by Daljit Nagra
when Rama added, ‘I want to assure you
I am not pained at all by your decision
which is for the best, I believe.
Only promise me you will keep my father
from sorrow at our parting.’
Rama had never see the queen so unknown to herself,
‘You must leave at once.’
Over the coming days, after Rama had left, the king
was troubled. Became inert. Except when he heard a footstep,
he would ask, ‘Has Rama come?’
No mollycoddling from Rama’s mother, Kausalya,
could rekindle the king. The thought of Rama and Sita,
and Lakshmana out there somewhere
on the violent forest rough beyond the bamboo clusters
dressed in tree-bark
was crushing for King Dasaratha.
He weakly craned his
neck, straining his eyes to fill them with returning Rama,
dreaming the fourteen years might have elapsed.
As reported by the master poets of Rama’s yarn
and interpreted in the world’s tongues
time and time again,
the God of Death, Yama,
reached into King Dasaratha’s breast
and felt it time to summon out his mortal soul
as diamond bells fell sweeping a soft song across heaven.
Chapter Seven: Fate
Rama and Lakshmana dispute over what they should do next.
Hotshot ninja warrior, evil’s nemesis,
sidekick to the chief demon slayer
and ideal brother: Lakshmana was ready
to bladder-bust his gutless crown-pilfering brother, Bharat!
Lakshmana was behaving like a solo orchestra:
he was percussioning his armour-clad arms
and twanging his bow-strings like crashing comet sounds,
then for finale he threw umpteen trees in such an uppity
they clacked ice in the distant rocks.
Eventually in the garden where the peacocks had been preened
and flower displays tiered,
with the fountains set at highest possible jet
for the coronation
was where Rama found Lakshmana.
Said Rama, ‘It seems you are wanting to show the world
what a wildcat warrior you have become.
Do not succumb to vanity violence, please.
Have we not learned violence is bred by passion:
passion that begets mental chaos:
chaos breeding worldly strife?’
‘We fought off demons yet from within
it seems we are now evicted by a demon!’
‘Our mother raises her head
and you would shed your skin of her?’
‘I’ll be the fate that seats the right man
right on the throne an old man will leave cursed.’
‘Dear Lakshmana, brother, our fate – it changes constant,
it is always needing overwriting.
Would you turn the ground
by making Ayodhya a smoking graveyard? By pitching
brother against brother? Dharma
is pure duty. What is life if life is without sacrifice?’
Lakshmana was fierce in riposte again, ‘What life
if our actions do not create boundaries?
Are we not born noble to set limits?’
‘A man’s character,
founded on fidelity and in debate with empathy,
shows if he is low grade or if he is truly high grade,
never the marble or straw under which he is born.’
Rama ran his fingers through Lakshmana’s long hair
but the latter remained brow-knitted, saying,
‘Why would you be a flame doused by a splash?’
‘One fine thought makes more light than bare fire.’
‘So in all our wandering with the great sage
have we not learned injustice flames the heavens
and the earth? Must we not make our own dharma
as the soul inherits and nurtures it from birth to birth?’
Slightly impatient, Rama said, ‘Raavana too despises dharma.
So much mastery we have acquired from our sage
that now comes our chief test
and you would lash outwards dashing hard-won experience?’
‘I would not a brass-neck usurper serve.’
‘My dear Lakshmana, I believe Bharat and our mother, Kaikey,
merit the throne.
Before we were even conceived
Bharat’s mother saved our father from death.
Has she not been meted in kind? I was rash
claiming the throne. It is not the river’s fault the bed is dry
no more is it the king’s fault I will not be king.’
Their rift in the garden scattered under the rising sun
till Lakshmana said, ‘I accept your course, Rama.
But my opinion keeps on its own route.’
‘Whilst I am away, would you lead
matters here by supporting our mothers?’
‘This bow is no ornament, this sword no decoration.
In your exile, every beast will zoom
its beady
eye
upon your new career. I must follow
into that crucible.’ Rama felt compelled to concede.
And what of Sita?
Rama had assumed she’d remain dwelling in silk.
Sita had been up early assisting her mother-in-law, Kausalya,
with morning prayers. Then there she was in the courtyard
stripped from fancy face paints and jewels
(save for the Choodamani in her hair)
and saying to Rama, ‘This bark cloth
is fitting for the rains.
It shall be my raiment of renouncement.’
As in every Ramayana ever
Sita throws herself into the forest. It is her darn fate!
And in every Ramayana, Rama must always be trying
to turn Sita from her kismet,
‘Crookedly go the serpents across streams seeking prey …
fever soups the air … unhinged birds connive
from black trees …’
Sita, always unimpressed,
whilst in Rama’s grasp, saying, ‘My Lord, I long
to view creatures only imagined … and flowers so fine
they swirl and rope towards heaven becoming finer than silk …
With you at my side water will be nectar, thistles silk.’
Dressed-down Sita set for the rocky ride.
Rama amorous for his warrior fellow.
Chapter Eight: Golden Slipper Nandigram Government
Bharat and Rama discuss who should be king.
Once on the borders of the forest
Rama looked at Ayodhya, pleading aloud,
‘O finest jewel among cities!
O gods, I have done as you please –
may you grant me the justice
that I end my penance in the forest and embrace
all my family again.’
Bharat missed his death-ferried father
but was bang on time for the burial
and for his appointment with kingly fate.
The world was his
and the world streamed
about his feet.
But what’s this? No lover of lip service is baddie Bharat?
The astrological gossip-mongers
had to ditch their plottings when the new king abandoned
Ayodhya!
He was all horse hooves and hot on the tracks of Rama.
Rama had entered the woods when he was caught
by Bharat who was with his flying flags and army formation.
Lakshmana was ready
for a right royal family-feud fisticuffs.
Rama pulled him back
then greeted Bharat, learning that their father died
a day after Rama had departed. Said Bharat,
‘O Rama, what has befallen us?
The mighty reign of our father
might be remembered only
for its sad end.
My mother’s kingdoms of the air
I have cast them all down before her
and blown away
her two baleful wishes.
I feel awful, Rama.
I told my mother that when she favoured one son
she lost all her sons.’
Bharat fell at Rama’s feet
and wept like a young elephant
newly captured. Rama calmly said,
‘Weep not, dear King.
You must return to honour our father’s wish.’
But Bharat’s riposte was filled with his heart,
‘Rama was born for the highest love, born to rule.’
Rama, now looking moved, said,
‘You never desired such majesty
but you must bear the import of the role.
You must rise up becoming king over men.
I will rule over beasts in the great forest.’
‘When a father has done wrong
the son must put him right.’ But Rama’s reply was,
‘Bharat, a man’s word is like a bowl of clear glass,
once broken – who can put back that bowl?
That water?
Let us live the lives assigned us by our father.
That becomes our right. Or what is a father’s word?
Should he be remembered by what the sons achieved
whilst bludgeoning his name with hot water?
Our twin brothers, so alike in their supporting natures,
will help us.
Satroogna with you in the palace
and Lakshmana with me in the forest.
Let us live the duty.’
‘Would you lose it all, Rama? How I grieve for you.
When you, when Sita, when Lakshmana return
after fourteen heat-perishing years
can you be bold as you are today?’
A herd of gaur, with their heads of the bull
and their rumps of a lion, were heard treading nearby.
Rama was undistracted,
‘My beautiful Bharat, like a stream never reverses its course
so our lives must accumulate till all the days
we have lived
surge, overwhelming, against our final
term.
I fear it is apt
this skin should weather and wrinkle, this hair
become blind to its boyhood. Our flesh is our daily psalm.
What can we do to Time when depletion reigns
upon unions by separation, as life by death?
As the ripe fruit falls about us
so it falls to us …
Each man’s final night, when it passes: sooner curfew
the world of light
than summon a miracle to summon the touch of yesterday.
O my precious Bharat,
grieve for yourself. Why grieve for aught else?
All we can taste in our brief slot
is each hour which remains immortal
if we flow along the right course, the kindred line.’
Bharat adding, ‘May we all acquire the look
and the wisdom of age befitting kingship …’
In their sad to-and-fro, many complex arguments
balanced on each side
amidst the gathered sages, elders and advisers.
The brothers contested rivalries over possession,
authority and borders. Each would end their point
with ‘ours’ or ‘yours’, never ‘mine’.
Each conferring on the other a rightful throne.
Or rebutting with, ‘So be it, if I have the authority
then I confer supreme power upon you.’
Throughout, Rama referred to Bharat’s mother
in the kindest terms and always as ‘mummy-jee’.
Lakshmana remained red-faced with rancour.
Even when their youngest brother, Satroogna,
with gold bracelets on his dark arms, brought Mantara
by her hair for punishment, Bharat forgave her,
appreciating instead her loyalty to Kaikey.
Then the brothers discussed the value of loyalty.
The gods watched the protracted public debate,
afraid that if Rama returned to the kingdom,
as was the wish of the peoples,
his authority would be weakened for reneging
the banishment as established by his father.
Sage Viswamithra heard all then intervened
that Bharat must rule for the full fourteen years.
Bharat was so impressed by Rama’s integrity, he said,
‘But not a day longer. How could I outlive my welcome?
If you, Rama, do not appear
when my time has passed
I shall immolate myself.’
The gathering gasped. Bharat said he would rule
from Nandigram, a village on the outskirts of Ayodhya.
‘I have before me these gold ornamented sandals.
Please touch them, brother.’
Rama placed a cool palm upon the sandals.
Said Bharat. ‘I shall raise these sandals
upon the throne.
They will signal to the world,
from their place at the helm, that they are symbols
of your power.
They will serve till your hands remove them
and place them on your feet
that day your return king.’
Brothers all hugged and parted brothers.
Lakshmana left praying,
‘Let no man by man be cast asunder.’
Book Third: Spick-Span Sylvan Exile
CHAPTER TWO: AT THE LORD’S SERVICE
CHAPTER MINUS TWO: LOLLIPOP OGRE
CHAPTER MINUS ONE.FIVE: UNTIL MAHANIRODHANIBBANA
CHAPTER ZERO.ONE: THE GOAT CANNIBAL KILLER!
CHAPTER ZERO.ZERO: DEAR DIARY
CHAPTER ONE: MEET THE TAD NUTS NEIGHBOUR
CHAPTER ONE & HALF: THE CRAZY CHUKAR
CHAPTER THREE: SEXING BIG BRO
CHAPTER FOUR: GOLDEN DEER, PLEASE!
CHAPTER FIVE: ONE SHOT: THIRTEEN!
CHAPTER SIX: HOW TO SIMPLY SWEEP A LADY OFF HER FEET
Chapter Two: At the Lord’s Service
Raavana is holding court when …
Lord of the Underworld
(and many worlds beside)
is sitting on his somewhat overly encrusted throne
alongside his famed yaaal, with its six strings
plucked most tastefully from his own nerves.
Raavana, with his songs for Shiva:
the god of strum and croon!
After morning’s briefings and meetings
the lord is bantering with ne’er-do-well hangers-on
and hardcore bad guys including assassins, ghazis, nabobs,
riff-raff doolallys, famed hunger strikers and equality-wallahs,
and amidst this miscellany dwell saintly raksassy
for the lord loves all who is loving his mandate of bliss.
To Vishnu well-wishers – this zone, what a stink:
in terms of music, say, the sounds are cacophonic,
in terms of fashion the ladies brag scrunch hair –
splatting the glare-eyes with mascara
and adorning torn low-neck rags.
In terms of teeth, the ladies varnish
their teeth black as sapphire or egg-plant purple,
who but holy-molies have stained-white dentures!
Worst of all for Vishnu well-wishers –
ample boozy brain-idle womankind
are snogging stubbly men or baldly kissing fellow ladies.
Not nectars flowing from jewelled vessels
but flowing instead liquors m
ade from fruits
jamming the head with no hangover. Drunkenness
is lasting days in non-stop laughs or sordid boomshakalaka!
Shonky conduct, indeed, in terms of Vishnu well-wishers.
Stooping amidst the veggie banquets, the ganja and liquor
are kings
whose kingdoms been won by the lord
and who the lord has condemned to servility.
They are bent-headed before him
with their hands upraised in prayer
and holding this position when on show
for fear any moment the lord might be thinking:
They is not enough servile
I will crunch them now with a look!
Specialist servants are full-time directed at the lord
so if he make a command
they can finger-click to fulfil his want.
Black dahlia petals, upon the lord, are falling
and Wind-God, Vayu, is routine returning
to puff away the curled petals.
Other divines at the service of the lord:
Dead-God, Yama, every hour gonging the time
and reporting how many mortals
in the past hour he has killed
(hooting only meets his hourly piece-rate,
no wonder he feels loved here!)
Sun-God, Surya, keeps all lamps and incense lit
whilst Moon-God, Chandra, is delighting the gardens.
Most gods are serving the lord in person whilst some