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what he was talking about so seriously with her father. But he was supposed to be an exemplary scholar too, Urmila acknowledged, having done her homework well, with valued inputs from Mandavi as well, on all the suitors vying for Sita’s hand in marriage.
    Ravan was an accomplished scholar, keenly knowledgeable in the Vedas, music—he played the veena splendidly it seemed—and abstruse subjects as assorted as astrology, architecture, Ayurveda and political science. He was said to be the mightiest of all kings and it showed lavishly. From the sparkling jewels, dripping about him and his resplendent crown which dwarfed her father’s simple one to ignominy, Ravan looked as dazzling as all the gems he was splattered with. He was immensely tall, almost gigantic, dwarfing all those around him. He looked and seemed powerful, his massive shoulders magnifying the effect. He was handsome, Urmila acknowledged with a discerning eye, but not regularly good looking. It was his overpowering personality that was so arresting that set him apart from the others. He was renowned—he knew it, he looked it and amply showed it. He had brazenly announced that he would be the first one to string the bow, silencing any protests and ruling out any opposition or contest.
    Urmila heard Sita gasp and she patted her hand reassuringly. She saw Sita’s eyes wander towards Ram, sitting at the opposite end, between Vishwamitra and his younger brother. Urmila had promised herself that she would not glance at Lakshman, hardening her heart and her resolve to keep her eyes away from the brooding prince throughout the swayamvar but she had broken her self-imposed decree in just a matter of minutes.
    ‘When will the ceremony start?’ she mumbled, her edginess escalating.
    Beside her, Sita appeared serene and poised, but her hands were clenching hers hard as they watched Ravan amble towards the bow. Ravan, like Ram, was an unanticipated visitor and her father and the other kings and princes had been none too pleased at his arrival. But courteous civility prevailed and protocol followed. Ravan was given the first chance to string the mighty bow.
    He sauntered across with an air of aggressive defiance and unconcealed arrogance. But he bowed chivalrously before her father and Sita, before he folded his hand in silent veneration. With eyes peacefully shut, his hand folded and his head bowed, Urmila saw him murmuring a mantra. He must be praying to Shiv, she thought. Ravan considered himself Shiv’s most faithful devotee.
    Saying his brief prayer, Ravan bent down to lift the mighty bow, clasping it firmly in his big hands. It did not move an inch. There was a thick silence. He gripped it more firmly this time and tried to heave it; it did not budge. He tried yet again; he could not nudge it. The most powerful king in the raj sabha could not believe his eyes. He gave a roar of rage and used both his hands to haul it up but he was left grabbing hard at the bow instead.
    To Urmila’s flamboyant mind, it was a rather funny sight to see such a big, conceited king with his massive frame and his gems-blazing crown bent low on his knees, grappling ineffectually with an inert, horizontal bow that refused to be moved around.
    Urmila bit her lip, enjoying the sight of the fallen king. Her dancing eyes went over to the others in the hall. Most looked perturbed. Ram, she noticed, was watching silently, his face composed, a slight frown furrowing his eyebrows. His companions, though, looked evidently amused. Vishwamitra had a small grim smile while the younger prince was suppressing a devilish grin, his eyes for once sparkling, not with jaded annoyance, but with unconcealed laughter. It changed him completely, making him look younger and amiable, flooding his face with unmitigated charm and a glowing cheeriness, wiping out any trace of his characteristic frown. Urmila was mesmerised at the transformation.
    Mandavi nudged her warningly. Urmila looked down, her face scarlet,