“Ma, tell us the story of the princess who wasn’t born from her mother’s womb, urged the ten-year-old Luv.”
Echoing
generations of devotion built upon the oldest epic, The Ramayana is a humanised
trial of the Gods. Setting the foundations of heroic epic, what Homer’s The
Iliad and The Odyssey are to Greek mythology, Valmiki’s Ramayana
is to Indian mythology. It’s an epic
predominantly glorified for the victory of good over evil, fulfilled by the
incarnation of Lord Vishnu- Ram. Thus, the opening lines of the novel begin
with the tale of a Princess who later came to be remembered and revered as Sita.
Offering Sita an illuminating presence,
the author, Pragya Agrawal, in no disjointed terms, has coalesced generations of
voices into her debut novel, The Renunciation. The story begins at Sage Valmiki’s
hermitage in the Chitwan forest. Sita, the name has become ‘a fabled past’ and
is now known as Vandevi, who gave birth to the twins- Luv and Kush. It pains
Sita to acknowledge her sadness with Ram, the ‘infallible’ King of Ayodhya, who neither
came looking for her all these years nor is he aware of the birth of his sons. Wearing
a graceful robe of sheer quietness, the dulling ache inside of her refuses to
settle down. Irrespective of the countless later retellings, the grief of having
been subjected to one of the most tragic trials is unquestioningly
controversial. In alternating between the past and the present, the author, in
her retelling, has chosen conversation over silence.
Considered unmatched in beauty and wit by Maharaja Janak, Sita’s divinity is of ‘equal force’ to Ram. How come is she reduced to a memory of a haunting trial and not for her divinity, who turned Mithila into a lush bounty? Ram admired her ‘intense and independent mind’. Challenging traditions, Sita questions, “Why are the ministers of the court all men, Ram?” While Ram answers most of her questions in ‘Maybe’, Sita seeks a more resolute justification for traditions. To him and Maharaja Dashrath, traditions are ‘inevitable as the rising sun.’ As much as Manthara had been accused of Ayodhya’s downfall, wasn’t it the fault of Maharaja Dashrath as well in upholding ‘his righteous ego’? We witness some of the most powerful exchanges: “Why the pointless nobility?” “Father did the right thing.” “A promise is a promise after all. It has always been the way of the Ikshvakus, and we cannot sullen it.” Later, ironically, in banishing Sita, he committed the same sin as Maharaja Dasharath. He forced his verdict on Sita in the pretext of Ayodhya. Was the right precedent set? Must not the rules be challenged? Was true justice ever meted out? Is Sita really an equal? The author compels readers to think through these illuminating reflections and exchanges between Ram and Sita. In the words of the author, ‘the idea is not to diminish Ram’ but to look at Sita as more than being Ram’s wife. The sense of duty guiding Ram is different from that of Sita, and in realising that both sacrifice for the greater good. It is not Ram against Sita or Sita against Ram, but the rigid rules that pit one against the other. She didn’t appear for the ordeal but decided on renunciation. Her dignity isn’t a plaything. She wouldn’t “accept the assault on her self-respect.” This author has posed before the readers the legitimacy of ‘duty’ in the face of Sita’s plight. I found the part illuminating where the ‘rigidity’ in the rules of a kingdom was placed in contrast to the ‘fluidity’ of the rules of nature. Why is a woman’s honour called into question when it was not her choice to be abducted? How is she still dishonourable and not Ravana or the washerman? Through these discourses, questions are the voice of a modern woman as well, when she just wants to step outside at night without feeling threatened. How is honour killing still a norm?
If Ramayana has had sages and poets chronicling Ram since time immemorial, Sitayana, a modern reimagining and retelling by Volga, Chitra Banerjee, Bhanumati, Amish and such others have sent ripples through the ages which relegated Sita to the periphery. Of the countless times you listened to the stories, watched or read Ramayana, you haven’t seen Sita in a different light. These writings, however, dare to blaze a different path of inquiry. Undoubtedly, adding another mesmerizing literature to Sitayana is Pragya Agarwal’s ‘The Renunciation’.
When you already have a great
number of books written on one of the most beguiling and fascinating characters in Indian mythology, what sets yet another retelling apart? What does it have to
offer besides the already churned plot line? Like the many versions of
Ramayana, the retellings are not rigid in the sense that you live and relive
the characters in different imaginations and perspectives of the author.
At the heart of the retelling is
a family embroiled in political conflicts and schemes of court. The lost,
idyllic deer embracing and licking the younger ones while looking endearingly
at the one she loves the most is not destined for humans prone to moral
contradiction and failings.
If anything, Ramayana has always
been, notwithstanding the varied retellings, its beauty and the author has
done full justice in weaving the beauty and wrath of nature to the love and
turmoil of the characters. Reading amidst mountains— the rich foliage, the
aroma of cooked meals, the sheer simplicity of existence is felt sharply
against the fume guzzling industries. The picturesque setting and rich use of
imagery takes you back to Romantic poetry, especially the depiction of the world
of nature in the works of William Wordsworth.
No matter how many retellings you
have come across, your heart aches at the sight of Ram and Sita’s torn
aloofness amidst the twisted work of fate. Above all, the retelling is a
reminder to uphold the ‘raatrani’— to make the world a better place.