Sita and the Prince of Tigers

PRAISE FOR

SITA AND THE

PRINCE OF TIGERS

"In Sita and the Prince of Tigers, Winona Howe has given us a transfixing story of love and redemption. Fans of The Jungle Book will appreciate the feminist perspective and how it changes everything. This debut novel is not to be missed."

—Sari Fordham, author of Wait for God to Notice

A great story about the improbable relationship that develops between a woman and a tiger, and the challenges and opportunities that ensue. It delves into their lives in the jungle and how it affects other animals, villagers, and even a maharajah. It’s unexpected, heartwarming, and inspiring.

—Sonee Singh, award-winning author of Embody, as well as Embrace, Embolden, and Lonely Dove

"Sita and the Prince of Tigers is a magical tale that deeply embraces not only the elements of the natural world around us but also the power of love that resides within."

—Puja Shah, author of For My Sister

"Unlike the reporter who came to find a lost legend and fell asleep, I was entranced from beginning to end. A truly unique story, Sita and the Prince of Tigers keeps on surprising at every unexpected turn. As folklore with a touch of magical realism, it is as real as it gets, deeply grounded in the values of love, family, and place.

"Independent of spirit, Sita finds the love of the tiger prince and creates a world where fantasy and folklore merge in the heart of the jungle, awakening within all of us the dream of living in harmony with nature. The character of Sita stands out as one of the gifts of literature, a female protagonist who has a choice. In choosing love over fear, she becomes one of the wise ones whose wisdom is sought after even by the highest in the land.

Beautifully written. Winona Howe has given readers of all ages something truly magical.

—Eleanor McCallie Cooper, author of Dragonfly Dreams and Grace in China

"The tale of Sita and the Tiger challenges and moves the reader in enjoyable and unexpected directions. This engrossing narrative offers alternating glimpses into Indian daily life in the palace, the village, and the jungle, and shows that these places are more alike than different. In each there is cruelty, kindness, loyalty, and most of all love. Most memorable, however, is the unique familial relationship between the Prince of Tigers and the outcast village girl Sita. She is ferocious and vulnerable, and their bond is both magical and believable. I was captivated by this book."

—Linda Strahan, Emerita, University of California, Riverside

I, like Sita, have fallen in love with the Prince of Tigers.

—Sharon Churches, copy editor

"The lush landscapes and rich characters stayed with me long after I finished reading Sita and the Prince of Tigers. This is the kind of book you curl up with on a lazy Sunday afternoon or take with you on vacation."

—Pandora Villaseñor, life coach and host of The All Gifts podcast

"Sita and the Prince of Tigers is an amazing book, filled with wonderful writing and beautiful descriptions. I’ve never been to India, but in reading the book, I could almost imagine I was there with Sita and her prince. This book is one I would definitely recommend to my friends; it is an amazing fantasy book with lots of emotional moments and a strong theme of diversity. Sita is a beautiful book, and I loved every minute of reading it."

—Natalie Brooks, tenth grader

Winona Howe

Sita and the Prince of Tigers

by Winona Howe

© Copyright 2022 Winona Howe

ISBN 978-1-64663-803-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Published by

3705 Shore Drive

Virginia Beach, VA 23455

800-435-4811

www.koehlerbooks.com

To Stephanie, who has always been there for me

in more ways than I can mention, and who has believed in

Sita and the Prince of Tigers from the beginning.

HINDI PROPER NAMES

Major Characters

Minor Characters

PROLOGUE

The reporter would come to rue the moment he had listened to his friend. You say you need something new for your paper, something unusual? his friend said. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I’ve got a suggestion for you.

The reporter was young and had dreams of advancement. What I’d really like is to find a story that no one else has told, a story that could only come from the heart of India.

Well, old man, that sounds a little ambitious, but I suggest that you visit . . . oh, I forget the name of the village, but it’s about the fourth village east of Balaghat—well, I think it’s Balaghat anyway, but it may be some other place that sounds the same. You can get a train as far as Balaghat, at least, but I’m not sure how you would go on from there. Walk, I suppose, if it’s that important to you. The village is slap up against the jungle, and seems to have a rather strange history.

How so?

I suppose I was drunk when Murchison told me about it; in fact, I’m sure I was. It does seem, though, that the village had some sort of special connection with the maharajahs of the district. I’m almost sure Murchison said some of them visited the village. Of course, it might have been forty or fifty years ago, maybe more, maybe less, but I don’t have to tell you how unusual it is for a maharajah to have any connection with, or interest in, a specific village.

Unless it was for tiger drives. Was that it? Or could it have been to obtain more elephants?

I’m pretty fuzzy on the details, but those reasons don’t sound familiar. I just know that some strange stories have come out of that village. If you can find it, just ask about Mita? Bita? Sita? Something like that.

So the young reporter had come. Or rather, he was trying to get there, wherever there was. He had taken the train to the end of the line at Balaghat. Then he had hired a car, hoping that he would get a good enough story that his editor would pay for the rental. But the road was bad and so was the driver, who crept along when there were no obstacles and refused to slacken his speed when there were. Now, at the least, the car had a flat tire. He fervently hoped the axle was not broken. He cursed when that thought crept into his mind.

He suspected the driver had borrowed the car without permission from an absent employer and hoped to profit from his passenger’s errand before the employer returned. The reporter knew very little about cars. He knew there was nothing he could do to help and felt he was wasting time, sitting on a rock and shooing flies away, while the driver poked about the car, raised the hood, and lowered it again. Then he lay down on the road, trying to peer under the car, tut-tutting all the while. It was clear that the driver knew no more about how a car worked and what needed to be done than did the reporter.

A man was walking down the dirt road; his feet were bare, and a puff of dust rose around them with every step he took. He was clearly interested in the unusual sight of a broken-down car, slowing and turning his head to watch as he passed by, not wanting to miss a moment of this spectacle. He came to a halt, and the reporter suddenly grasped at an idea. He approached the barefoot stranger and offered the man money to guide him to the village.

The arrangement was a little loose because the reporter did not really know what village he wanted to be taken to. Nevertheless, the stranger seemed happy to become his guide, so the reporter took his leave of the driver, saying that he would be in touch with him later. The two men strode along the road—a track, really—the reporter becoming more and more impatient. Before the car had come to grief, he had passed two villages. Now they had passed two more.

Is it much farther? he asked the man who had become his guide. The unknown village had become almost mythical in the reporter’s mind. It was late afternoon, and he was tired. He had removed his jacket, but he was still sweating and felt the blisters forming on his feet.

Not far, the man intoned in that singsong accent the reporter found so annoying.

Will we get there before dark?

Maybe.

Great, the reporter thought. I hope I can find a place to stay. And I really hope this story, whatever it is, is worth it.

They arrived in what he hoped was the right village just after dark. His guide was able to locate a widow who was willing to feed this stranger supper and provide him with a charpoy in her shed. He would be sharing the shed with a couple of goats, a fact that did not improve his temper.

The woman brought him a dish of dal, and chapattis to scoop it up with. She was clearly curious about this stranger and viewed his unexpected arrival as an unusual and very interesting event. The reporter queried her about the names he had been given.

Do you know a Mita?

Mita? Who is that? There is no one in this village named Mita.

What about Bita?

Why do you come here to ask about people who do not exist?

The reporter was growing desperate. Have you heard of a Sita?

The woman was silent at first. Then she said slowly, My great-grandmother used to have a friend called Sita.

Can you tell me about her?

Me? Of course not. I didn’t know her. But you might be able to speak to her great-granddaughter tomorrow. If she will talk to you.

Why wouldn’t she?

People say the women of this family are strange. She might decide to talk to you, and she might decide not to talk to you. But you can ask tomorrow.

The reporter did not sleep well. Three times during the night, he had to get up and take his shoes away from the goats; they seemed to feel strongly that the shoes had been provided for their dinner, and they were delighted that the leather was edible. In the morning, he ate lentils and chapattis again for breakfast. Then his hostess led him through the village, a fairly large cluster of small houses made of mud bricks, expounding on the way to everyone they met: This man wants to learn about Sita. I am taking him to Chandra Devi’s house. Is that not the right thing to do? She is home, is she not?

Nearly everyone she spoke to apparently felt a response was required.

No, you should take him to Prabu.

Chandra Devi has gone away into the jungle. She may not be back for some time.

Yes, Prabu must decide.

No, she is at home, but she is sleeping.

No one explained that Prabu was the headman of the village, and nothing the villagers said made sense. The walk was interminable. The reporter’s feet still hurt, and five people and three dogs were following him. The parade finally reached the edge of the village, but his guide did not stop, and they continued until they had left the village nearly half a mile behind. Crops were planted on one side of the path, but the tilled land was not extensive enough to support the village where he had spent the night. Also, there were no women working in the fields or small boys chasing away the birds that came to feed on the crops.

Why are these fields separate from the village fields? he asked.

You will have to ask Chandra Devi was the answer.

Then he saw a house that was quite different from the ones he had seen in the village. This house was larger, for one thing, and sprawled nearly to the edge of the jungle. Part of it was stone, part of it wood. An elderly woman sat on a straight-backed chair under a mango tree that shaded the yard.

This man wants to talk to you, announced his guide.

The woman turned towards him, her eyes assessing, as if to determine whether talking to him was worth her while. He noted that she was small and thin. Her face was pale, and her green eyes gleamed. She was clearly old, yet her face was unlined.

I will pay you to talk to me, he said, but she made a dismissive gesture. Then he noticed the many bracelets she wore and the necklace that certainly was set with precious stones, and jewels in her ears that he thought might be diamonds, although he could not tell for sure. The necklace was a string of moonstones with a huge emerald hanging from the end, and colors flashed from her bracelets. The silk of her blue choli and sari was shot through with different shades of blue and green and further enhanced by embroidered borders of flowers. Her house was by far the biggest in the village, and she had her own fields. Clearly, if Chandra Devi did not want to talk to him, he could offer no inducements that would change her mind.

Please tell me about Sita, he said.

The woman sat very still, looking at him with those assessing green eyes. When she finally started speaking, her narration was punctuated by long pauses, as though she were trying to remember things that had happened to her, even though the stories she told sounded like legends she had heard about people who had lived and things that had happened long ago.

CHAPTER

1

After Bhima, Sita’s elderly aunt, died, the village was insistent that Sita leave the hut at the edge of the jungle where she had lived all of her life and move into the confines of the village. The village men did not want anything bad to happen to a girl of their village; this would reflect badly upon their manliness and their ability to protect the females they were responsible for. The village women said that there was no telling what a young girl might get up to if she was not guided by those older and wiser than she. There were also a number of practical reasons why Sita might be better off and safer in the village. If she lacked food, someone would doubtless help out. She would be less likely to step on a naja naja or run afoul of a hungry tendua or even a baagh. Yes, everyone was agreed on Sita’s future. Everyone except Sita herself.

Sita was adamant that she would not leave the hut. The village had presented somewhat the same arguments to her aunt every year since Sita could remember. They had omitted the parts about being a young girl, saying instead that an aging woman would not be able to defend herself against the dangers she might encounter—but Bhima had refused to move. Sita’s aunt never cared much what people thought about her. No one remembered what her real name had been before she decided to rename herself. It had been somewhat shocking because Bhima was a man’s name; it meant formidable or terrible, nothing like what a woman should be or be called. But Bhima had decided that she had no interest in marriage, and she took a man’s name to show that she was capable of taking care of herself. She liked living close to the jungle; she said she wanted to be close enough to hear its voice and feel its heartbeat. Sita felt the same way.

She finally told the village that the only way she would move was if she were carried forcibly, and that this would be unpleasant and unbecoming to all concerned.

She is truly the daughter of her aunt, the villagers said as they shook their heads at her intransigence. She is surely the same stiff-necked woman who would always go her own way.

Of course, Sita once had a mother, but Runa had died when Sita was only a few months old. Bhima, Runa’s older sister, had come to live with Runa during her pregnancy, and she stayed to be a mother to Sita. Although she was not a woman the villagers would have described as motherly, Bhima was devoted to her niece. In fact, Bhima was the only adult who was a constant in Sita’s life. No one knew who her father was; certainly, no man from the village ever stepped forward to declare that the small, squalling bundle was his child, and Runa had never spoken, even to Bhima, about who Sita’s father might be.

When Sita was a baby, Bhima wrapped her in a cloth and strung it up like a hammock. Bathed by the air of the jungle and rocked by its breezes, Sita listened to its birdsong lullabies while Bhima worked in the garden. When Sita grew larger, she helped Bhima plant seeds and carry water, and form chapattis with her small hands. When she grew older still, Bhima taught her how to grind the roots of the shatavari and prepare the medicine to treat ulcers. In the evenings, particularly if Bhima’s last candle was exhausted, she would teach the child how to speak the language common to all dwellers in the jungle.

Who knows, it may be useful someday, Bhima said when Sita asked why she should learn all these strange words she never heard anyone else say. After that, Bhima often spoke in the jungle dialect to make sure that Sita was not forgetting what she had learned. When she felt that her niece had absorbed a working vocabulary, she also began to teach her tiger talk, showing her how similar the two dialects were but how they were different as well. These lessons ceased, however, as Bhima focused more on passing down her knowledge of wild plants in the locality and how they could be used. Runa had had some knowledge of herbs, and Bhima’s understanding of traditional medicine was fairly comprehensive; she was happy that Sita was both interested and quick to learn which plants were helpful to heal various ailments and which should be left alone.

Because of Sita’s history with Bhima and the lessons she had learned from her aunt, it was not surprising that the girl wished to stay in her familiar surroundings despite now being alone. Furthermore, once the village capitulated, deciding that Sita could live by herself, she was alone and happy. Of course, she missed Bhima. The knowledge that Bhima had always been there to help her had given Sita a feeling of security, but now Sita realized that she would have to learn to live without that warm feeling of comfort and support. In many ways, however, her life went on as usual.

She cultivated her small garden, pulling out the stubborn weeds and bringing water from the village well when there was no rain. The village clearly considered her of no account, but they did not shun her for refusing to follow their demands. Sita would occasionally take a coin from her tiny hoard to buy some necessity (of which there were very few), and she would participate in village celebrations and rituals. She also continued to search the edges of the jungle and deliver the spoils to Mudit in his small shop—fruit from the bael tree, neem leaves, or perhaps a beautiful butterfly. Mudit, in turn, would sell these things to others: merchants, women of the village, perhaps even strangers who might be travelers from the city—whoever wanted or needed the fruit to eat, fresh or dried (or perhaps to use in religious rituals), or the leaves to treat various skin diseases. Sometimes people wanted to buy a butterfly that looked different from any they had seen before.

Thus had Sita and her aunt supported themselves, and now Sita was