Born of the earth,
Swaddled in a star-spangled blanket,
I lay on the ground as a babe.
The earth was my mother, the sky my father.
Then I was adopted by the king and queen of Mithila.
Sita, they called me. What does that mean, you ask?
It means furrow.
Where did I come from, people wondered;
But my parents-- already I called them that--
Considered me a gift of Mother Earth,
And cherished me as their own daughter.
Later, they had a biological daughter, Urmila,
And they loved us both equally.
Some called me a miracle child,
Others a freak of nature.
Even I did not know who I really was.
But does it really matter?
You know who I am, don't you?
If not, you'll know soon enough.
I won't bore you with the details of my life;
My story has been recounted often enough.
Married to Ram, sent into exile, abducted by Ravan, rescued by my virtuous husband.
Virtue. A double-edged sword.
As you know, Ram demanded a purity test;
An agni-pariksha. To determine my virtue.
Don't judge him too harshly. I suppose he did what he had to do.
You can guess how I felt, how every woman must feel,
And so I steeled myself. I'll triumph over all of you, I thought.
Into the flames I went.
As I stepped on the pyre, the flames crackled,
Growing softer and softer with every step I took.
The Lord of Fire caressed me like a loving parent,
And I walked out, glowing red-gold.
I was now Sita the twice-born,
Sita, daughter of Earth and Fire.
What's that?
You guessed it, my story doesn't end here.
Ram was delighted, and accepted me;
We returned to Ayodhya, were crowned king and queen,
And lived merrily for a while.
To top it all off, I was with child!
But, alas-- as they say,
Happiness is ephemeral.
It certainly was for us.
Tongues will wag, they always do.
Even a loved queen is not safe from their sneering whispers.
She's impure, she's unworthy, they murmured;
Their voices crawled through the city and stabbed the palace.
You know what happened next, but let me go ahead and say it:
Perhaps that will act as catharsis.
I was taken back to the forest-- this time,
I was to remain alone, away from my husband.
My belly moved with the signs of life,
Even as I allowed myself to wallow in my grief.
But then-- then I wiped my tears,
And quietly vowed that I'd live.
I had to, for my life was no longer my own.
Well, I was taken in by the kind Sage Valmiki;
That's right, he's the mahakavi who wrote the Ramayan--
Ram's story. My story. Our sons' story.
Desiring to keep my identity a secret, he called me Vandevi,
Goddess of the Forest. That suits me just as much as Sita.
The forest was my succour and hope;
My twin sons, Luv-Kush, grew up
Surrounded by Nature's abundant love,
Just like me when I was a babe, and then
during those surprisingly happy years of exile.
But this, too, was not to last.
Don't stare at me so sadly, I need no pity.
Let me go on with the story:
The Ashwamedha Yagna, my sons' first meeting with their father--
You can't imagine the anguish I went through.
Even more so when he found out they were his children
After their sweet, golden voices recited the entire Ramayan.
Try to picture Ram's feelings-- can you?
Because I hardly could.
Time to come back into the picture.
Anger and hope were battling inside my heart;
I still loved the man who chose kingship over being a husband and a father.
I know he loved me, too. But sometimes,
One must make difficult choices and walk on burning earth.
If tongues still wagged, I knew what I must do.
That brings us to the last part of my life.
When I appeared in court for the first time in years,
Sage Valmiki stood in front of me, while my sons clung to me.
I blocked everything out-- I could hear Ram's heartbeat.
I could feel his love and anguish enveloping me.
Surely he must have felt the same way:
But so, so predictably, he asked for another agnipariksha.
'Proof' that these children were his.
What would you have done in my place?
I couldn't take it any more.
I love you, I said, my voice resounding,
To my husband, my sons, my sister, my parents.
But I can't stay with any of you any longer.
I went back to where I came from:
My first mother, the earth.
In her embrace I gave myself up;
Her love was a warm golden glow.
I heard Ram's cries of anguish, his voice mingled with my sons';
My heart broke, but I couldn't stop.
Deep into the bowels of the earth I went.
Would you say this is a sad ending?
I don't really know.
Sometimes, you have to let your loved ones go.
Sometimes, you must walk through flames to reach the earth.
That's what Sita did.
