The Princes of Ayodhya-The Ramayan Through Short Stories

The Shakti Saga-Part 3: 'Lakshman'

Dedicated to: All my Readers. You want this. I deliver. 

'Its never the heroes who suffer. Its never the heroes who die. Its always those who are behind them, out of the spotlight. Those who are heroes in their own matter. Once they disappear, true bravery dies with them.'

Would it never end? This suffering. Lakshman's feet ached and his arms hurt, but there was something much more important than the brief relief of rest waiting for him. Maa Sita was here. Somewhere. She had to be. She had to be. She couldn't be gone. Not when he finally made the mistake his demons were waiting for. Not now. Not when he was so close to seeing his Urmila. Not when he was so close to seeing bhaiyya crowned.

"Something seems wrong, bhaiyya." Lakshman whispered. "I don't know what, but something seems wrong. Bhaiyya, we have to get out here." He rubbed his eyes. Where a yawn would have taken over his face, his mouth screwed up into a thin line. He couldn't afford to get tired. Not now. Not when he was supposed to protect his brother. The only thing, it seemed, he could do right. Perhaps he was flawed even here.

"But Lakshman," Ram began, his voice clipped. "These are the flowers Sita loves. Look!" he lifted up a bunch of jasmines, and Lakshman's eyes softened. "We'll find her soon, and when we do, I'll give her these. Right?" Ram glanced imploringly at him, and Lakshman could do nothing but nod. Right. They kept on walking, Lakshman going first, pushing past the thick brambles and shoving the branches out of the way.

If leaves rustled, if the air suddenly chilled, Ram took no notice. It was in the early hours of Sita's kidnapping. They still held out hope. Perhaps she would be found. Perhaps, hidden somewhere in the trees, or kept for dead. Maybe they would find her, laughing with a new animal friend. But as they strayed further and further from their cottage, Lakshman knew. Sita bhabhi was gone.

In these moments, they were ambushed. Lakshman forgot how strong they were. Horned monsters, bodies covered in disgusting boils. Ram lifted his bow, but his hands shook. That strong crown prince of Kosala's hands shook, and Lakshman couldn't believe it. Never had he seen bhaiyya so weak. So...helpless. Inhaling a deep breath, Lakshman lifted his own bow and five arrows at a time, managed to fend off the demons.

Something sharp flared in his shoulder as he worked on lifting Ram, who had fallen again, crying out for Sita. "Sita! Site! Come back! Come back!" His voice sounded so hitched and broken, Lakshman could scarcely keep in the tears himself. But he had to. If he burst into tears, what kind of a brother would he be? Because it was all his fault. And now he had to suffer. He had to watch his brother slowly dissolve into this cyclone of desperation, and he could do nothing about it. This was his penance.

Later in the night, Lakshman drew out a long splinter embedded in his shoulder, biting his lip. Pain was useless. He deserved it. He deserved it all. He stood back, despite the protest from the nerves in his red feet. Ram bhaiyya sat near the camp fire. He could not have that luxury. He didn't need it.

------O------

"There are scars on your feet, Lakshman bhaiyya." Angad whispered. "Why are there scars on your feet?" Lakshman looked up from his dirty nails. Reaching down, he drew his foot up for further inspection, and exhaled. There they were. Long, thin scars, some deep and pockmarked, some white and healed. WIth his thin, precise fingers, he pulled a burr from the heel of his foot and threw it off.

"Years in the forest do not bode well for skin." he said with a spasm in his face possessing a merely meager semblance of a smile. Angad glanced over at Ram's feet, swallowing hard. They were dark, even at the soles, but something was unmistakable. Ram's feet were devoid of all of these scars. The crown prince did not ask any more, and it was all for the better. Lakshman would not answer.