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blackknight-100 · 7 months ago

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hi, can i request something? i was thinking that we don't get to see rama hearing about sita (who's miraculous birth and deeds must have been stories that spread to ayodhya as well as other kingdoms) before they meet as we do see sita hearing about rama and admiring him in adaptations. so, it would be great if you could write an au on 5 times rama heard about sita and 1 time he told someone about her (maybe luv-kush or hanuman/the vanaras). thank you!

Hello there! Thanks for the ask, this was very interesting to write, and I discovered I have so many opinions and headcanons about a bunch of characters and their relationships I could make a whole entire post out of it. Also, this is a 4k+ monster, so beware :D

“They found her where?”

Rama looks up from his dessert blearily to where Bharata is frowning at their King Father. It is a sweet spring morning, and their family is gathered around the table breaking their fast. Beside his drooping self, Lakshmana bounces restlessly.

“I want the curd,” he whines.

Mother Kaikeyi answers her son as she passes the dish over. “She was buried in the earth, and King Janaka found her under the plough.”

“How was she not mowed down? Do people stare at the ground as they plough? Why did the oxen not trample her? How did she survive in the heat? Who put her- ”

“Bharata,” Mother Kaikeyi frowns at him. “One question at a time. Someone must have left her there – a god, perhaps, or some poor peasant who did not have money to feed a child. How she survived the heat and the yoke and the oxen I do not know. A miracle, clearly, and proof that the child is blessed.”

“I hope Janaka raises her as his own,” Mother Sumitra says, waving her hand vaguely in the air, “since he found her and everything.”

“Found who?” Rama asks at last, finally interested in the conversation.

“A baby,” Shatrughan grouses. He is five summers old and has formed many opinions on babies ever since Shanta didi brought Rahul over; not one of them is complimentary. “I do not understand what the fuss is all about. Surely, it is as ugly and dirty as all others.”

Mother Koushalya laughs. “You know, a mere couple of years ago, you were a baby yourself.”

“Ew.”

“Now, now,” Father chides him. “Mithila is suffering from terrible droughts. Mayhaps the child will bring them good luck.”

“That is an awful lot of hope to pin on a babe,” Mother Sumitra remarks, cynical as ever.

There is a blessed silence as everyone contemplates this. Mithila falling out of Indra’s favour is old news; over the past years many messengers have come and gone from Ayodhya’s royal court, and many carts have rolled between the two kingdoms, bearing grains that would never be enough. Mithila had enough fertile lands to feed herself, but her people were more inclined to knowledge and learning, and rarely took up tools to divert rivers or dig canals. The seasonal monsoons watered most of their lands; without it the crops had withered and burnt in their fields, and the hard earth cracked open to gaping maws unsuitable for any agricultural endeavor. That a mere girl, however divine-born she might have been, could cure such a calamity…

“In any case,” Mother Koushalya says primly, giving their father A Look, “let us hope King Janaka will take her for the blessing she is. Daughters are not to be forsaken.”

Father sighs. “Dear, please…” he murmurs, then quails under his wife’s glare. Daughters are a sore subject between Ayodhya’s King and her eldest Queen.

“Do we know what her name is?” Rama asks, and Mother Kaikeyi smirks at his unsubtle attempt to steer the conversation away.

Dasharatha latches onto the distraction with both hands. “Whose name? The girl’s?”

Rama nods.

“They named her after the furrow she was found in.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” Dasharatha smiles. “She is called Sita.”

It is late when Guru Vishwamitra decides to halt for the night and invites the brothers to sit by their little fire.

“You did well today,” he says, and Rama thinks the sage almost looks pleased.

“It was all your blessings, Guruji,” he demurs, “and that of our parents’.”

Beside him Lakshmana supresses a snort, noting how he left Guru Vashistha out of the mix. While their companion ruminates on this with a beatific smile, his brother whispers in his ears, “You are going to be a great politician one day.”

Rama elbows him. Lakshmana elbows back, and then it is a boyish game that is barely discreet. Rama can feel the beginnings of a smile twitching on his face.

They are interrupted by Guru Vishwamitra, who folds his hands sternly over his lap, turns to them, and asks, without the barest hint of hesitation, “Say, Rama, have you ever thought of marriage?”

Rama sputters. Beside him, Lakshmana tenses, prepared to fend off any and all questions until Rama decides what to answer, like he always did back in Ayodhya, because Rama has the best brother in the whole wide world. But Guru Vishwamitra rolls over any protests.

“We shall stop at Mithila next, and the noble King Janaka has under his care four comely young maidens – two his own, and two his brother’s.”

The crickets chirp in the shadow of the forest. Rama stares, unblinking and silent.

“Forgive my impudence, revered one,” Lakshmana says at last, when it becomes evident that Rama will not answer, “but my brother believes it is improper to speak of such matters without consulting our elders.” His brother chances a glance at him. “And he also thinks the man and the woman should get to know each other beforehand.”

The last part is entirely Lakshmana’s own addition, since he despises the idea of marriage and has long hoped to turn away any potential suitors by acting churlishly. That is unlikely to happen, given that few fathers care for their daughters’ opinions, and Lakshmana is charming even in his devilry. Rama refrains from mentioning any of this, especially because Lakshmana has clearly caught the ‘four maidens’ comment.

Guru Vishwamitra nods, meanwhile, as if he has expected something such all along.

“That is all very well, my boy, but let me tell you this. Janaka’s eldest child is the mightiest woman to ever walk upon Aryavart, and the most virtuous. When she was yet a child, she lifted with one dainty hand the Destroyer’s bow. Then her father declared that such a maiden’s hand may only be claimed by one who could perform a similar feat.”

“How… awe-inspiring,” Rama manages at last, already daunted by the thought of this princess.

Guru Vishwamitra smiles. It is the kind of smile that Shatrughan has when someone is about to find dead fish among their clothes.

“Do not worry about your father,” the sage says nonchalantly. “We shall reach Mithila by tomorrow. Look sharp, Rama, it is the princess’s Swayamvar. You will lift the Pinaka, and then knowledge and valour shall be wedded, and what a joyous day it shall be! Do you not agree?”

“Ah, Guruji,” Rama gropes about for anything that will dissuade him. “The Pinaka is a legendary bow, and I am but a young boy.”

“I have faith in your ability, Bhaiyya,” says the traitor heretofore known as Lakshmana, Rama’s brother, “and as he told you, our Guru thinks similarly.”

“I do not even know her name,” Rama says, desperately elbowing Lakshmana when the latter starts to snicker.

Their Guru shrugs. “That is easily solved. She is called Sita.”

Rama is broken. There is no other way to put it – this empty haze that mars his sight, this endless sorrow that mires him down, this bleak, bleak search that shall never end – Rama is irrevocably ruined.

He feels nothing save grief and rage, and knows nothing save that they must go on and on and on, till they have eclipsed the earth thrice over, till they have searched every nook and cave and treeshade, pausing neither for food nor rest nor death.

He screams, sometimes at the forest and sometimes into the earth, and sometimes at foolish, foolish Lakshmana, who is so exhausted and so dear, and Rama thinks he knows what the Pinaka’s master will do at the breaking of the world, for he feels that catastrophe within the traitorous organ beating in his chest, calling through the bars of his bones like a forgotten prisoner, ‘Sita! Sita! Sita!’

“Bhaiyya, please,” Lakshmana begs, gripping his shoulders tighter than ever before.

Once Rama was stronger, but now he even struggles to loosen his hold. “Let me go,” he wails, writhing and unseeing. “I will not, I cannot- ”

“You need to, Bhaiyya,” Lakshmana insists, tightening his hands, pressing fingers to the hollow between Rama’s clavicle and collarbone.

Rama shakes like Mount Meru trembling under Sachi’s wrath. “I need to?” he demands. “I need to? Like you needed to leave Sita, needed to search for me, despite your faith in me, despite knowing that- ”

Lakshmana’s hands unclench, and Rama finds himself sinking. His gaze clears, little by little, and he hears his brother make a strange, muffled sound, and he is sinking to his knees, familiar hands guiding him, but no longer restraining. There is an Asoka’s trunk to his right, and he is made to lean against it, all gentle-soft and slow. When he looks up, Lakshmana’s face is turned away, tears leaking out of the corner of his eye, mingling with the blood on his chin from where he has bitten his lip to hold back a sob.

“Lakshmana,” he murmurs, reaching out to him, and oh, there are flecks of dried blood on his knuckles, and oh, Lakshmana’s temple is a sickly purple when he looks back, like the costliest dhoti muddied by rain, and when, oh, when did he strike the most beloved of brothers, and why?

Lakshmana is kneeling beside him, always one reverent inch behind the bend of his arm, running a thumb over the crimson remnants of violence.

“It was not your fault,” he soothes, lilting like a childhood song. “You did not see me coming.”

When? he wants to ask, how? But the haze returns like insidious tendrils of fog. He should be comforting Lakshmana, he thinks, for it was always his job to quieten his brother’s temper. Lakshmana needs comforting, he knows, but Lakshmana is not angry. Why, then…

Someone shakes his shoulder. “Bhaiyya?”

“Uh,” he offers intelligently.

“I am going to get some water, okay? Please, please do not leave. You need to rest awhile; we are no use to Bhabhi if we are dead.”

He waits for Rama to nod his assent, and leaves with tear-tracks on his cheeks. That was why Rama should have comforted his brother – Lakshmana was crying. And now he is gone, and Rama is seated under a tree waiting for him to bring water, like that blind old couple had so many years ago waited in vain for Shravana Kumara. They cursed his father for slaying the boy, and that curse drags ever on, even today. What would Rama do if some stray arrow found his brother’s heart? Would he curse the shooter, even if it was a chance of fate? No, he thinks, he would hunt them down, and then burn cursed Dandaka, all the way from the Vindhyas to the unresting sea, with every man and beast and rakhshasha in it.

Perhaps because he has such a keen ear, or perhaps because he is thinking about it, he hears a terrible, piercing groan, and shoots up. The sound comes again, and Rama runs. It does not occur to him that he runs the other way, or that he should take his bow. All he does is plough through the tall trees, tripping on roots and choking on outstretched branches, fighting against Aranyani’s will.

When he finally stumbles upon the body, all he can think of is that it isn’t Lakshmana. Then the groan comes again, and he rushes over to the feathered being, kneels by its side. Once, it must have been a great bird, but now there are only stumps where the wings would have been, and it has a gaping hole in its stomach.

“My dear,” Rama says, already knowing it beyond saving, “rest. All will be well.”

To his surprise, the bird opens its eyes. “Who are you?” it asks, in a distinctly masculine voice.

“Rama, son of Dasharatha,” Rama says, and looks up to some scuffling. “That is my brother, Lakshmana,” he adds, as said brother tumbles into the clearing with wide eyes, twin bows and ruffled hair.

“Dasharatha?” Clarity rushes to the bird’s eyes. “Once, I, Jatayu, named him friend. Wait, you are Rama and Lakshmana? That woman called for you.”

“So we are,” Lakshmana agrees, kneeling as well. “What woman sought us, noble Jatayu?”

“The fairest of them,” Jatayu says, “with the darkest curls and most beautiful mien I ever knew. She wept from the perch of the Pushpaka Vimana and called high and low for aid, even as Ravana took her ever southward to his golden state. I sought to free her, friends, and so I fell wingless from the sky.”

Rama dares not hope, dares not breathe. “Southward?” he asks, settling on the least painful, and most important detail.

“Southwards to Lanka,” Jatayu explains, words slurring again, “to that seagirt island he names his own. I shall not be here long, but I beg you, make haste my friends.”

There is a noose uncoiling from Rama’s chest. He needs to thank Jatayu for his aid, for trying to save his wife, for being their father’s friend; he needs to make sure he passes away in peace. And he will do it all, only after one last question.

“Do you know who she was?”

“Mhmm,” Jatayu hums. “She called herself Sita.”

Hanuman leads them up Mount Rishyamukh with nimble leaps and fleet feet. Rama and Lakshmana toil behind, each hard-faced so as not to give away how strenuous they find all this jumping.

“I feel like a stray goat,” his brother mutters, teeth clenched to hold back huffs. “He is showing off for you, and naturally, I am the one caught in the middle.”

“If you think I am enjoying this…” Rama begins, then sighs to mask his panting.

“Then why do you not ask our guide to slow down? He seems to like you well enough.”

Rama snootily turns his nose up in the air. “We are the scions of Ikshvaku, heirs of the Raghu clan. We must endure.”

“You mean you must endure.” Lakshmana’s voice is sardonic as he continues, “If my honour comes from attempted suicide by heat exhaustion, I care little for it.”

“If I have to climb up this thrice-damned mountain without protest, then so will you.”

Silence. Rama turns, alarmed, half afraid his jesting has been taken seriously. They have not spoken about everything that came to pass in the weeks before meeting Jatayu, and although Lakshmana’s bruise has long healed, Rama’s heart has not. But no, his brother is smirking and shaking his head, and when Lakshmana speaks, his voice quivers with mirth. “You are mean.”

Rama exhales, yet relief does not come.

“Lak- ” he begins, but is immediately interrupted by a joyous shout from above.

“Prabhu!” Hanuman beams down at them, “We are here.” Then he turns and addresses someone else, “Oh, please do tell Maharaj Sugriva, he shall be most elated.”

Lakshmana eyes the remaining steps and then surveys the distance they have come.

“This should not have been so difficult,” he mumbles, and Rama is inclined to agree. Once the two of them could have scaled the peak without breaking a sweat and run three miles afterwards. All that crying and bumbling about the forest must have made them soft.

Sugriva – dressed in old finery and worn purples – comes to meet them in a great, cavernous hall, reeking of cheap wine and misery. The crown on his head is scratched and askew.

“Show them what we found,” he tells one of the attendants, after Hanuman has recounted their tale of woe, and nods to them. “Please, have a seat, my lords.”

Rama sits and tries not to quiver with anticipation. This is it. He can feel it in the air – this is the key to rescuing Sita. Lakshmana stands by his side, half a step behind, and places a hand on his shoulder.

“We found them on the ground,” Sugriva says, tail flicking nervously. “By the time I was called, it was all over, but my Vanaras say a great golden chariot had flown across the skies, and from it came the weeping of a maiden most fair.”

He pauses, as a worn pouch is brought in, and a bearer places tall earthen glasses of drinks before them. Rama ignores the latter and reaches for the pouch.

“This has the ornaments you found?”

“Yes.”

Rama pulls apart the string holding it together and turns it over on his palm. A familiar necklace falls out, thick and glittering gold, followed by a lonely earring, a chain, and an anklet strung with little bells.

Rama stares.

“Prabhu?” Hanuman probes. “Are these the ones you seek?”

“Yes,” he breathes, fingers trembling, stroking the trinkets as if they could somehow pass on his affection to their beloved wearer. “These are hers.”

He looks up to an assortment of pitying glances. They can tell the woman is someone important, though neither Rama nor his brother had revealed in as many words that Sita was his wife. Did they think of him an idiot, a desperate father, or a maddened brother, or a lovelorn husband clutching to circumstantial proof of a dear one’s presence?

As he has done these past weeks, and all their lives, Lakshmana comes to the rescue. “I recognise the anklet.”

Sugriva hesitates. “My Lord Lakshmana?”

“The anklet,” he repeats. “I saw it every morn when I knelt for her blessings. I would not confuse them for any other.”

“And the others?”

“Uh,” Lakshmana blinks. “I would not dare be so importune with a lady as to stare at her person” – here Rama catches Sugriva stiffen minutely, as a guilty man does when caught, but Lakshmana has spoken without malice, and it passes as quickly as comes – “but her sister has an earring of similar fashion.”

“You will not look at her but you will look at her sister,” Sugriva notes, and it is interesting how he has latched onto that.

Lakshmana turns pink. “I married her sister?” he says, phrasing it like a question, as if all those days with Urmila were a fever dream. Rama can relate.

There is an awkward pause, and his brother plows on with all the daintiness of the bulls that once ploughed the land Sita rose from. “What was she like?”

“I told you – I have not seen her. My people told me this: that she was the fairest maiden they ever beheld, shining like the sun at high noon, that her voice was like starlight, and that she called for the scions of Raghu to aid her. Twice she called for one Raghurai, and once for a Saumitra.”

Rama cannot help the smile on his face. Of course, Sugriva will surely ask for some terrible recompense, but he is an outcast King, and exiled besides. He will not shirk from helping.

Beside him, he feels his brother relax. “She is no mere maid,” Lakshmana drawls. “She is the daughter of King Janaka, of distant Mithila, and the wife of Rama, prince of Ayodhya. She is Sita.”

Rama eyes the prodigious young twins seated on the floor of his court. They are young, barely a year older than Bharata’s oldest, and the sight of them makes something in Rama’s chest tremble. It has been a long time since he has been blessed with the sight of his wife, save in the terrible gilded statue that occupies her place beside him. Today, though, he sees her everywhere – in the curls of the twins' hair, in the way the older one smiles, and the younger wrinkles his nose. He sees her even in the way they hold their veena, which makes little sense, given that most people hold their instruments the same way.

They had introduced themselves as students of Rishi Valmiki, without any patronymic. That means nothing. They could simply be referring to the one who sent them here. But their mother must have been pregnant the same time as Sita, if age is any indication, and Sita had been having twins, and they did look awfully like her...

“Greetings, Your Majesty,” says Kusha, the older twin, his hair sticking up like the grass he was named for.

His voice is a blessing, for it derails Rama's terrible thoughts, and a curse, for it sounds so like Sita's that he may as well be in Mithila's gardens more than two decades ago, facing a demure princess who would later be his wife.

This is folly, he thinks, nodding at the young ones, permitting them audience.

Kusha continues, “Our Guru, the mighty sage Valmiki, was immensely inspired by your tale. Thus, he composed an epic, so all the world may remember the valour of Shri Rama.”

“It is still being written as we speak,” Luv says, picking up where his brother left, “but we have learnt in song all that was penned down before we departed. If His Majesty pleases, we would be honoured to present it to you.”

Rama stares, then hesitates. Seeking self-praise is the path to downfall, and the story is painful besides. All save Lakshmana look eager – even Urmila, though she must have been told everything, either by her husband or by Sita. He should praise their dedication and send them away with blessings and a few gifts. There is no point in unearthing such sorrow again, not when the story has no triumph, and Sita is not by his side.

Luv and Kusha look up at him, familiar doe eyes wide and beseeching. They are clutching each other’s hands, tense with anticipation. Rama opens his mouth to disappoint them, and instead says, “Very well, we shall hear you.”

He could have cursed himself them, but the answering smiles he receives wash away all self-recrimination.

The courtiers clasp their hands and lean forward, and the boys bob their heads in a semblance of a bow.

“Hear us,” Luv proclaims, “for we sing of Rama, son of Dasharatha, of blessed Ayodhya.”

It is a familiar tale, of the joys of his childhood and the days at the Gurukul, the love of his father and three gentle mothers. But Rama knows, the grief is about to come.

He allows a tremulous smile when they sing of Sita’s Swayamvara, for it was a joyous occasion. He holds his breath when Ravana of the tale carries Sita away, but pain lances through him only once. He trembles when they exalt Sita’s resolve in the face of misery, trapped in her golden prison, and shivers when they recount Lakshmana’s deadly injury.

But just as he thinks that perhaps, having lived through it once, he has numbed himself enough to be able to get through this without the waterworks, the song rolls to their victory, and to Sita’s freedom.

“And then Rama of the golden bow,” Kusha intones, “says ‘I have not yet sunk so low, to take back unquestioned a spouse that has lived a year in another’s house.’”

Half the court inhales, and Rama feels a telltale burn behind his eyes. What has he done? He wants to throw out the boys, forgetting his fondness for them, wants to scream and curse and run away. But he is an Emperor, and this is his court, and such behaviour is unbecoming. The lay turns stern and punishing, quickening to a chant.

Sita in the epic stands as straight and bold as she had all those years ago, before an army of thousands. Her hair is a riot of curls blacker than the length of Nisha’s dread night; her face is as gaunt as Dhumavati’s terrible mien. When she speaks her voice is Indra’s thunder across the sky, devoid of any love or affection. “If you shall question me, husband,” she says, “then may Agni judge me. Lakshmana, son, make me a pyre.”

Lakshmana of the tale weeps, as he does in real life, both then and now. And Ravana’s captive, all molten iron clothed in a delicate body, walks out of the pyre unblemished and unburnt, lit red and orange and yellow – a living flame. For she is Janaka’s daughter and Rama’s wife, but she is also the mightiest woman that Aryavart would ever know, and the most virtuous.

The song ends with exaltations of their victory, and the joy of reunion, but Rama, seated beside a lamentable golden mockery of a woman he once named his own, hears none of it. His tears come hot and unbidden, like summer tempests across the plain, and he weeps and weeps and weeps.

+1.

Luv kneels on the green grass, wide eyes following an eagle's flight across the sky. Rama strokes his head, soft and gentle and in love. It is a tranquil morning, and Rama wonders if he should postpone court to prolong this moment. Beside him, Kusha hums softly, sprawled over the grass.

“You look melancholic,” Rama observes.

Kusha shrugs. Rama has yet to learn all his son’s expressions, but this one he knows intimately. His son misses Sita. Now that she is not here, it is his duty to comfort him. The thought warms Rama's heart nigh as much as it chills.

“Your mother,” he begins, then hesitates, unsure.

Kusha sits up. “What of her?” he demands, cornered and defensive.

Rama holds up his hands, feels Luv’s glower boring into the side of his face. Sita is a sensitive topic, lying between them with the treachery of a coiled snake, defying the peaceful manner of its namesake.

“Would you like to hear about her?” he offers at last.

Kusha frowns. Luv crawls over to look at his face. “Hear what?”

“Whatever you wish to know.” Rama will likely come to regret this, for they undoubtedly will ask something difficult to answer, but as the furrows part from Kusha’s brows, Rama thinks they can push through. He opens his arms, gathering them close, and kisses the top of their heads. Like this, it is not hard to understand why Dasharatha thirsted so desperately for sons, even if he was fated to die grieving for them.

Kusha interrupts his musing with a question. “Do you love her?”

“Of course!” Rama is scandalised enough that Kusha has the decency to look a little guilty.

That, however, does not stop him from his next question. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you love her?”

Rama cannot believe they are having this conversation, even though he can see why they might be curious.

“How could I not?” he says at last, when it becomes evident that silence will not make Kusha forget his question. “Sita was the loveliest woman – kind, generous, and brave.”

Kusha does not appear the least bit happy and Rama startles when Luv pokes his arm.

“Nuh-uh,” his son says, “those are easy things to say. You have to pick one.”

Rama opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. This is some sort of a test. Luv and Kusha have been wary of him ever since they arrived at the palace, hiding away from him and mingling mostly with their cousins. He is suddenly aware that this answer could have tremendous repercussions. But what can he say to such a question? How can he define peerless Sita with one virtue?

The children look up at him expectantly, so Rama clears his throat and tries to think. Sita was charming, and her beauty helped, but that was not the foremost of merits.

“Sita was… good at being good,” Rama says slowly, barely able to keep himself from quailing at the twin raised eyebrows. “It is hard to explain, you understand? But her virtues were restrained. She was terribly forgiving, but not so forgiving that she would take upon her a sentence twice over when she knew herself to be innocent. She could be generous, but never to a fault. She was selfless, but not so selfless that she would deny herself easy pleasures.”

And was that not true? Sita was pure, and in his heart of hearts Rama knows that even if Ravana touched or defiled her, even if Agni burnt her, it would only be her body that fell, only her vessel of flesh that would be blamed; her soul was far too pure and mighty to be affected.

And this is Raghuvamsa’s folly – they will cling to promises and tradition even in death, will give up sons to satisfy wives, forgive villainous servants and shy from righteous rage, forsake wives for the words of ignorant men. Had Rama not loved Sita for the same reason he loved Lakshmana? That even follies were to be embraced, even elders could be spoken against, even golden deer could be chased for the sheer joy of it.

“She had no excesses,” Rama tells their children. “She would forgive me for testing her once, but not twice. And I do not think I could have loved her as much if she accepted it.”

Luv and Kusha are looking at him. Rama tries to blink away his tears, but they come and come and come.

“Sita…” His breath catches, but he plows on. “They tell us that it is important to be selfless, to never ask for more than you have – not unless you can earn it yourself. But Sita knew I loved giving her things – clothes, jewels, flowers, anything. And even in the forest she would ask for a flower or a fruit or a sapling, because she knew it brought me joy. She cared.” The tears are falling now, but Rama cannot stop. “She cared, and then I threw it away. I knew her, and I failed her.”

Rama puts his face in his hands and sobs. All this, and he is not even sure he has managed an answer. He starts at the feel of small hands, and of cheeks pressed against each shoulder.

“What is past is gone,” Kusha murmurs, close by his ear. “But we are here. Father, we will always be here.”

The gong for the court sounds, yet no one moves. Perhaps, Rama thinks wearily, he has not failed at everything.

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