and talk to that peepul leaf and see what she has to
say.’ Lava held her face on either side with his tiny hands on her ears.
Sita looked into his face as if she were looking into a mirror, not just for her
reflection, but for a quality of her being. Her son looked straight into her eyes,
and with a toothless smile acknowledging her, kissed his mother’s
forehead.
One day, Urmilla had set off with the
attendant to seek out some leaves and berries to create a health tonic for Lava. She
also prepared vast quantities of it and stored it for willing travellers and
pilgrims and they bartered it for grain and cloth. Sita was bathing Lava, and
Valmiki was composing a new metre.
Sita had to wash clothes by the forest
spring and return with some fresh water for drinking. She had counted on Lava being
asleep after his feed and bath. However, that was not working to plan. She began to
wonder if he had had an extra dose of Urmilla’s health tonic as he was
extremely energetic. Sita tried to play with him and tire him out but he seemed to
be more vigorous and would not have her leave him. Sita couldn’t help
gazing at the sun’s speeding journey towards midday. She didn’t
want to blame delays on Lava and wanted to keep everything just so by the time
Urmilla and the attendant returned, as they never really got a break from daily
chores. The heat was rising and Sita had tried every trick to get Lava to nap, but
he tricked her back by pretending to sleep, and when he got wind that she wanted to
go somewhere, he did everything to detain her without crying.
At last she went to Valmiki.
‘Maharaj, it’s getting late for my chores. Please, could you
take Lava’s lessons a little earlier?’
Valmiki could see Sita getting
exasperated and that might mean putting up with an irritable woman in the hermitage,
which could mean a really bad day for composition. He would constantly have to stay
out of her way to keep his mind calm so that it would chime with the rhythm and
metre for his poem. Valmiki had discovered early enough in life that passive
resistance requires greater energy than confrontation. He had noticed that when
women get exasperated they keep clearing things out or rearranging them, and this
could entail the jangling sounds of pots and pans. He needed the heap of palm leaves
in the chaotic order they seemed to be in to make the connections for his
forthcoming poem. He was terrified almost like a child that Sita might get into a
fit of clearing the chaos and stack all his palm leaves, written on or not, and he
would completely lose the pattern of what he had in mind.
‘No problem, Sita, leave Lava
with me and we will pass the time. You go and do what you have to,’ said
Valmiki rather strategically as Sita lowered Lava on to his lap.
Sita left the hermitage with a bundle of
clothes and a long pouch of the sweet-smelling but bitter reetha soap nuts. Valmiki
saw her stop at the entrance to the hermitage, put the bundle down and retie her
long hair into a topknot—something she always did before leaving and
returning to the hermitage. To Valmiki, it seemed that she was conducting a little
ritual, the way classical performers do before entering the dimension of imagined
and heightened reality; of closure on one space before embarking into another. She
always bit her lip and looked thoughtful, almost as if she would have to slip into
another role as she left the hermitage or returned to it. Who was she when she went
to do these tasks? An attendant at the hermitage? An abandoned wife and mother who
was taking refuge? An exiled queen? Or a resourceful woman who lived as comfortably
at the hermitage—with her companions doing the chores in
rotation—as she would as a queen in a palace with an army of servants?
Lava had started tapping his toy rattle
on Valmiki’s knee. ‘Tut-tut-tut,’ Valmiki started and
the child joined in
say.’ Lava held her face on either side with his tiny hands on her ears.
Sita looked into his face as if she were looking into a mirror, not just for her
reflection, but for a quality of her being. Her son looked straight into her eyes,
and with a toothless smile acknowledging her, kissed his mother’s
forehead.
One day, Urmilla had set off with the
attendant to seek out some leaves and berries to create a health tonic for Lava. She
also prepared vast quantities of it and stored it for willing travellers and
pilgrims and they bartered it for grain and cloth. Sita was bathing Lava, and
Valmiki was composing a new metre.
Sita had to wash clothes by the forest
spring and return with some fresh water for drinking. She had counted on Lava being
asleep after his feed and bath. However, that was not working to plan. She began to
wonder if he had had an extra dose of Urmilla’s health tonic as he was
extremely energetic. Sita tried to play with him and tire him out but he seemed to
be more vigorous and would not have her leave him. Sita couldn’t help
gazing at the sun’s speeding journey towards midday. She didn’t
want to blame delays on Lava and wanted to keep everything just so by the time
Urmilla and the attendant returned, as they never really got a break from daily
chores. The heat was rising and Sita had tried every trick to get Lava to nap, but
he tricked her back by pretending to sleep, and when he got wind that she wanted to
go somewhere, he did everything to detain her without crying.
At last she went to Valmiki.
‘Maharaj, it’s getting late for my chores. Please, could you
take Lava’s lessons a little earlier?’
Valmiki could see Sita getting
exasperated and that might mean putting up with an irritable woman in the hermitage,
which could mean a really bad day for composition. He would constantly have to stay
out of her way to keep his mind calm so that it would chime with the rhythm and
metre for his poem. Valmiki had discovered early enough in life that passive
resistance requires greater energy than confrontation. He had noticed that when
women get exasperated they keep clearing things out or rearranging them, and this
could entail the jangling sounds of pots and pans. He needed the heap of palm leaves
in the chaotic order they seemed to be in to make the connections for his
forthcoming poem. He was terrified almost like a child that Sita might get into a
fit of clearing the chaos and stack all his palm leaves, written on or not, and he
would completely lose the pattern of what he had in mind.
‘No problem, Sita, leave Lava
with me and we will pass the time. You go and do what you have to,’ said
Valmiki rather strategically as Sita lowered Lava on to his lap.
Sita left the hermitage with a bundle of
clothes and a long pouch of the sweet-smelling but bitter reetha soap nuts. Valmiki
saw her stop at the entrance to the hermitage, put the bundle down and retie her
long hair into a topknot—something she always did before leaving and
returning to the hermitage. To Valmiki, it seemed that she was conducting a little
ritual, the way classical performers do before entering the dimension of imagined
and heightened reality; of closure on one space before embarking into another. She
always bit her lip and looked thoughtful, almost as if she would have to slip into
another role as she left the hermitage or returned to it. Who was she when she went
to do these tasks? An attendant at the hermitage? An abandoned wife and mother who
was taking refuge? An exiled queen? Or a resourceful woman who lived as comfortably
at the hermitage—with her companions doing the chores in
rotation—as she would as a queen in a palace with an army of servants?
Lava had started tapping his toy rattle
on Valmiki’s knee. ‘Tut-tut-tut,’ Valmiki started and
the child joined in
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