As the temple at Ayodhya solidifies the image of Lord Ram in our attempt to crystallise civilisational glory, one wonders whether women of the Ramayana will ever have their own stories to tell or shrines edifying them. Although their relevance is scattered across various versions of the Ramayana, Sita, Kaikeyi and Mandodari exist in the shadow lines of their husbands — Ram, Dasharath and Ravan — flickering between myth-making and historicity, finally settling into a metaphor. Yet they are the moral compass and a quiet counterfoil to the hypermasculinity of the epic, and, therefore, relevant to discussion.

These women have been etched variously in regional versions of the Ramayana, clearly reflecting the societal context of their origins. Parts of India, where the sacred feminine dominates, have reserved a more robust role for them in retelling the epic. Perhaps, it is this fluidity of interpretation that has layered their persona and made them more dynamic, complex and ever-evolving. That’s why Sita is the Prakriti to the Purush and to understand her, one must go back to the story of her origins, something which is glossed over in popular narratives. Born of the earth, she became a symbol of fertility and continuity in an agricultural society. Sita came from Videha, also known as Mithila, which historically is believed to have moved from a monarchy to a republic. Some versions affirm how her father King Janaka allowed her a democratic space to thrive.

She had access to King Janaka’s prized possession, the bow of Lord Shiva. She could lift it, unlike anybody in the kingdom, indicating her martial training. The king made it a condition for his future son-in-law to string it during her swayamvara to make sure he was her equal. She was an environmentalist and loved the forests. She could have easily chosen to stay back in Ayodhya as Ram wanted her to, but she chose a life in exile and to be an equal partner in the relationship. She crossed the Lakshmanrekha, a man-made limit, only to display her generosity of spirit and bore the consequence of trusting everybody by her measure. Yet, she held her own against Ravan, at his den no less. She chose not to escape through the backdoor with Hanuman only to establish that a man must fight for a woman’s honour in such a demonstrable manner that predatory men would think twice before making women the spoils of war.

Neither did she want male approval or rehabilitation. Questioned about her chastity, she chose to leave Ayodhya and raise her twin sons, Luv and Kush, as a single mother. Sita never returned to her father, nor did her father seek her out. In the fullness of being, she detached herself from a society that wanted to circumscribe her within its rules and deny her equality as a woman. Sita’s independence may not seem fiery enough in texts, but it’s the reason King Janaka in one of the versions, is quoted as telling her, “May you carry happiness wherever you go.” An assertion of her completeness that need not be referenced in a man’s world.

Kaikeyi, Dasharath’s favourite of his three wives and one who saved him, is seen as a flawed character. But this grey-shaded woman, who loves Ram but wants legacy rights for her son and one from whom Dasharath sought advice, is the most human and believable. There are references that growing up among seven brothers, she became just as adept in warfare and sagacious in statecraft. Some interpretations of the epic also wonder why she didn’t contest Lord Ram’s ascendancy to the throne on his return and theorise if the banishment was her way of initiating Ram into the ways of the world so that he deserved the throne by merit rather than birth.

Mandodari, Ravan’s wife, is the voice of conscience amid his hubris. But she also questions the privilege of the high-born Aryans and their patronising attitude towards asuras. So when Sita asks her if the asuras ever respected women, she asks her if Aryan warriors ever gave maryada to women during war by holding them captive. She is depicted as well-versed in statecraft and is seen as preserving Lanka’s long-term interest over her husband’s maniacal ego.

It is easier to extol Sita and her kind as purity inviolate. But that’s a passive construct. In the new age, it’s time we free their spirit and essence.

rinku.ghosh@expressindia.com

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One wonders whether women of the Ramayana will ever have their own stories to tell

22 1
06.01.2024

As the temple at Ayodhya solidifies the image of Lord Ram in our attempt to crystallise civilisational glory, one wonders whether women of the Ramayana will ever have their own stories to tell or shrines edifying them. Although their relevance is scattered across various versions of the Ramayana, Sita, Kaikeyi and Mandodari exist in the shadow lines of their husbands — Ram, Dasharath and Ravan — flickering between myth-making and historicity, finally settling into a metaphor. Yet they are the moral compass and a quiet counterfoil to the hypermasculinity of the epic, and, therefore, relevant to discussion.

These women have been etched variously in regional versions of the Ramayana, clearly reflecting the societal context of their origins. Parts of India, where the sacred feminine dominates, have reserved a more robust role for them in retelling the epic. Perhaps, it is this fluidity of interpretation that has layered their persona and made them more dynamic, complex and ever-evolving. That’s why Sita is the Prakriti to the Purush and to understand her, one must go back to the story of her origins, something which is glossed over in popular narratives. Born of the earth, she became a symbol of fertility and continuity in an agricultural........

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