The Forest of Enchantments

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

‘what occurred when I was alone in the darkness, under the sorrow tree, you don’t know. You

don’t know my despair. You don’t even know my exhilaration, how it felt—first in the forest and then in Ayodhya—when I was the most beloved woman in creation.’

‘It must have been a god that brought it to you, then, and not a goddess,’

I unplugged the inkpot and was startled to see the colour the sage had chosen for me. Red. But of course. How else could I write my story except in the colour of menstruation and childbirth, the colour of the marriage mark that changes women’s lives, the colour of the flowers of the Ashoka tree under which I had spent my years of captivity in the palace of the demon king?

I set quill to leaf. In red ink I began to write—in crooked, effortful lettering because it had been so long since I’d composed anything—the Sitayan.

The bow was waiting for the right man.

‘The flower fell to the left of the statue,’ he said. ‘You’ll get what you want, but it will not be what you expect. Success in the beginning will be followed by a thorny path.’

The feeling I’d experienced when I saw Ram—this was not the first time I’d been shaken by such a sense of familiarity. I’d felt it on the day, several years ago, when Ravan, the famed demon king who was loved by many, hated by more, and feared by all, came to Mithila to try for my hand.

‘But know this: my going is the end of our happiness.’

what else might he destroy in the future?

Filial duty was important to Ram. Good. But what of his duty towards me?

If you want to stand up against wrongdoing, if you want to bring about change, do it in a way that doesn’t bruise a man’s pride. You’ll have a better chance of success.’

how much all these people, so different from each other, loved Ram.

It was unfair that one person should suffer in order for others to be blessed. If the gods were powerful enough to shape our destinies, why couldn’t they just send us good fortune untainted by sorrow?

what you can’t change, you must endure.’

After all, we were going to be together for the rest of our lives.

Self of my Self,

what about the women?

Forgive me, Sister, I said silently, you who are the unsung heroine of this tale, the one who has the tougher role: to wait and to worry.

We must want what they want, not what we want for them.

once mistrust has wounded it mortally, love can’t be fully healed again.

The deer appeared soon after that.

Why was it that our holy men who made a big deal of giving up so many things—comfort, fame, family—couldn’t seem to give up their tempers?

I’m not the kind of person—unlike your husband—who disfigures a woman and abandons her to a lifetime of sorrow and shame.

You are meant for greater things.

Mahakal awakes. Let the deaths begin.

He has come to teach the men, but you have come to teach the women. The lesson you teach will be a quieter one, but as important.

I’ll teach you what you need to know to be good human beings, so that you’ll never do to a woman what your father has done to me.’

I couldn’t control what was done to me. But my response to it was in my control.

I would see my sister only once more, and that would be on the day of my death.