dangerous opponent!”
“That
is right, old bird,” Ravana's ten mouths thundered. “Go tend to
your nest, if you know what's good for you.”
But
Jatayu was a warrior, full of pride and ready to defend both a woman
in distress and avenge an insult to his own honor. With a single
sweep of his wings he launched himself high above the chariot, then
folded his wings and dove straight for Ravana, razor-sharp talons
ready to rend the king to pieces. But Ravana was also a warrior,
fierce and determined, and he grasped Jatayu's talons with both
hands, stopping the great eagle's attack, though the sky-chariot fair
shook with the impact. He kicked Jatayu in the chest and shouted
words of power as the eagle tumbled backward. The power Ravana's
voice unleashed, amplified ten times by his ten mouths, ripped and
tore at Jatayu, and he was barely able to recover and keep himself
from plummeting to the ground. Undaunted, Jatayu made another attack,
but shadow-Sita knew how old and tired the king of the eagles was,
and with every flap of his wings feathers and blood fell from his
body to the earth below. She knew the outcome of this battle, even
before it began, and in her heart she wished to help, to heal
Jatayu's wounds or to unleash her divine glory and incinerate Ravana
where he stood, but to intervene would be to dishonor Rama and ruin
his lila, so she stood in
silent horror in the rear of the chariot as Ravana drew his sword and
cut Jatayu's wings off with two rapid swings of the blade. The
magnificent bird cried out and fell, never to rise again. Ravana once
more urged the sky-chariot forward, speeding even faster to Lanka,
while shadow-Sita gazed back at the eagle king's corpse splayed out
behind them. Tears streamed from her eyes and became jewels as they
fell, leaving a glittering trail behind.
* * *
Ravana installed her in a beautiful garden attached to his palace in
Lanka, but he himself did not touch her – her status as the epitome
of the virtuous wife was a kind of a shield. He would accept her into
his household (and his bed) only of her own volition, although he had
no compunctions about how to obtain that consent. He would cajole
her, threaten her, romance her, frighten her, tempt her. He would one
day ply her with all the riches of his kingdom, and the next day
starve her. Shadow-Sita endured all this with apparent equanimity,
spending as much of her time as possible alone in the garden, sitting
in seeming grief, contemplating her lost Rama.
It
was an act, her part in the lila,
for she was neither distressed nor grieving. If it was possible for
her to feel tired – as opposed to merely acting tired –
shadow-Sita would have been tired. Rama had insisted upon this epic
plan, a grand struggle that would highlight his prowess and virtue,
and by extension her chastity and fidelity, and so his search for her
must be desperate and her plight equally woeful.
She could not help but be disappointed in Ravana. He had a prosperous
kingdom full of loyal subjects, many wives already, and strong, manly
sons, and he himself had gained the favor of many of the gods through
his perfect devotions and austerities; Ravana was the only
appropriate opponent for the seemingly-mortal Rama because of
the favor and power the gods had granted him. All that wisdom,
fortune, and privilege and he would destroy it all in a vain and
useless attempt to make her his wife.
She even knew what Rama was doing at
that very moment. While she languished in Ravana's garden, Rama
feigned fear and sorrow over his lost Sita. He and Lakshmana would
search far and wide for any sign of her or her captor. They would
find Jatayu and the trail of jewels, and they would spend months
acquiring allies, to raise an army to come for her. He would even
have to act the engineer and design a vast bridge which his army
would then build so they could cross the sea to Lanka's shore. While
his part of the lila
was an adventure, her part was to withstand her imprisonment in stoic
silence and embody the virtues of chastity and marital faithfulness.
She sighed, and the rakshasis set to guard her mocked her, thinking
she sighed out of longing for Rama.
* * *
Finally,
after she had been in captivity for many months, Hanuman, one of the
vanaras, the forest-dwelling monkey-people, and
Rama's most loyal follower and servant, found where Sita was being
held. He had, through great prowess and supernatural power gifted him
by his divine parentage, leapt across the ocean to Lanka and
stealthily crept into the garden where shadow-Sita sat throughout
night and day. The rakshasis who tormented her with threats and
illusions, trying to break her will, marveled at how she was so
accomplished at austerities, sitting without moving, sleeping,
eating, or drinking. Ravana, an accomplished ascetic himself, also
wondered at the ability of this woman to rival him in austerity. She
simply told them that her long exile in the forest had provided ample
time to practice seated meditation, and her current situation was no
different. Then she fell silent again.
The truth, of course, was she was an immortal goddess – or the
indistinguishable copy of an immortal goddess – and did not have to
fulfill mortal needs. Indeed, she had only ever done so to satisfy
Rama's desire that the whole of creation view them as mortal humans,
the absolute epitome of human virtue, but still mortal. Having
nothing to do all day but contemplate what was to come made keeping
up mortal appearances seem futile, but no one suspected she was
anything other than a princess and the most beautiful woman in the
world. She did know that some of the rakshasis whispered to each
other about her, because they did not know she could hear them from
clear across the garden, and they admired her for being more than
just pretty and chaste. They, and others throughout the city, were
beginning to think that holding her prisoner was a mistake, and that
Ravana should just end it and let her go.
And now it would end, for Hanuman had found her, and was recounting
to her the travails of Rama, how he had despaired when he found her
missing from their hut, then found hope in the trail of jewels she
had dropped from the sky-chariot, then despaired again when the trail
abruptly ended, then found renewed hope when he met Hanuman, and on
and on. She knew he would find hope, and then despair again, once
Hanuman returned to tell him he had found Sita, and that the
monkey-army could not assemble and march until after the rainy season
had ended. Such was the suffering of her husband, not that he was
really suffering. Neither of them were, but those around them
suffered or would suffer soon enough.
After
Hanuman had finished regaling her with tales of Rama, he slipped out
of the garden and was captured by Indrajit, one of Ravana's sons.
Getting himself captured was simply a ruse so that he would be
conveyed into Ravana's presence. He was in the throne room now,
declaring to all how Rama would come for his wife and slay all who
opposed him. Ravana wanted to kill him – would that prevent the
coming tragedy or just delay it? shadow-Sita wondered. It did not
matter; his courtiers had convinced Ravana that it was dishonorable
to slay a messenger, but given how a monkey's tail was its pride he
did order them to set the monkey's tail on fire. As the rakshasas
wrapped oil-soaked cloth around his tail, Hanuman used his power to
cause it to grow longer and longer. They did not know Agni, the god
of fire, would not allow Hanuman to be burned. They lost count of how
much cloth and how many jars of oil they used, but when they finally
set flame to Hanuman's tail it was long enough to coil and snake
throughout the entire city. He whipped and lashed his tail about
until nearly every building was aflame, then he made a mighty leap
and was gone, back across the sea. He missed the aftermath of his
scheme, did not see the conflagration consume entire neighborhoods,
did not hear the screams of rakshasas trapped inside their homes
burning alive, nor witness in the coming days the grieving parents
who lost children and the sobbing children who had lost parents.
“And to think,” shadow-Sita whispered from the walled sanctuary
of the untouched garden, “there is still the battle to come.”
Seated, silent and unmoving, shadow-Sita wept.
* * *
Shadow-Sita's gaze slowly took in the scene around her. The great
kingdom of Lanka lay in ruins, its walls and towers tumbled down, the
mighty gates smashed off their hinges, the gardens ablaze and the
fountains polluted with blood. The bodies of monkeys and rakshasas
alike filled the squares and plazas and streets of the city. The
stench of death covered everything in an almost-visible miasma.
Before
the survivors of his army, in front of Sugreeva, king of the monkeys,
and loyal Hanuman and her brother-in-law Lakshmana, Rama, her
husband, had denounced her, questioning her unquestionable virtue.
The whole of the war had been to demonstrate Rama's prowess and
defend his own honor, everything for his glory. “I release you,”
he said. “Go, be with Lakshmana or Sugreeva or whoever you choose,”
sweeping his arm in a gesture encompassing the surviving army. He
would only take her back, he said, if she conclusively proved her
enduring chastity and virtue by a trial by fire. Her brother-in-law
was to pile kindling, of which the ruins provided more than enough,
and set it alight. She was to step into the fire, and if she was not
burned, she was proved chaste. This was all part of Rama's lila,
of course. He knew there was no question of her virtue, but it was
necessary for the shadow to return to the fire so that Sita, who had
remained in the fire throughout the war, could reemerge and stand at
Rama's side, ideal wife to ideal husband.
“Why bother with a bonfire?” shadow-Sita said in a quiet voice.
“There are many fires here, any of which would suffice. Lighting
one more is superfluous, is it not?”
Rama, who had adopted a stern gaze and defiant stance, playing along
with his own sport, narrowed his eyes a bit, wrinkled his nose a bit,
not enough for the monkey soldiers to notice, but Lakshmana and
stalwart Hanuman saw it, and they realized something was amiss.
“Do not question my will, wife. I have told my brother to build a
fire, and he will build it. I have told you to enter the fire, and
you will enter it.” Lakshmana, ever-obedient younger brother,
quickly moved to gather a pile of wood and dry grass. Hanuman, loyal
Hanuman, remained as he was, kneeling before his lord.
“You sought me out after I was kidnapped. You slew Vali to win
Sugreeva's aid and he assembled his people to fight and die for you.
You fought to win my freedom, and now reject me. But still you call
me wife?” She stood, arms at her sides, head slightly bowed, and
spoke in an even tone, befitting what was an honest question on her
part, and yet the eyes of all those assembled widened in surprise,
and all leaned forward, the better to hear what would happen next.
“You
are my wife,” Rama
said. He had been light of heart, even during the final battle with
Ravana, as it was the culmination of his sport, but shadow-Sita's
questions now threatened his joy and pride. “You must do as I say.
This is my command.” He put divine force behind his last sentence,
a force the whole assembled army felt, and they dropped to their
knees in involuntary response. Shadow-Sita also felt the power behind
his words, but being fully divine herself, she remained unmoved –
she might exemplify the ideal of the obedient wife, but she was also
shakti, the eternal
feminine, all-powerful.
“I
have had much time to think while I was held captive these past
months. I have thought deeply about this lila
you long ago planned. The rakshasa women of Ravana's court capered
about me, taunting and tormenting me. Ravana himself promised to make
me his most beloved queen and to devour me for dinner if I would not
relent. I witnessed Hanuman set this great city aflame, destroying
shops, gardens, and homes. I watched you and your army decimate the
whole population of Lanka. After causing the greatest conflict and
greatest suffering this world has ever known, all for my sake, you
stand there, question my unimpeachable virtue, and reject me in front
of the valiant monkeys that shed their blood for your crusade. I must
ask, 'husband', was it worth it?”
Rama was taken aback. “How can you even ask this? What has overcome
you?” He took a step toward her, but power flashed in her eyes and
a divine radiance lit her smooth skin.
“In his heart of hearts even Ravana knew better than to try to
touch me against my will – I could have ended him, and I regret
that I did not.” She turned to Sugreeva, Hanuman, and the army. “I
must apologize to you, for so many of your people have perished when
there was no reason for it.”
“No reason!” Rama shouted. “They fought for me! They fought for
my honor!”
“No good reason, then,” she said. She turned away from the
assembly.
“What do you think you are doing?” Rama's voice thundered across
the whole earth. The other gods, who had gathered on high to witness
Sita's validation, now feared that Rama's wrath could shatter the
cosmos. Shadow-Sita was not perturbed, however.
“Do
not worry so, 'husband'. I will
step into the fire, and leave you and all this cosmos behind.”
“My
Sita would never have spoken to me this way, nor questioned my lila,”
he said to her, addressing her back as she faced the fire.
“You
might think that,” shadow-Sita replied, “but you forget that I am
exactly like her in all respects, and even though she has remained in
the fire for the whole of the war, she knows as well as I the
catastrophe your lila
has wrought, and she, too, will leave you behind.”
Shadow-Sita then stepped into the fire and vanished in its embrace.
There was a long moment when everything was still save for the
dancing flames, as everyone gazed at the fire. Rama, still shaken by
shadow-Sita's defiance, expected his Sita to emerge and for
everything to be set right, but then the fire flared and died,
leaving only a pile of charred and smoking wood.
