SITA, THE MATURE WOMAN

K. S. SRINIVASAN

[Was Sita ever understood as she was, for what she was? Ravana could not comprehend her, Rama did not understand her. What about us, readers of Ramayana?

–EDITOR]

In all literature there is, perhaps, no character more misunderstood than Sita. In her own lifetime she was the victim of misunderstanding but succeeding generations have equally erred in making her a symbol of silent suffering. The orthodoxy has glorified a virtue. But this is injustice to Sita as well as to her creator, Valmiki. With dramatic perception, the poet handles the characterisation of this heroine who, as the epic develops, grows from an innocent maiden to a dignified mother, as she moves from crisis to crisis. The transformation takes place before our eyes, as it were, but for all the while she exemplifies the epithets ‘pativrata’ and ‘mahabhaga’ (woman of great qualities) which her father endowed on her while giving her in marriage to Rama. Incidentally, Valmiki does not spend a single line to describe Sita’s beauty, not even as a bride. Janaka’s pointed reference is to the qualities of his daughter, not to her appearance. It is only later poets and story-tellers that indulged in words in praise of her looks. Valmiki’s focus is on personality.

The first crisis in Sita’s life occurs soon after marriage, when Rama is banished from Ayodhya. Instinctively she acts with maturity in deciding to go with him to the forest though he advises her to stay back. Kaikeyi’s bond was only for Rama’s exit; yet Sita voluntarily seeks to go. To obtain her husband’s consent she uses all the devices known to women, including taunt.

“If thou wilt not let me go with thee, while thou must needs depart I shall in grief seek my end in fire, or poison, or waters deep.”

Trembling, Sita said in feigned anger, mixt with love, “What will father, King of Mithila, think of thee, Rama, effeminate spouse of mine in man-like form? Why art thou afraid, or in grief, that thou shouldst thus desert thy wife so constant?”

“Fruits and leaves, or roots of plants, plentiful or less, that which thou shall bring with thine own hands shall be my nectar true. I shall not think of home, nor father, nor mother, sure. O, let me go with thee.”

He took her in his arms and said these words of cheer:

“I shall not want Heaven if that must come through grief of thine. Thou art born forest-life; thou shalt go with me, my dear, like fame that goes with noble person.”

But she is also naive. While the coarse flaxen cloth is handed to her as they prepare to go, she asks Rama in wonder, “How do the Rishis wear this, my lord?” And yet there is nobility in this; her own suffering makes her reflect on that of others.

It is this naivity that makes her seek the golden deer, ignoring Lakshmana’s advice. It is naivity turned to fear that makes her mistake Maricha’s voice for that of Rama. (She should know!) And it is naivity turned to rage that prompts her say harsh things to Lakshmana (she even accuses him of incestuous intention) and goad him to help Rama, making herself, in the process, helpless. Ravana is round the corner.

She is abducted, and held captive. Here, something remarkable happens to her. The woman who trembled at the very sight of Ravana in Dandakaranya becomes a picture of courage in Lanka. The prison itself serves to set her free from fear. She says to Ravana “This body I do not seek to save, nor this life.” It is honour which is at stake for her. Ravana’s advances and her retort reveal character.

Ravana : Though you tremble, you’ve stolen my heart, like vulture diving for the snake.

“In my clan, we do but seek delight in arms of others’ wives; it is common too to take them home by force. But you, I will not touch, till your heart relents. Do consent. Then will passion flow, gushing like a spring.

“You are a gem of a woman. Come, put on the silks and gold. Don’t be thus; How can you be dull and distrait in my palace, here?

“Do not waste your youth; like the waters or the flood, it flows away, never to return.

“Be my wife, I beg of you. Give up this grief. Be the Chief among my queens; my wives, who hail from regions far and wide, shall turn your maids.

“In wealth or valour, might or magic, Rama is no patch on me. I wonder if he lives–feeble fellow, thrown out of home and kingdom!”

Sita: I am not the kind for you; I am another’s wife, wedded and true. Think of Dharma and set your conduct right. Not content with his own woman, man is lured by lust, led by senses lost; alien women do but lead to ruin.

“O, tell me, are there no men of goodness here? Or is it that you do not heed their counsel? Thus I see your mind perverse; it sneaks beyond the custom’s pale.

“Status and wealth I do not want. As light to the sun I am to Rama, not apart. Lead me to him. Make friends with him, if you care to live.”

As the tale proceeds, we see Ravana getting more and more obsessed with her. She is the only woman he respects; he has not come across such devotion and moral strength. Eventually, he begs of her for love, offering to place his head at her feet. The victor becomes vanquished by his own prisoner–a slip of a woman!

Irony, however, extends far beyond. After the fall of Ravana, the victorious Rama speaks to her harsh words, in distant tone; it is her honour that is again at stake, this time assailed by the very man for whom it was worth protecting. But while Ravana tortured the flesh, here is the husband who insults the spirit and denies faith. See, how Valmiki handles this, in dignified verse.

Rama then cast his eyes all around, knit his brow and spoke into Sita words so rude, when all stood by: “All that any man should or could, when foe does offer shame and spite, I have done to-day......But it was not for thee I launched on war. Name and fame, family’s honour were at stake.....Thou dost stand before me, sullied here; for sooth, like the lamp to one with ruddy eyes, the sight of thee doth hurt mine eyes.

“Thou art free to go, child of Janaka, where thou wilt, to anyone. Thou art nothing to me.”

In shame did Sita shrink. The words of the man she wed shot the darts in the flesh; tears came in rush.

Gently yet, though choked in grief, she said, “Why dost thou, my Lord, speak thus–harsh and rude as befits a lowly man to lowly wife? Dost thou dare suspect the race, based on what you know of lowly wench? Give up thy doubts,......I plead.

“It is death to me if thou dost fail to know me true.

“How can’st thou forget my nature, love and worship too? Can’st thou thus ignore the vows we took, round the fire, while yet so young?”

Thus she spoke and told the brother of Rama, lost in thought, “Light me the fire; it shall cure me of this fatal grief. I do not care to live with name so sullied by thought so false.”

The key words are “thou dost fail to know me true.” When that happens, self-respect demands self-effacement. Like Hamlet, Rama is proud of his family and honour. But Sita is not like Ophelia. Nor is she like Desdemona who pleads for her life (though Rama is like Othello who says “my wife......what wife? I have no wife.”) With mature dignity, she voluntarily seeks to end her life which is no longer worth-living.

Though the fire ordeal leaves her unscathed, it is soon clear that it did so only physically. Suspicion, “the cankering venom,” recurs and on the strength of gossip (lokapavada) Rama decides to banish Sita when she is about to become a mother (in fact, as soon as she announces that she is expecting). The way he does it is so clumsy (he tells Lakshmana to abandon her in the forest, without telling her) that our sympathy is unmistakably for the heroine. This is, perhaps, the poet’s device to work towards the climax.

Years later when she stands face to face with Rama, she is a chastened woman. Mother of two sons, she has been in the hermitage under the influence of Valmiki. She is maturity incarnate. Rama, however, is king of Ayodhya and speaks as such. He says, “I know these are my sons, but let me have some proof, in public.” Sita’s final glory is in her exit. If one lives for truth, one must also die for it.

She held her head downcast, Sita in ascetic robes of orange hue. She clasped her hands and spoke aloud, “If it be true that I think of none but Rama, Mother Earth give me quarter, here and

“If by word and deed and thought I do but worship my Rama, Mother Earth, grant me quarter here and now.

“If I speak the truth I know not any but Rama alone, Mother Earth, do but give me quarter here and now.”

As she swore, the earth did cleave and sent up a throne of flashing lustre. The Mother held out her arms and bade Mythili sit by her side. The throne went down, fading out of sight, never to come.

We grieve for Sita. But let us not forget that her suffering is sacrificial. The giving of life in order to preserve life is common to sacrifice, all over the world. However, it is Sita’s moral resistance to suffering that makes her great, perhaps the greatest feminine character in literature. If Rama upheld wordly law (Dharma), Sita established moral law (Satyam). So long as Rama managed to retain both, Satya and Dharma, he was happy as an integral being (Satyadharma Parayana). When he allowed Dharma to move in conflict with satya, the course was set for tragedy.

There is allegory as well. Sita as the embodiment of truth was shown that truth can neither be overpowered by brute force nor won by intellectual argument and public trial. Faith is the answer. That is her unspoken message.

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