“Do you mean that there’s another one?”Ellie pressed, curious.
The priest took a seat at the edge of the room, waiting with comfortable patience.
“They call it the Adbhuta Ramayana,” Padma replied.“It records the sage Valmiki’s words when he was asked whether Lord Rama’s story contained any wisdom that had been hidden from those who were not ready to understand.In response, Valmiki told of another battle—one that had not been mentioned in the original text.A battle against the demon king Ravana’s older and more powerful brother, Thousand-Headed Ravana.”
“Thousand-Headed Ravana?”Constance returned dryly.
“Do you want to hear the story or not?”Padma treated Constance to a withering glare.
Constance schooled her features.“Yes, Aai.”
“Lord Rama was not powerful enough to defeat Thousand-Headed Ravana,” Padma continued.“He fell in the battle.Seeing him wounded, Sita’s rage was kindled, and she rose against the demon herself… as Kali.”
Constance studied the fierce, blue-skinned goddess with her bloody sword and garland of skulls, comparing the image to the lithographs of Rama’s pretty, placid wife.“You’re saying Sita turned into Kali,” she elaborated skeptically.
“I am saying,” Padma returned patiently, “that Sita was Kali all along.”
“I thought Sita was supposed to be an avatar of Lakshmi, Vishnu’s consort,” Ellie cut in.
“She is that, too,” Padma easily agreed.
“She can be both?”Ellie pressed, confused.
Padma dismissed Ellie’s concern with a wave of her hand.“Kali slays Thousand-Headed Ravana—not with an astra, but with her own hands, tearing the heads from his body.She slaughters every one of his demon followers as well, and then she dances in their blood.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Constance protested.“If Sita could be Kali any time she wanted, why didn’t she just kill the first Ravana herself after he kidnapped her?Why sit there pretending to be helpless until her husband came to rescue her?”
“Sita knew her role in the story,” Padma countered.“It was Lord Rama who was meant to strike Ravana’s death blow.”
“You’re saying she chose not to save herself because she was following… fate?”Ellie filled in awkwardly.
Padma pinned both Constance and Ellie with an uncomfortably penetrating look.“I am saying that Sita is both more powerful and more complicated than you give her credit for.”
A chill shivered over Constance’s arms.
She considered what her grandmother was suggesting—that Sita had kept her own power concealed in order to let Rama’s story play out the way it had been meant to.
Rama’s tale was certainly influential.It was woven into the fabric of India, as much a part of the country as the distinctive flavors of its food, its famous Mughal palaces, or the rains of the monsoon.
If Sita had simply obliterated Ravana, there would hardly have been any story at all.
Constance thought of the pieces of Rama’s tale that were ingrained in her consciousness—the stringing of Shiva’s bow and the sacrifice of the giant vulture Jatayu.The monkey king Sugriva’s duel with his usurper brother.The loyal Hanuman discovering his own divine nature as he carried a mountain to the dying Lakshmana.
The epic was woven from gleaming threads of faith and devotion, friendship and sacrifice.Of what it meant to be a king and a warrior—to stand up for justice and bring people together.
How might India be different if that story had never happened?
“And is that why she let Rama send her away at the end of the story?”Ellie pressed crossly.“Because of fate?”
Constance had nearly forgotten that part of the tale—how Rama had fought long and fiercely to save Sita from the demon king, only to exile her to Valmiki’s ashram after they finally made it home.It seemed like another example of Sita’s placid acceptance of the most rank injustice.
A soft breeze, scented with the monsoon, whispered through the humble sanctuary.It stirred the delicate petals of the flowers that garlanded Kali’s throat and flickered the flame of the lamp.
Padma replied in a voice like the tolling of a low bell.“Every woman has secrets.”
The words sank through Constance’s skin, and she thought of her own secrets.There was obviously the lie she had told that very morning… but Constance hid more than just a fake engagement.There were knives in her garters and a thirst for adventure in her heart.Even her Indian self was a secret, not that she deliberately hid it… but she had sometimes allowed it to be overlooked, glazed over as inconsequential.Her grandmother’s murtis concealed behind English oak doors.
The world didn’t make room for everything that Constance truly was, a creature of hunger and dreams, hope and determination.
