21
" The children were pining for their father. They were dreaming about him. Though she had brought them up like they were her very life, though they knew nothing about their father, though their father did not even know about their birth or growing up—they wanted him. Sons needed to grow up inheriting their father’s name.
She was Janaki—daughter of Mother Earth. Yet, she became Janaki—daughter of Janaka—under his care. These boys would get recognition only when they were regarded as Rama’s offspring. Rama was Dasarathi—‘of Dasaratha’—he was fond of that name, revered it and took pride in it. These children too wanted that kind of acknowledgement. It was indeed the order of the world.
But would that happen? Would Rama embrace these children? Would he give them his name? Would he acknowledge them as descendants of his family? If that did not happen, how these innocent hearts would grieve!
If Rama accepted them as his children and took them to Ayodhya, what would happen to her?
She had left her father who loved her like his own life and taken Rama’s hand.
Rama, whom she loved like her own life, had let go of her hand.
These children whom she had brought up, caring for them like her own life—would she be able to hold on to them? Should she even attempt to do that? Would they remain in her grasp even if she did? Would they not run to their father if he called them?
What did she have, other than the disgrace that Rama, bowing to public opinion, had heaped on her?
In comparison, Rama had a kingdom—which was so dear to him that he could not give it up even for her sake. Would these children give up such a kingdom for her sake? Would their kshatriya blood allow them to do that?
Sita’s mind was in turmoil.
As a mother she had no power over them. Power never fascinated her anyway. She only had love—she loved her father; she loved Rama; she loved her children. There was no desire for power in any of those relationships. She did not want it.
These children were nature’s gift to her. She had raised them like fawns. When fawns grow up, they go off into the forest, never to return.
These children too …
Sita struggled to rein in her mind. "
― Volga , The Liberation of Sita
23
" Who would hold her hand and guide her through that darkness?
‘Am I not here, my girl?’ The affectionate words of Mother Earth gave her the strength of a thousand elephants.
Her mother was independent. She would go to her mother. Her mother was omnipotent. So she could take Sita into her embrace. Sita had now seen it all—sons, fathers, sons’ obedience to fathers, wives’ faithfulness to husbands, motherhood. But there was one thing she had not seen. Nor had Ahalya, Surpanakha or Urmila experienced it. It was what Renuka had faced—the brutality of her own son. She had seen the dharma-bound cruelty of her son who, taking his father’s word as the word of the Vedas, was ready to hack her head off. She then realized what the foundation of that cruelty was. How many whirlpools must have stirred in her heart then? And how deep they must have been? In fact, so deep as to challenge Arya Dharma itself. "
― Volga , The Liberation of Sita
24
" Surpanakha, Ahalya, Renuka, Urmila—each one had a story of her own. Each one had followed a path of her own. Her path, her way, was hers alone.
Sita had learnt what she could from their experiences. At first, she felt only disdain and anger for them. Later, when she understood that the anguish in their lives was similar, she felt a camaraderie, a companionship with them. When Sita heard the sufferings of others, she realized that she was not alone. The awareness that she was one of them gave her strength. And it was that strength which enabled her to withstand the disgrace and bear her children, to give them a happy childhood and to train them in all the skills. "
― Volga , The Liberation of Sita
34
" For months, I vacillated between life and death. In front of me—I, who had returned from the threshold of death—were three figures: of my husband, whom I had served with my thoughts, words and deeds, and my wifehood; of my son, whom I had carried for ten months, given birth to and raised, and my motherhood; and of this pot, the result of my focus and my art. All three are the same. They are shattered by the slightest cause and life hangs on a sword’s edge. "
― Volga , The Liberation of Sita
