singing, debating and hosting pilgrims and, occasionally, travellers.
The days passed into months and it was
already time for the rice-milk ceremony for Lava. His head had been shaved of his
bee-black curly hair, but within a few days the stubble emerged like an indigo wash.
His eyes were blue-black and he buzzed with a curiosity about everything that moved
or was still. His hearing was impeccable and he could repeat the exact tone and
pitch of what he heard, even if he could not pronounce complete words properly.
He had a large vocabulary to draw from.
The wind in the trees, soft rain, hard rain on the huts, lightning, rolling thunder,
water pouring into vessels, crackling fire, the snap of dry branches and sticks, the
cow mooing, the calf calling, goats bleating, the plopping and patting of dung
cakes, the difference between wet and dry wood being chopped, Valmiki sweeping the
hermitage, the shy arrival and departure of deer as they munched on leaves. With
human sounds the repertoire was limited to the people around him. He could catch the
high notes of Sita’s humming, the cackling of Valmiki’s
laughter, Urmilla’s throaty and nasal voice and the attendant’s
whispers. The passing travellers never stayed long enough and were often too tired
or deferential in Valmiki’s presence, but what Lava could understand was
who made up his ‘family’ of humans and animals, and who were
‘outsiders’.
The rice-milk ceremony was also a
preparation for the first word to be inscribed on Lava’s tongue with
honey. Valmiki inscribed an
aa-au-mm
and so took on his
youngest apprentice. ‘There,’ he said with his customary cheer,
‘the three syllables that make for all dimensions of the world and the
human body! But don’t forget the silence after each cycle. That will teach
you everything about this world and that, and how to tell it.’ Lava only
sucked the honey and put his hand in the leaf cup and licked his palm clean.
The merriment continued, but Sita held
on to its sanctity as well. ‘Imagine that!’ she thought.
‘Were Lava born in the kingdom, Rama and I would have sent for Valmiki for
this auspicious rite! How naturally this has happened now—I wish Rama was
here to see …’ She had to stop herself. It seemed as if a former
self was taking over. Was it natural to think of Rama with such closeness since he
was the father of the child? After all, no woman can make a child all by herself.
Was she weakening? Should she inform Rama about the birth of the child? But then,
would Lava be taken away? It might mean that Lava would be in greater comfort and
learn to be a prince were he to be sent to Rama in Ayodhya. But, if Rama remained
obsessed with matters of the state, would he make any time for Lava?
Wouldn’t the child feel more abandoned amidst luxury without someone to
love and guide him? What life was he being exposed to in the forest? Was she being
selfish in not being able to part from him because he was the only joy she felt of
late? Sita decided after all these apprehensions that Lava should stay with her, as
in this forest he would have his mother’s love, his aunt’s and
the attendant’s care, and the tutelage of the great Valmiki, who would
initiate him into the ways of enlightened learning the way no court scholar could.
Lava was playing with a piece of wood that Urmilla had carved into a wheel. He was
looking intently at Sita, and when she looked back she wondered how much of that
decision was really hers? Does a soul really choose the family it wants to live in?
Then wait in the womb of its choice to form a body? She had not said a word, but
Lava felt the chord of communication. He pushed the wheel away and stood up bouncing
and stretching his arms. Sita’s heart was churning. She wiped her tears
and picked up her son and, placing him on her hip, said: ‘No more tears
from me, Lava. Come, let us go
The days passed into months and it was
already time for the rice-milk ceremony for Lava. His head had been shaved of his
bee-black curly hair, but within a few days the stubble emerged like an indigo wash.
His eyes were blue-black and he buzzed with a curiosity about everything that moved
or was still. His hearing was impeccable and he could repeat the exact tone and
pitch of what he heard, even if he could not pronounce complete words properly.
He had a large vocabulary to draw from.
The wind in the trees, soft rain, hard rain on the huts, lightning, rolling thunder,
water pouring into vessels, crackling fire, the snap of dry branches and sticks, the
cow mooing, the calf calling, goats bleating, the plopping and patting of dung
cakes, the difference between wet and dry wood being chopped, Valmiki sweeping the
hermitage, the shy arrival and departure of deer as they munched on leaves. With
human sounds the repertoire was limited to the people around him. He could catch the
high notes of Sita’s humming, the cackling of Valmiki’s
laughter, Urmilla’s throaty and nasal voice and the attendant’s
whispers. The passing travellers never stayed long enough and were often too tired
or deferential in Valmiki’s presence, but what Lava could understand was
who made up his ‘family’ of humans and animals, and who were
‘outsiders’.
The rice-milk ceremony was also a
preparation for the first word to be inscribed on Lava’s tongue with
honey. Valmiki inscribed an
aa-au-mm
and so took on his
youngest apprentice. ‘There,’ he said with his customary cheer,
‘the three syllables that make for all dimensions of the world and the
human body! But don’t forget the silence after each cycle. That will teach
you everything about this world and that, and how to tell it.’ Lava only
sucked the honey and put his hand in the leaf cup and licked his palm clean.
The merriment continued, but Sita held
on to its sanctity as well. ‘Imagine that!’ she thought.
‘Were Lava born in the kingdom, Rama and I would have sent for Valmiki for
this auspicious rite! How naturally this has happened now—I wish Rama was
here to see …’ She had to stop herself. It seemed as if a former
self was taking over. Was it natural to think of Rama with such closeness since he
was the father of the child? After all, no woman can make a child all by herself.
Was she weakening? Should she inform Rama about the birth of the child? But then,
would Lava be taken away? It might mean that Lava would be in greater comfort and
learn to be a prince were he to be sent to Rama in Ayodhya. But, if Rama remained
obsessed with matters of the state, would he make any time for Lava?
Wouldn’t the child feel more abandoned amidst luxury without someone to
love and guide him? What life was he being exposed to in the forest? Was she being
selfish in not being able to part from him because he was the only joy she felt of
late? Sita decided after all these apprehensions that Lava should stay with her, as
in this forest he would have his mother’s love, his aunt’s and
the attendant’s care, and the tutelage of the great Valmiki, who would
initiate him into the ways of enlightened learning the way no court scholar could.
Lava was playing with a piece of wood that Urmilla had carved into a wheel. He was
looking intently at Sita, and when she looked back she wondered how much of that
decision was really hers? Does a soul really choose the family it wants to live in?
Then wait in the womb of its choice to form a body? She had not said a word, but
Lava felt the chord of communication. He pushed the wheel away and stood up bouncing
and stretching his arms. Sita’s heart was churning. She wiped her tears
and picked up her son and, placing him on her hip, said: ‘No more tears
from me, Lava. Come, let us go
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