by Vanamali
Next we might wonder why he did not tell Sita of his decision before banishing her, and why he made Lakshmana do this painful task instead of doing it himself. This becomes clear if we put ourselves in Rama’s place on the night of the impending abandonment. Could any man, as much in love with his wife as Rama was, ever have been able to sustain the agony of seeing her weep when he made his dire pronouncement? Even Rama’s great determination would have broken down in the face of his beloved’s tears and he would have been forced to break his adamantine resolve of observing his kingly dharma. The same concern dissuaded him from taking her to the forest himself. How could he bear to desert her in those sylvan glades where they had sported so happily during their forest sojourn? How would he be able to resist his dear one’s tears as she pleaded with him not to abandon her? He had not been able to do so many years before, when she begged him to allow her to accompany him to the forest. At that time had he crept silently away at daybreak, perhaps he could have spared her this later agony, but he had relented and knew that even now he could not be sure of keeping his resolve in the face of her tears. Even his mighty heart would have broken and he would never have been able to forsake her, as was his duty. Thus we see that far from condemning him as a heartless wretch, we would do better to stand back in amazement that such a man can ever have existed. No wonder he was deified, for only a god could behave in such an exalted manner.
The incident of Shambuka is again a painful one to modern eyes. We will never understand it without understanding the strict caste system that was followed in those times. The ancient Vedic caste system provided for a peaceful coexistence of all the castes, thus ensuring a smoothly functioning society. Each caste had its own strict code of conduct. Any attempt to violate these codes was strictly suppressed and the culprit chastised immediately. The laws were based on mutual cooperation among all parts of the society rather than on unhealthy competition, as it is today. It was the king’s duty to see that this social machinery stayed well oiled, and sometimes he had to ruthlessly sacrifice an individual for the sake of the society. The decapitation of Shambuka was an instance of this. Rama had sacrificed his entire happiness for the sake of the people of Ayodhya. It is only natural that he was prepared to kill an individual who was transgressing the laws of the land, thus jeopardizing the smooth running of the society. It may seem ruthless to us but this incident is shown by Valmiki in order to depict a hero who was invincible in his resolve to uphold the king’s dharma at any cost.
Thus we see in Rama the portrait of a mighty superman who based his entire life on a strict adherence to the implacable law of dharma. It is a blind law and, like all the laws of nature, it knows no compassion and brooks no disobedience. An ignorant child is burned by fire, just as much as an adult who knows the danger. In all of nature there is no question of granting mercy on grounds of ignorance. Human beings, however, allow their greedy minds to overrule their heads. Rama was the one exception and paid a heavy penalty for his utter loyalty to a blind law.
His life is one of sheer pathos from beginning to end. He was forced to be the instrument of death of each of his loved ones, one by one. His father died because of the separation from his beloved son, Sita gave up her life when she was asked to undergo the test of fire a second time, and finally, at the end of his life, he was forced to banish his beloved brother, Lakshmana, in order to keep his word to the ascetic; Lakshmana left the city and walked into the Sarayu river, thus ending his life. This was the final straw and even Rama’s mighty heart could no longer tolerate the strain. Lost in deep thought, he murmured to himself, “Nothing will remain, nothing will remain.”
Taking leave of the citizens for whom he had sacrificed so much, he departed for his higher abode, followed by the faithful who could not bear to live without him. His was a life spent only for the sake of others—the people of Bharathavarsha, whom he had ruled and cared for as a father cares for his children. His only happy years had been the thirteen years spent in the forest with Sita and Lakshmana, before Sita was abducted by Ravana. He bore his trials with heroic fortitude and firmly abided by the high code of conduct he had set for himself, despite insuperable odds. What wonder that the Indian nation has upheld him as the glowing example of human perfection.
A reading of the Ramayana has the effect of cleansing us of our negative emotions and charging us with the moral fervor and grace of the great characters of the poem—Rama, Sita, Lakshmana, Bharata, Hanuman, and so on.
In this rendering of the immortal classic, the author has relied primarily on Valmiki’s narration, while also including stories from the vast oral tradition. Lord Vanamali (Krishna) has guided her and to him goes all credit. May the story of Sri Rama guide and inspire us to act with justice and honor at all times.
Meditate on the long-armed Sri Ramachandra
Who is cloud blue in color, has matted hair,
And is adorned with all accoutrements.
Who wears yellow clothes and is holding
The bow and arrow and is sitting in the lotus pose.
His lotus petal eyes are turned to the left,
And are gazing at the lotus face of Sita.
Hari Aum Tat Sat
Sri Ramachandraya Namaha!
BOOK ONE
Bala Kanda
Book of Boyhood
Shaswathaya Namaha!
CANTO I
Valmiki
Ramaya Ramabhadraya, Ramachandraya vedase,
Raghunathaya Nathaya Sitayapathaye Namaha!
Sita-Lakshmana, Bharatha-Shatrugna, Hanumat-sametha
Sri Ramachandra swamine Namaha!
I bow to Rama, scion of the race of Raghu,
husband of Sita.
To Ramachandra I bow,
along with Sita, Lakshmana, Bharata, Shatrugna, and
Hanuman.
Before we go into the story of the Ramayana, let us pay attention to the story of the sage Valmiki, who was the author. It is said that he was born of Brahmin parents who abandoned him in the forest at birth. He was found and brought up by a hunter, and thus became a hunter and a robber by profession. He was a wild and savage man known as Ratnakar and knew nothing of culture or civilization. All those who went into the forest went in fear of their lives, for he was known to be ruthless. He lived with his wife and brood of children in the depths of the forest and never went near a town. One day he saw a man approaching him. With the ferocity of a wild animal, he pounced on him to kill him and rob him of his money. He was surprised to find that the man did not show any signs of fear but stood absolutely still. Ratnakar had seen only two types of animals before in his life—those who turned tail and ran away as soon as they saw him and those who bared their teeth and pounced on him. It was the first time he had seen a creature that looked at him fearlessly, with eyes filled with compassion. Love and compassion were emotions to which he was an utter stranger, and for a minute he faltered in his tracks, his upraised arm holding a brutal knife freezing in the air.
Slowly he brought down his hand that was holding the knife and asked the man, “Who are you, who shows no sign of fear? Everyone I know runs away upon catching sight of me, and I catch them all easily. Why don’t you run?”
“I am Narada, the heavenly sage, and I do not run because I am not afraid of you.”
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” asked the hunter. “Don’t you know that I can kill you?”
“Then why didn’t you kill me?” asked the sage curiously.
“Because I saw something in your eyes that is bothering me.”
“What did you see?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before in any other eyes, but it’s pleasing.”
“I’ll tell you,” said the sage. “What you saw was love and compassion.”
“Why should you feel love for me?” asked the savage, surprised for he had never seen that look before, not even in the eyes of his wife.
“Because I love everybody and everything.”
“Why should you
do that?” asked Ratnakar.
“Because everything and everyone is the form of that Supreme Being whom I worship. Now let me ask you something,” said the sage. “Don’t you know that by killing all these creatures and people, you are incurring great sin?”
“Yes, I suppose I know it,” said the hunter doubtfully.
“Then why do you do it?” asked the sage.
“Because I have to provide for my family,” said the hunter.
“Will they share at least part of the sin that will accrue to you by these acts?” questioned the sage.
“I am sure they will,” said the hunter.
“Why don’t you go and ask them,” said Narada, “and I’ll wait for you till you return.”
The hunter ran back and asked his wife and children if they would take their share of his sins, as they were taking more than their fair share of ill-gotten goods. They were quite surprised at this question and asked him what he meant by this. He explained to them that since he was committing so many crimes for their sake, it was only fair that they should also share his sins.
They were quite horrified by this request. The woman said that it was the duty of a husband to look after his wife, and the children said that it was the duty of a father to look after his progeny. As for his sins, naturally they were the outcome of his own acts and he would have to bear the consequences himself. The hunter did not wait to hear any more. He ran back to the sage, who was quite sure of his return and was waiting with a smile on his lips. “Well, what did they say?” he asked. “Were they not eager to share your sins, as they were to share your spoils?”
Ratnakar hung his head and admitted that no one was willing to share his burdens. Then Narada gave him a discourse on the law of karma and told him that he alone would have to bear the consequences of his actions. To commit sinful acts for the sake of another was quite foolish.
The hunter looked lost and unhappy and asked the sage, “Now what should I do?”
“Meditate on the Supreme Being,” the sage advised. “Only then will you be able to attain salvation. He alone is your relation. He alone your friend. I will give you a mantra that will enable you to do tapas.”
“I am your servant, please guide me,” said the hunter, and knelt before the celestial sage.
Narada whispered the glorious mantra “Rama” into his right ear, but the poor savage was so untutored that he was unable to repeat it. Then Narada asked, “Can you repeat the word mara?”
“Of course I can,” he said, since the word “mara” means “tree,” and that was a thing he was always cutting down.
So Narada blessed him and told him how to sit in a meditative pose and repeat the word constantly. The word “mara” when repeated quickly becomes “Rama,” and thus without knowing, the hunter started repeating the word “Rama” instead of “mara.” Due to his past samskaras, he went into deep meditation for many years, until he was covered by a hillock of mud brought by ants.
Many years later, Narada returned and found the anthill in the exact place where he had left the hunter. He broke open the valmeekam (anthill) and awakened the person seated within it.
“Arise O sage!” he said. “Do you remember who you are?”
“Yes, your holiness,” he answered, “I am the poor hunter upon whom you took pity and advised to repeat the glorious mantra, ‘Rama.’”
“Now you are no longer a hunter but a sage and from now on you will be known as Valmiki since you have emerged from this anthill.”
“Why have you awakened me, O divine sage?” asked Valmiki. “I would prefer to meditate for another few years.”
“Your time for meditation is over. Now is the time for action. You have many more things to achieve in your life. Go to the banks of the river Tamasa where it meets the Ganga, and there make your hermitage. Very soon Sita, beloved wife of Rama, will be coming there. She is with child and has been abandoned by her husband. It is your duty to look after her and the babies until they are old enough to return to their father.”
“O holy one,” Valmiki said, “This world is a wicked place filled with ignoble people. If I could find at least one human being who possesses the qualities of a noble soul, I would be willing to return to the world. Otherwise it would be better for me to remain within the security of my anthill. Tell me, do you know of such a one?”
Narada asked him to enumerate these qualities. Valmiki replied, “Integrity, bravery, righteousness, gratitude, truthfulness, dedication to principles, concern for all living beings, learning, skill, beauty, courage, ability to keep anger under control, lack of jealousy, and undaunted heroism. O sage, pray tell me, am I expecting too much? Can any one person have all these qualities?”
Narada was pleased to answer this question and said, “Indeed I do know of such a person. He is born in the line of Ikshvaku and his name is Rama.”
Narada then proceeded to acquaint Valmiki briefly with the story of Rama, who possessed all the qualities of a perfect man. He concluded the story by saying, “This Rama now resides in the city of Ayodhya and rules the kingdom with righteousness. He was born to establish dharma on Earth. Very soon, as I said, his wife Sita will be coming here and it is your duty to take care of her.” Thus saying, the sage departed, strumming his lute.
After he had left, Valmiki went to the land near the Tamasa river and made his hermitage. Soon he had many disciples. One winter morning he went to the banks of the river for his bath. On the way he saw two cranes mating. As the sage gazed in joy at their spontaneous love for each other, a fowler aimed a fatal arrow at the male bird and shot him, contrary to all rules of dharma. Pierced by that cruel arrow, in the midst of the act of love, the bird fell to the ground with a heartrending cry. Wrenched from her lover, the female bird screamed piteously, beating her breast with her wings. She fluttered about, terrified and bewildered. Her piteous cries brought a gush of compassion into the heart of the sage and he cursed the fowler. As soon as the curse left his lips, he felt great remorse; he was horrified that his compassion for the bird had made him break his vow of nonviolence by cursing the fowler, who was, after all, only a helpless victim of his own karma, as Valmiki had been a long time before. He felt very unhappy about the whole episode until he realized that his curse had flowed from his lips in a spontaneous verse of four lines with eight syllables each. He was struck by the beauty of the verse and told his disciple Bharadvaja to memorize it. The sage then continued with his interrupted ablutions and returned to his ashrama. Just then two young brahmacharis from the neighboring ashrama ran to him and told him that a beautiful woman had been abandoned near the river and appeared to be contemplating jumping into it. Valmiki ran to the woman and knew that it was Sita, the wife of Rama, as foretold by Narada. He escorted her home and told the wives of the sages to look after her, for she was carrying the heir to the throne of the Ishvakus.
Later, when he sat for meditation, he was filled with remorse over the episode of the two cranes and his involuntary curse of the hunter. Brahma, the Creator, appeared to him and told him not to brood over this strange event because from this incident would arise the inspiration to narrate the story of Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana.
Brahma spoke thus: “You will be inspired, O rishi, to compose a most memorable poem on the exploits of Sri Rama. The whole life of Rama will be revealed to you. Everything that you say in your poem will be based on facts that you have witnessed. You will be able to see each and every one of the glorious episodes in the life of Sri Rama. You will achieve great fame as the first of all poets. The story of Rama will endure as long as these mountains and rivers stay on the face of this Earth. Your fame will resound in the realms of heaven above and the kingdoms of the Earth below.”
Having blessed Valmiki thus, Brahma departed. Valmiki then sat down and meditated on the Lord and from his mouth gushed forth the immortal poem called Ramayana—the way of Rama.
This is how the Ramayana came to be written—from the depths of Valmiki’s sorrow at the fate of two birds ver
y much in love and cruelly parted. It does not take much imagination to see the parallel between this story and the fate of the two lovers, Rama and Sita, who were parted time and time again, despite their intense love for each other.
The poem took twelve long years to complete, and Sita’s twin sons grew along with it.
Having composed this remarkable poem of twenty-four thousand verses on the life of Sri Rama and Sita, the seer looked around for a person with a prodigious memory who could memorize the entire story. Just then the twelve-year-old twin sons of Sri Rama—Lava and Kusha—who were being raised by Valmiki in his hermitage, appeared before him clad in hermit’s garb. Knowing them to be endowed with great intelligence and mastery of music, the sage proceeded to teach them the entire poem, which they mastered with ease. At an august assembly of sages, the twins sang the entire poem exquisitely, in one voice. The sages were charmed and gave them many boons.
It was at this time that news was brought to the ashrama that the king was going to hold the ashvamedha yajna, which would last for one whole year at the forest of Naimisharanya. When he heard this, Valmiki told Lava and Kusha to go to the yaga and recite the entire Ramayana in front of Rama and the assembled sages. The children did as they were told. As the melodious voices of the children rose in unison with faultless rhythm and perfect harmony, tears poured down the cheeks of Sri Rama and the entire court became totally absorbed in the narrative. This is the story of the Ramayana that they sang.
Rama asks:
“Holy one, please describe the Lord.”
Vasishta replies:
“That intelligence in which the universe of names and forms ceases is the Lord.
He is the emptiness in which the universe appears to exist.