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And Urmila? He is an ogre, that man!’
    ‘But that doesn’t moderate our predicament, does it?’ snapped Mandavi. ‘Who on earth will be able to lift that bow?’
    ‘The lucky man,’ Urmila said sharply. ‘And he will be able to do the impossible. Don’t worry, just watch on…’
    Her assurances were principally for her mother whose eyes turned bleaker as each defeated suitor walked wearily back to his seat. Sunaina’s worst fears were getting confirmed—there was no one good enough to marry her daughter.
    There was a mounting sense of anger and frustration in the raj sabha as well. ‘Is your daughter so unique that you have set upon us this impossible task?’ asked one prince, heatedly. ‘I agree to what Ravan claimed—that if not Princess Sita, we are ready to marry your other daughter!’
    ‘…or the nieces.’
    ‘O king, your stipulation for this swayamvar is absolutely hopeless and you well knew it was certain to fail. You are insulting our pride, our respect, our capability! If not your elder daughter, we demand that we be allowed to choose the other princesses in marriage instead!’
    ‘Yes!’ yelled another in agreement.
    ‘I want to marry Princess Urmila!’ a shout was heard from the crowd.
    The strident voices joined as a furious refrain, the uproar deafening.
    Urmila felt a cold shiver run down her spine; the situation was fast getting critical. She could think of no way of diffusing the latent hostility; nor any measure to protect herself from the antagonistic suitors. How was she going to save herself from this impending predicament? But seeing her father’s wan face, her trepidation was replaced by swift indignation. She knew she would have to battle it alone—for herself and her sisters.
    There was a rush of movement and Urmila saw the man who had occupied her heart, thoughts, passion and emotion for all these days getting up slowly, his hand at the scabbard of his sword, his face a dark mask of cold fury—Lakshman.
    ‘What sort of a swayamvar is this where the princesses are being humiliated at every step?’ he started heatedly. He walked forward, turning on each king who had chorused the hostile din earlier. He looked like a prowling lion, circling his victims.
    ‘O kings and princes, you are honoured guests invited by King Janak for his elder daughter’s swayamwar. But where is your sense of honour that you speak so disrespectfully, so rashly? And before you declare anything, there is still another suitor who has not had a chance to show his skills yet. Pray, kings, let me introduce all of you to my brother, Prince Ram of Ayodhya, the eldest son of King Dashratha!’
    There was an abrupt silence and the irate protests of the kings died down suddenly as Ram stood up. He bowed to Vishwamitra to seek his blessings and walked towards the bow. He saluted Janak to obtain his permission and finally he bowed to the queen and the princesses.
    The room was eerily still with all eyes on the young prince in hopeful anticipation. Ram peered into the iron case and touched the bow reverently. With his right hand, he clasped the bow at the centre and gently pulled and picked it up as if it were a delicate garland of flowers. An immediate image of the slight, small Sita holding the bow in her right hand flashed through Urmila’s elated mind.
    Lifting it high, Ram proceeded to rest one end of the bow against his big toe; he bent it and strung it, quickly drawing the string back. Urmila heard Sita gasp with unsuppressed delight and saw Ram throw Sita a long, exultant look. Probably he was distracted, his focus momentarily diverted or he had under-estimated his strength but with a swift, overpowering force, he pulled at the bow and it snapped like a dry branch with a booming clap like a flashing thunder streak.
    Urmila could not describe the expression on Sita’s face. It was luminous; her eyes softly glowing and the small, shy smile radiating her enormous, irrepressible joy.
    As the