Chapter Text
Characters
Sita daughter of Janak of Mithila
Merchant An Indian, trader in gold and precious stones
Chorus of Sumerian women, companions of Sita and Enheduanna
Rama husband of Sita and Prince of Ayodhya
Old Woman portress at the palace
Lakshman Rama’s brother
Enheduanna daughter of Sargon, High Priestess of Ur and inspired prophetess
Sargon King of Sumer and Akkad, ruler of Ur
Messenger servant of Sargon
Hanuman companion of Rama, now a god
Act I – The Sorrows of Sita
The scene is in the Mesopotamian city of Ur, in the royal district, a massive enclosure of mudbrick walls whose bricks are faced with lapis lazuli.
The stage building represents the front of Sargon’s royal palace, with central double doors. To the left of the stage is the substantial structure of the Temple of Nanna, where Sita serves as naditu priestess. Sita is found center-stage.
Sita. Here by the waters of the Euphrates stand the oldest of all cities, established by Inanna when she taught us women to sow and plant and harvest. On the banks of this sacred river once a priestess, told to expose her child for her goddess bore no children, sent her infant son downstream, floating in a woven basket. A gardener of the lands of Akkad found him and named him Sargon, šarru-ukīn, for he was destined to become the greatest of all the Kings of the earth.
And indeed Sargon was not content to follow in his adoptive father’s humble footsteps. He raged across the plains of Sumer like a roaring bull, fighting battle after battle until all the cities of the Euphrates were his, the First Emperor the world had ever seen. He married Tashlultum, a woman of Akkad, and she bore him many sons, but also a daughter, apple of her mother’s eye. This girl Tashlultum named Enheduanna, for she was destined to be a high priestess, blessed by the goddess with understanding of all things that are and are to come.
My own home country, though, is pretty well known, for it’s India, and my father was Janak King of Mithila – or at least, he’s the only father I’ve ever known. There’s an old story that Mother Earth herself gave birth to me, fatherless and unprompted, and that Janak and his wife, out riding, found me in a furrow in the earth – which may or may not be true. My name is Sita.
Now let me tell you my sad history. When I came of age, I married a man who was also a god. So kind he was, so wise, the embodiment of love itself; and all his citizens loved him. But our happiness must have drawn the envy of heaven. For Kaikeyi, his father’s third wife, grew jealous, and exiled my kind prince to the dark Forest for fourteen years. I followed him, as any faithful wife should; and there I caught the eye of Ravana, King of Lanka, greatest of all cities; who was so powerful that the King of the Gods himself went in fear of him.
Ravana quitted his palace of gold and lapis and came to the Forest to seize me; but Indra, King of the Gods, disgruntled by his many defeats at Ravana’s hands, deprived his rival’s solid hope of all substance: he put in Ravana’s path not the real me, but a living likeness conjured out of air, so that believing he possesses me he possesses only his belief. Then Indra compounded these misfortunes with new plans; for in order to rid himself of Ravana’s threat to his heavenly gates, and to rid the earth of her plethora of children, he caused a war to be fought between Rama, my husband, and Ravana, my captor.
Yet all that time the Sita who endured the siege of Lanka, the Sita whom the men of Ayodhya and Kishkindha fought to rescue, was me only in name. For I myself was wrapped in a cloud, hurried through pockets of air in Indra’s fiery chariot and set down here in Ur by the banks of the Euphrates – proof that Indra did not forget me; indeed he chose the most civilized of cities to help me keep my marriage bed unstained. And here I have been, while my unhappy husband, bent on recovering me, mustered an army of Forest folk and rode to do battle with Lanka. Men died for me in the thousands, and I, the passive sufferer in it all, have heard from Enheduanna who knows all things that Rama has since declared me anathema; for it seemed to the world that I had betrayed him, living as long as I had in his enemy’s house.
Then why do I go on living? For this reason: I have it on the authority of Indra himself that once my husband learns the truth – that never did I go to Lanka, never was I unfaithful – I shall live with him again by the banks of the Sarayu.
Sita moves left across the stage to stand by the Temple of Nanna.
Sita. In the early days of my stay here, I was immune from suitors. I became a priestess in the cloister of this Temple, where I lived with other women who were sacred to the god. But it seems I am fated to catch the eye of powerful men. Just as once Ravana desired me, now Sargon has left his palace in Akkad and come to Ur, where he haunts me and hunts me – which is why I’ve come, loyal to my vows to Rama, to cast myself as a suppliant upon the Image of Nanna in his temple, to seek the god’s protection from the depredations of the man. Rama in his ignorance may vilify my name; but I will ensure that my body remains free from reproach.
Enter the Merchant from right of stage. He first sees and is impressed by the imposing bulk of the palace, then immediately catches sight of Sita.
Merchant. Who is the lord of this imposing palace? It looks like the abode of the God of Wealth himself, hah!
(Notices Sita with a start) What’s this? How is this possible? The very image of that woman whose stay in the house of her husband’s enemy caused three Kingdoms to go to war! Curse you for looking like her. That woman’s husband was right to reject her in the end. If I weren’t a guest standing on foreign soil, I’d be tempted to kill you where you stand!
Sita. Poor man, whoever you are, please don’t act like this. Why detest me because of what happened to her?
Merchant. Forgive me, it’s my fault – anger got the better of me. In Ayodhya we’ve all heard the story; and all honest men there loathe that woman, whatever anyone says! But of course, you wouldn’t know. Forgive me, lady, for the words I spoke.
Sita. Who are you, though? Where do you come from?
Merchant. I am one of Rama of Ayodhya’s people.
Sita. Whoever this woman is you speak of, you must have good reason to hate her. But what brings you to the delta of the Euphrates?
Merchant. Necessity drove me from my home! I am a merchant, a trader in precious stones and jewels from the high mountains. Lanka was my main port of trade. Such a fabulous City it was! Its very streets were paved with carnelian, lapis lazuli tiled its walls. And I brought it all, in great slabs, on ships coming down the rivers of India and across the sea.
But ever since that great City fell, I have struggled to find an equally profitable market. They all regard me as an associate of Ravana’s; and they fear Rama too much to do business with me. And so I have crossed the western Ocean and come here, to the lands of Sumer and Akkad, famed for their wealth and power. Perhaps I can prevail upon Sargon, that great King, to adorn his magnificent walls and temples with my precious stones.
Sita. Did you really go to the famous City of Lanka?
Merchant. Yes, and I was unfortunate enough to have seen its downfall; and my own.
Sita. Is it truly razed flat now, burned to the ground?
Merchant. So thoroughly that no trace of a wall is left.
Sita. Oh Sita, unhappy woman, for your sake the men of Lanka perished!
Merchant. And not they alone, those of Kishkindha, too!
Sita. Tell me, did they capture the woman in the end?
Merchant. Rama did, dragged her off out of the City I have heard, his eyes burning with rage.
Sita. You’re only reporting hearsay. You never saw her, never saw any of this happen.
Merchant. I may not have been at the walls of Lanka, but I saw her in Ayodhya, as plainly as I see you.
Sita. Perhaps the gods made you imagine it all.
Merchant. Please talk of something else, lady. Stop harping on her.
Sita. And Rama… is he home now with his wife?
Merchant. He’s certainly not in Ayodhya now – he left the city. Why and where, I do not know.
Sita. That’s terrible news! For those in Ayodhya, anyway.
Merchant. He’s said to have vanished, and his wife with him. Ever since Rama left, no one has seen Sita, either.
Sita. When did all this happen?
Merchant. Seven harvests have passed since we last saw either of them.
Sita. But surely Rama couldn’t just disappear? He must have told his people where he was going? Some other King must have met him?
Merchant. If anyone did, I have not heard of it, nor has anyone else in Ayodhya.
Sita. And no one’s had news of him since? Are you really sure?
Merchant. Not at all. Some still hold out hope; but most consider him dead.
Sita (to herself). I am crushed, all my hopes are gone! (to Merchant). And Janak’s Queen, of Mithila – is she living?
Merchant. Sunayana, you mean? No, she died long ago.
Sita. You’re not suggesting Sita’s disgrace destroyed her?
Merchant. They say so. Though she was royal, she hanged herself.
Sita. And what of Rama’s brothers, his companions – dead or alive?
Merchant. I’ve no idea. They all left Ayodhya together. No one has heard from them since. But I have heard two different rumours about another of Rama’s companions, Hanuman of the Forest folk of Kishkindha.
Sita. Give me the stronger one. (To herself) Nothing but grief! What wrong have we done, to be so completely destroyed?
Merchant. It’s said that he became a god, and that men will worship him till the end of this current world.
Sita. Those words are welcome, finally. But what’s the other story?
Merchant. That grief at the rejection of Sita and the loss of Rama made him end his life in the river; and that his body was left there for the wild beasts to tear, and for the river to carry out to sea.
But enough of sad tales from the past – I’m not here to reflect upon my misery. My reason for coming to this palace is to see the High Priestess, Enheduanna. You seem to be a lady of the palace. Will you introduce me, so that I can ask the oracle how best to turn my fortunes away from all the war and death that has engulfed my country? For a wise sage told me that I shall settle here along the banks of this river, and exchange the Sarayu for the Euphrates.
Sita. You’ll find Enheduanna in the Temple. But sir, make your getaway from this place before Sargon sees you – he’s left his capital of Akkad and has come here to Ur. He’s away at the moment, bloodily slaughtering innocent animals with his chariots and his pack of hounds – but any Indian caught here he puts to death. Don’t ask me why, I’m saying nothing; and anyway, what good would it do you to know why you’re killed, once Sargon’s spear is at your throat?
Merchant. Kind and frank words, which I appreciate, lady. May you be richly rewarded! Your similarity to Sita is clearly only skin-deep; inside, you’re pure and faithful, not a bit like her. Wherever she is, whatever the reason we don’t see her anymore – I hope she’s dead. But you – good luck be with you all your life!
Exit Merchant right.
Sita. To what spirit of music shall I appeal, what song could be so bitter, to match the burden of sorrow I feel? O maidens of the Temple, cease your happy song, strike up a sad accompaniment: some grim, despairing strain in sympathy with my sufferings, in harmony with my pain. And I shall sing a chant of blood, a black paean rising in unison with the tears I now let fall for all those dead and gone.
The Chorus of Sumerian women enters left.
Chorus. What is going on here? We were drying our clothing in the sun beside the pool when we heard a pitiful crying – no song fit for a Temple, but anguished, haunting screams like those of a demoness, seeking her lost children.
Sita. Women of Sumer, servants of the Temple, I have news for you. An Indian merchant has come ashore, one from my own country; but he has brought me only more tears. Lanka is a smoking ruin of war, destroyed by my deadly face – or rather, by my ill-used name. My mother has put a noose around her neck for shame of me. My husband and all his brothers are lost, lost at sea, taken by the Ocean and gone forever. And Hanuman of Kishkindha, my husband’s close friend, will never, never be seen again: some hopeful men say he became a god, but more likely he threw himself in the river when my husband vanished at sea.
Chorus. Lady, you were given a mocking gift, a life not to be borne, when the earth brought you into the world in that furrow where you were found. Because since then, what sufferings have you not undergone? Your mother is dead, your native land is far away, hidden from your eyes; throughout the cities of India there runs a rumour that implies you slept in your enemy’s embrace; your husband and his beloved brothers are all corpses on the sea bed; never again will you return to the banks of the Sarayu.
Sita. Tell me, women of Sumer, which god or goddess did Rama and I offend, all those years ago? Which jealous divinity inspired my mother Kaikeyi’s servant with hate? Because of her I went to the Forest; because of her I caught Ravana’s eye; because of her Lanka lies in ashes, and the peace of my hearth is shattered forever.
And then Indra, that great King of the Gods, came down in his chariot and took me away, caught me while I was gathering lotus flowers in the pools of the Forest. He snatched me and brought me, across the Ocean through the glittering sky, to this bleak land – beautiful, yes, but bleak for me! And now, here by the flow of the Euphrates, I am soiled with a false shame that is mine only in name, only in name.
Chorus. You have suffered a lot. But one must bear the burdens of life as lightly as one can.
Sita. Don’t try to comfort me! Wasn’t I born a monster, every event of my entire wretched life unnatural, from the furrow in the earth to the Forest to Indra’s chariot? All men call me beautiful. If only that beauty of mine could be erased, wiped clean like a picture wiped from a wall and painted over with something more human, less alluring. Then perhaps Ravana would not have noticed me. Then the people of my country would see my better side, not my worse one.
When a person suffers only one misfortune, it’s hard, but bearable. But in my case, evil presses me on all sides. In the first place, I’m both innocent and slandered – and being saddled with crimes one did not commit cuts so much deeper than facing just punishment for one’s own. On top of that, the King of the Gods himself uprooted me from my own country and put me down here, in a strange land, cut off from all I knew and loved.
And my sole anchor in this sea of troubles, the hope that one day I might see my husband again and convince him that I was ever faithful to him, now has been shattered by the awful news this merchant has brought. Dead, too, is Janak’s Queen, the only mother I’ve ever known, and I’m supposed to have “destroyed” her – untrue of course, but the accusation sticks. And worst of all: even if I did somehow cross the Ocean to go home, they’d bar the gates – thinking I’m the Sita all the rumours are about, the woman whose husband rejected her after she lived in his enemy’s house, the woman for whose sake so many lost their lives.
Now, I don’t believe for a moment that Rama would reject me if he saw me – no, not him, he’d recognize me and know that I’m faithful, but he’s dead, dead on the sea floor somewhere, and I’ll never see him again. Why am I even still alive, o Sumerian women, tell me that! I could choose marriage, of course, settle down in Ur or in Akkad with the great Sargon, King of the Universe, as my husband. Perhaps you’d say that is the wisest course: be Empress of the World with Sargon, rather than live in misery in a Temple. But I could never forget Rama; and when a husband’s hateful to a wife she hates even the richest house.
Yet just like Ravana, Sargon will not let me be, would disregard even the sanctity of his own Temple for the sake of my beauty. The beauty that is a blessing to other women, has been nothing but a curse to me.
Chorus Leader. Sita, don’t be so sure that everything that merchant said was true! He told you himself, he wasn’t even there at Lanka, and he himself doesn’t know where Rama went.
Sita. But he made it clear enough. Rama’s dead, I have no hope left!
Chorus Leader. The spoken word can often turn out false. Perhaps he was simply mistaken?
Sita. It can be true as well!
Chorus Leader. You’re biased towards the dark view. The hopeful view could just as easily be true!
Sita. It’s fear that grips me – I can only think of fearful things.
Chorus Leader. How much goodwill do you have inside the palace?
Sita. They’re all my friends, Enheduanna especially – all except Sargon, that is, my pursuer, my new Ravana.
Chorus Leader. Listen, do this. Leave this sanctuary.
Sita. What? And be helpless prey to Sargon? What are you trying to say?
Chorus Leader. Leave this sanctuary, and go see Enheduanna in her palace! She knows all things, and moreover, she’s your friend. Ask her whether your husband is still alive, she’ll know for sure. Then, once you know the answer, weep or rejoice. What’s the point in weeping now, when you don’t even know for sure? I’ll go with you, if that makes it easier. Women should always support one another.
Sita. Yes, I’ll do that. Let’s go to Enheduanna’s palace, in the complex beyond the Temple.
Chorus. We’ll all join you, Sita!
Sita. But then it’ll be settled, it’ll really be true. O, what words of horror or misery am I about to hear?
Chorus. Don’t play the prophetess of your own woe, Sita. Don’t jump ahead to horrors when you haven’t even heard them yet.
Sita. Even if he’s alive, what deep distress has Rama suffered? Or does he really lie dead on the sea floor?
Chorus. Accept the future, whatever face it may wear, as a friend.
Sita. O Sarayu, my home river, sweet-running and sparkling blue, to you I appeal. Be my witness. If the report is true, and my husband is dead, I shall…
Chorus. What wild words are you saying now?
Sita. I shall take my own life. I’ll noose my neck with a rope, like my mother did; or use the bloody knife, till the sharp, cold thrust of bronze finally ends my suffering. My death shall be a sacrifice to whatever divinity decided to curse me with this beauty.
Chorus. May you know only hope, lady! May bad luck finally leave you!
Sita. O pitiful Lanka, destroyed by a deed of mine that was never done! My beauty has borne a monstrous child, of agony piled on agony, blood piled on tears, sorrow piled on sorrow. Countless mothers mourn their sons, countless Lankan girls are now the sisters of corpses. Other women have suffered for their beauty, it is true; suffered bad marriages to bad men. But my beauty has burned cities, and been the death of so many men.