Rishab’s Rama: Short story by Githa Hariharan

He went in with her, so full of news that he forgot to make his bag fly on to the nail on the wall.

“Pati!” he said, breathless, before she could ask him why he was late. “I saw a big procession today on the way home.”

“Oh? What procession was that?” she asked him, taking the bag off his back.

“There was huge cardboard Rama with a bow and arrow. There were people with loudspeakers on a lorry. And everyone was shouting ‘Jai Shriram! Help us to defeat our enemies!'”

Rishab was so full of the crowds he had seen – the color, the noise and the marching that had reminded him of an army – that he didn’t notice how silent his grandmother was.

“And then, when the procession had marched down the road, I ran after it till the market,” said Rishab. “Look, one of the men with a trishul in his hand gave me this kumkum.”

Grandmother didn’t even look at it. “Put it away and come to eat,” she said.

Rishab was so excited by what he had seen that he had forgotten how hungry he was.

Later, as they lay side by side, Grandmother suddenly said: “Rishab, when Rama, Sita and Lakshmana were in the forest, they once a yak. It had a very beautiful tail.”

“Sita admired the tail very much. She thought she would like to take home a tail like that to remember her years in the forest.

“Rama decided to get the yak’s tail for Sita.

“But the yak suddenly turned around. Now Rama could no longer see the tail. Instead, he saw the yak’s large, trusting eyes, and its defenceless neck – stretched out as if it was offering it in place of its tail.

“Rama was filled with pity, with tenderness. Sita didn’t get the yak’s tail. But as they walked back to their hut, their faces – the faces of Rama, Sita and Lakshmana – were full of wonder at what they had seen: the beauty of love and trust between two living creatures.”

Grandmother stroked Rishab’s hair gently. “I know that look,” she told him. “That face of Rama you don’t need cardboard to see.”

Rishab looked at her, a little puzzled by Grandmother’s earnest face.

“Do you remember what I called the song I sang yesterday?” she asked him.

“Yes,” said Rishab, “you called it prema bhakti.”

“Do you remember what that means?” she then asked.

“A prayer that is love,” he replied.

And Rishab remembered the song again. He saw a peaceful, loving, generous face, like Rama’s when he spared the yak. This was the face of Rama that he saw in his head whenever he heard Pati sing.

“But Pati,” he said, still puzzled, “this face looks different from the cardboard one. Are they two different Ramas?”

“Sleep now,” said Grandmother, her voice barely above a whisper. “Rama lives in your heart, not on cardboard or in some building. And a prayer – or a song of love – does not need loudspeakers.”

Then they fell asleep together, side by side, as if they had traveled a long distance that afternoon.