Queen of Elements- An Illustrated Series Based on the Ramayana (The Sita's Fire Trilogy: Book Two)

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The late poet, folklorist, and literary scholar A. K. Ramanujan noted with regard to those who grow up in India, that "no one ever hears the Mahabharata for the first time." The same can surely be said, and even more powerfully, about the Ramayana. Indian tradition has it that there are ten million Ramayanas, each one different for various reasons of region, language, and cosmic era. We must recall that even the oldest known version of the Rama story, the ancient monumental epic poem of the sage poet Valmiki, was not the first telling of the tale. The First Poet himself was told the story by the rishi Narada and then, with the divine inspiration of Lord Brahma, he rendered the story into a grand work of poetry and music.

The tale of Rama is universally regarded throughout South and Southeast Asia, not as a romance but as a history of real events that took place in a far distant past when the world was quite different from what it is today. But, then one might ask, how are we to account for the wide variety of versions in all the languages and cultures of the Hindu, Buddhist, Jain, and Islamic nations of the region, which span virtually all of southern Asia and extend into central and East Asia as well? Well, as noted above, one traditional Indian explanation for the multiplicity and variations of the tale is that the events of Rama's life recur over and over again with some differences throughout the cyclic eras of Hindu cosmology.

But perhaps the most convincing explanation was proposed by Professor Velcheru Naray-ana Rao, who noted that it is only fiction that remains the same from one edition to another, while events believed to be historical are reported differently by different observers and authors. This is what has been called the "Rashomon effect."

So, although tradition agrees that the tale of Rama is an episode of history, accounts of that history are the same. And so it has been from Valmiki's time down to our own, with the story rendered in every medium from poetry and prose to drama, dance, and modern TV and cinema, not to mention the innumerable painted, sculpted, and carved versions of the story that have dominated the visual cultures of Asia for millennia.

It is in this context and in this grand tradition that we now have before us the second volume of Vrinda Sheth's delightful and imaginative novelistic retelling of the immortal Ramakatha, exquisitely illustrated by Anna Johansson. In Vrinda's first volume, Shadows of the Sun Dynasty, she took us from the childhood of the epic hero through to the hatching of the intrigue to deprive him of his inauguration as king and send him into exile with his faithful wife, Sita, and devoted brother Lakshmana.

This second volume takes us through the banishment of Rama and his companions to the forest, through their life there up until the abduction of Sita, Rama's rage and despair, and the beginning of his search for his beloved. Like the first volume, the work is rich in psychological nuance and creative insights into the inner life of the epic characters, especially Sita. As in many renditions of the Ramayana, this tale includes creative variations on the received versions; for example, Vrinda has Lakshmana mutilate Shurpanakha, not in obedience to Rama's instructions but in self defense. But her version does introduce an interesting insight into Lakshmana's disquiet over the teasing of the savage but pathetic creature.

Again in this second volume, the work is richly illustrated with Johansson's lovely, dramatic, and colorful illustrations. Especially noteworthy here are her charming renditions of natural scenes in the forest and the various fauna (and bloodthirsty monsters!) found there.

Once again, lovers of the Ramayana will find much to enjoy and also to debate in this lively, creative, and provocative retelling of the Rama story.

She feels the pain but cannot scream. Two of his twenty hands rest on her shoulders. His touch is light, almost tender. But Someone knows. If she moves even a little, his grip will tighten. His sharp nails will prick her skin like needles. Blood will well up, small drops, red like the rubies on the ceiling, the iris of the eye crafted onto the dome. High up, it looks down on Someone and the other consorts. At the top of the dome, the pupil of the eye opens to the sky. It represents his sight, from which nothing is hidden.

Someone has stopped hiding, for one cannot hide from the one who rules the elements. Sometimes a cloud is visible in the center of the eye, or a ray of sun; now it shows the stars in the dark night. Someone knows. She has stood under the eye at all hours, by his side. He sits on this throne here at the top of the ivory steps. On each of the thirty-two steps a maiden sits, gazing up at him as if hypnotized. They are his favorites, and Someone is foremost among them. She is exceptionally beautiful, she is told. This is why he took her, though she was just a short-lived human and a villager, having never stepped inside the indestructible capital in whose shadow her forgotten home had stood.

One of his hands holds her long hair, lifting it away from her back. The two hands on her shoulders hold her steady. With a fourth hand, he etches his name into her flesh, across her back. He needs no tools, for his nails are long and sharp. She has seen it done before, on other girls, but could not imagine this pain. Someone does not exist; there is only his nails piercing her flesh. She is only an R, then an A, then a V... the first three letters of his name. His names are many. He has lived longer than most. But his favorite is Ravana, the One Who Makes the Universe Wail.

She too has several names. She cannot recall the birth name she had before she became No One. Now she is Someone. Someone, who belongs to the king, the ruler of all that is. He controls the worlds from Lanka, the city made of pure gold. The golden towers of the palace are so high, they disappear into the clouds. She has seen this sight only twice, since she is kept inside. The first time she entered his quarters, she thought it was built for someone ten times his size. The eight pillars holding up the dome are each made of one hundred stacked elephants. Their bodies are marble, their eyes rubies, and their tusks authentic, taken from live elephants. She didn't know then that he can expand and grow at will and that he has destroyed many other palaces simply because they were too small to contain his greatness. Her home is cold, for gold is. The rest is marble and gems, even less warm; the palace so large it's empty, even with millions of residents. The marble gleams like a polished mirror. Every corner is decorated by a woman who herself is decorated meticulously, a detailed art piece, all for his pleasure. And Someone is part of the décor, earning many names of endearment. The grandeur of this gold, marble, and ruby kingdom is a small tribute to his vast glory.

It is an honor to be touched by him, to have one of his faces intent upon her. Those who say he has more than one face have never seen him. There is only one face at a time. He means to claim Someone completely. She will have his name written in every thought. He looks at Someone without blinking, holding her entranced. He is kind enough to spare her one pair of his eyes. He does this for her. She stands like a statue. Her tears do not dare flow. He begins to etch the next letter into her back.

A loud scream stops him.

Someone, who cannot move, feels a small jolt in her heart. His hands tighten on her shoulders. His eyes narrow. The hand around her hair tightens, jerking her head lightly back. His eyes leave her and he looks at the intruder, the screamer who dares scream at the One Who Makes the Universe Wail. Someone shivers while her eyes follow his. The consorts on the steps have stopped breathing. Standing on the thirty-second step, Someone sees only the outlines of the other women along the pillars and walls, small figures in the distance, as tiny and helpless as she is in this place of honor, her clothes stripped from her body.

The wine goblets in his hands smash against the ground, the shards shattering against her bare legs. Their king does not tolerate intrusions. Everyone in Lanka knows this. Every one of those three hundred and thirty-two women in the chamber is frozen. They will not awaken until he gives them a signal. His many arms claw through the air impatiently.

The next scream is louder, piercing and dissonant. Someone scrutinizes the intruder. She is the blood-drinker kind, with hair red as flames, like their king. Her face has been mutilated, and blood pours from her wounds.