by Vanamali
In an agitated voice she asked, “O son of Sumitra! Tell me, is all well with your brother? I have not seen him this morning. Where was he during the night? I fear something inauspicious has happened.”
In a choking voice Lakshmana said, “The king, your husband, is quite well. He gave orders that you should have an undisturbed night, since you had to undertake a strenuous journey in the morning. He told me to wish you well.” More than that he could not say.
By afternoon they reached the banks of the river Gomati and camped at one of the ashramas. Next morning they went forward in the chariot and reached the banks of the holy river. Here Lakshmana could contain himself no longer and broke down and wept like a child.
“Why are you crying, Lakshmana?” asked Sita. “You are making me depressed. I have been longing to come here, and now that you have brought me here, you distress me with your weeping. Is it because you have been parted from Rama for two days? Then what about me? How much should I cry? I cannot endure life without him. Come, let us hurry and go to the ashramas and distribute our gifts and then we will return. I, too, am beginning to feel uneasy. I fear something is wrong with my lord.”
Wiping his eyes Lakshmana brought a boat and escorted Sita to the opposite bank. He then fell at her feet and sobbed his heart out. Sita was deeply disturbed at the sight. “Tell me, Lakshmana, what is the matter? Has something happened to my dear husband? Why didn’t he come? I was hoping he would come with me.” Till the end her one thought was for him, who was her all. She never dreamed that the misfortune the omens foretold was coming to her.
Eyes full of tears, Lakshmana looked pleadingly at her. “My noble queen! Forgive me for what I have to do. Rama has entrusted me with the ignoble task of abandoning you here. Better for me to have died rather than carry out this command of his.” So saying, he prostrated himself before her.
Sita bent down and gently lifted him up, “What is it, Lakshmana? What is the reason for my husband’s sudden decision?” She could not believe that she was hearing rightly.
“Rumors are afloat everywhere, my lady, about you and about him. I cannot tell you all. He forbade me to tell you anything. All I can say is that his heart broke when he heard the vile accusations against you. But he is the king. He is dharma incarnate. The king’s duty is always to safeguard the interests of his subjects. Forgive him and forgive me also, O gracious queen of Ayodhya! I can say no more. Night is fast approaching. How can I bear to leave you here, all alone, with none to protect you? Rama never left you, even for a minute, without asking me to guard you. The only time we both left you was when the wicked king of the demons came and abducted you. Now who will look after you? May your mother, the earth, give you all protection. May the sky be your canopy. May this holy river look after all your wants. My lady, remember, you are carrying the seed of the Ikshvaku line in your womb. It is your duty to safeguard it at all times.” Lakshmana was frightened that in her agony, Sita might do some harm to herself.
Sita looked like a frightened deer, listening to Lakshmana’s words, and then said in a bewildered tone, “What sin have I committed, that for no reason of mine, my husband should repudiate me twice? Surely I was born for sorrow. Grief alone seems to be my constant companion. Patiently I have to look at his forlorn face. Leaving everything behind, I followed my husband to the forest inhabited by wild animals and rakshasas. No woman would have done as I did, yet now he has abandoned me. Was it my fault that the rakshasa abducted me? When the sages ask me what crime I have committed that my husband should abandon me, what should I tell them, O Lakshmana? What wrong have done? I cannot even take the easy path of ending my life in this holy river, for I will be guilty of breaking the noble line of the Ikshvaku race. Lakshmana, do not grieve. Leave me here and return to the king, my husband, and tell him that his wife wishes him well. A husband is a woman’s god, and I have always considered him as such. May he find eternal fame by following the dharma of a king. More important than my suffering is the fact that his honor should remain intact. Never will Sita be guilty of bringing dishonor to Rama. Farewell, Lakshmana. You have been more than a brother to me. I have deep regard for you. I hold nothing against you. The shades of night are falling and you must go fast, lest my lord become agitated.”
Lakshmana fell at her feet once more, unable to speak a word. Slowly he backed his way to the boat and was ferried to the other shore. He turned back to look at her once again and saw her lying on the ground, on the bosom of her mother, weeping as if her heart would break.
Sita looked up and saw the chariot receding in the distance. The plaintive cry of the peacock calling to its mate jarred her delicate nerves. The Ganga flowed smoothly on, as if to comfort her in her agony. She gazed, mesmerized, at the glistening waters and wondered what it would feel like to have them close over her head, like a balm, but then she felt the life within her move and knew that she could not take the easy escape.
Vasishta says:
“The enlightened man lives a non-volitional life. He engages himself spontaneously in appropriate action. He lives for the sake of others, with his heart full of compassion for all beings.”
Hari Aum Tat Sat
Vrathadharaya Namaha!
CANTO II
Dharma Triumphs
Koojantham Ramaramethi!
Madhuram madhuraksharam!
Aruhya kavithashakam!
Vande Valmiki kokilam!
Hail to the nightingale, Valmiki,
Who sits on the poet’s tree and Coos the honey-sweet words, Rama, Rama, Rama!
Lakshmana returned sorrowfully to Ayodhya, his mind filled with pictures of Sita. Where was she now? Had she gone to Valmiki’s ashrama? He did not know and was tortured by doubts. When he entered his brother’s chamber, he found Rama sitting bereft, his head in his hands.
Lakshmana bowed low before him and said, “O king! I have carried out your orders and left your faultless wife on the other side of the Ganga. I hope you are satisfied. Why do you look so unhappy? Having made your decision, you should be happy that it has been successfully accomplished. You know full well that no relationship is permanent. What grows must decay, what flowers must fade, and what rises, falls. Meeting and parting are both part of the game of life. We are born only to die. So why grieve?” Still Rama said not a word.
The country rejoiced that the blot on the fair name of its ruler had been removed, but for Rama there was no joy in life anymore. Both he and Sita suffered the agonizing pangs of separation to the ends of their lives, but the country flourished and the exemplary rule of Rama—Ramarajya—is remembered to this day as one in which the very laws of nature bowed to the will of this saintly man who sacrificed his own happiness for the sake of dharma. So the land prospered, the rains fell on time, the Earth yielded plenty, and the gods rejoiced. Contrary to the custom of the age, Rama never remarried, though the pressure on him to do so was great. He led his lonely ascetic’s life and never looked at another woman.
Every day Rama sat in his council hall and asked Lakshmana to go outside the gates and see if there was anyone with a grievance. If there was, the person was brought inside and his wrongs redressed.
One day a dog was waiting outside. Rama called him in and asked him what he wanted. The dog replied that he had been hit on the head by a Brahmin. Rama asked the council to decide some punishment but the court said that a Brahmin could never be punished, so Rama asked the dog to decide on some way to redress his wrongs. The dog insisted that the Brahmin be given an honorable position as the spiritual head of a certain monastery.
When questioned about this strange punishment, the dog replied, “Your majesty, in my previous birth I held that particular position and though I was honest and sincere, the post is so full of pitfalls that when I died, I was forced to take this birth as a dog. Can you imagine the plight of that avaricious man, who has an uncontrollable temper as well?”
In the meantime, far away on the banks of the Tamasa where Lakshmana had abandoned her, Sita sat alone
and helpless with all the little presents she had brought for the forest dwellers scattered round her. She did not know what she should do. Just then some of the young brahmacharis from Valmiki’s ashrama saw her pitiable plight and ran to tell the sage. Remembering his talk with Narada, Valmiki was immediately able to gauge the situation. He returned with the boys and respectfully requested Sita to accompany him to his hermitage.
“Fear not, O noble wife of Rama! Daughter of Janaka, I know that you are absolutely pure. Come with me to my ashrama, and the wives of the other ascetics will care for you in your time of labor.”
Sita followed him gratefully and lived a life of great austerity and tapas till the time came for the birth of her child.
She gave birth to twins. When the news was brought to the sage, he hurried to the labor room. His heart filled with joy when he saw the radiant babies, sons of Rama, looking like twin gods. He picked a handful of kusha grass, which is used in all rituals. With the tips of the grass he stroked the first child and said, ‘‘He will be known as Kusha.” With the ends, he stroked the second baby and said, “He will be known as Lava.” He then performed all the appropriate rites connected with the birth of a baby, and blessed them with all happiness and prosperity.
It was at this time that he began his immortal composition known as the Ramayana. As soon as the children could learn to talk, he started to teach them to recite the poem. By the time they were twelve years old, he had finished the poem and they could sing it with ease to the accompaniment of the tanpura and a small mridanga.
In Ayodhya, at about the time the babies were born, an old Brahmin arrived at the palace gate carrying the corpse of his son in his arms. He was hysterical with grief and wailed, “What crime have I committed in a previous life to be deprived of my only son in my old age? If innocent children die in a country, it is the king who is guilty. O Rama, if you do not give my child back, my wife and I will end our lives here in front of your gate, and you will be guilty of having caused the death of Brahmins. What safety is there for children in your kingdom if they can be snatched away by death before they attain maturity? Crimes flourish and chaos prevails when a king is negligent in his duty.”
Rama was stunned at this accusation from a new quarter. He summoned all his advisers and asked them to find out the reason for such a happening in the country. Where had he failed?
The divine sage Narada offered his advice. “Listen, O king, to the reason for the child’s untimely death. Each age has its own laws and rules; by following them the whole land will prosper, but by failing them, the whole cosmic order will be disrupted. In the golden age of Satya Yuga, only Brahmins were allowed to practice austerities. In the next age of Treta, the Kshatriyas were also allowed to practice tapas. It was in this age that the next two castes were created. The Vaishyas practiced trade, and the Shudras served the other three castes. In the Dwapara Yuga, adharma increased and Vaishyas were also allowed to practice tapas, but the Shudras were still forbidden to do so. It is only in the age of Kali that Shudras will be allowed to practice tapas. This is still the age of Treta, and I fear that some Shudra is practicing tapas somewhere in your kingdom. Unless he is stopped, calamities will continue to befall your country. It is your duty as king to go and stop him from going against the dharma of his caste. It is only by following one’s svadharma, or the duties of one’s own caste, that one can achieve salvation. One’s own duty, though apparently inferior, is actually superior to the duty of another, however well practiced. It will bring nothing but infamy to oneself and calamity to the country. No one person’s duty is inferior or superior to another’s. The duty of the king and the duty of the subject are quite different, but each has to follow his own svadharma and that is the law of the cosmos. That is the law of nature, by following which a person will prosper. Tapas, in itself, is a noble thing but when a Shudra practices it in this age, it will bring only ruin on him and his country.”
Rama accepted the advice of the sage and asked the Brahmin to embalm his child till he returned. He recalled the Pushpaka chariot he had sent back to Kailasa after his return from Lanka and toured the length and breadth of the country to discover the miscreant. At last in the southern region he saw a man hanging head downward from a tree, practicing rigorous tapas. Rama approached and asked him who he was and what he was doing. The ascetic replied that he was a Shudra called Shambuka who was practicing penance.
Without a word Rama unsheathed his sword and cut off his head. For one who had abandoned his dear wife for the sake of his country, the killing of a Shudra who had gone against the rules of his order was nothing. Rama begged the gods to grant the life of the Brahmin’s son, and by the time he returned to the capital, the boy was restored to life and the country rejoiced. To Rama the only thing that mattered was his duty to his country and his subjects. For the greater good, the lesser had to be sacrificed.
Twelve years later Rama decided to hold the horse sacrifice—the ashvamedha yajna. He called Lakshmana and asked him to summon all the sages. With folded palms he addressed the sages and informed them of his decision. The sages were delighted but told him that it would not be proper to conduct a yajna without his consort by his side. They urged him to marry again. Rama was adamant in his refusal. The cruel world had parted him from his beloved wife, and he was determined never to take another. Eventually he agreed to make a golden figure of Sita and keep it beside him while conducting the rituals.
All details for the yearlong sacrifice commenced. The place chosen was the Naimisha forest. A pure black horse, marked with all auspicious signs and richly decorated with gold and silver trappings, was released by Rama. The horse was allowed to roam all over the country, followed by Lakshmana and the army. lf anyone caught and tied the horse, the army would come and fight the person who had the temerity to challenge the king’s horse. If the horse returned unchallenged, the king could declare himself emperor.
The forest of Naimisha was converted into a veritable paradise, with pavilions and music halls, gardens, and yajnashalas. All the kings of the realm were invited and came to pay homage to Rama and accept him as their sovereign. Not only were kings invited but also the hermits and sages who lived in the forests. Invitations were also sent to the vanaras at Kishkinda, who came with their leader Sugriva, and to the rakshasas at Lanka, who came with Vibhishana. Food, clothing, jewelry, gems, gold, and silver were distributed lavishly. There was nobody who went away empty-handed.
Sage Valmiki came with Lava and Kusha. He told them to go and sing twenty cantos of the beautiful poem called the Ramayana before the huts of the sages who had been invited and also before the king. He also told them never to accept any remuneration for their services. If they were asked about their lineage, they were to say they were the disciples of the sage Valmiki.
The children did as they were told and sang twenty cantos in a melodious voice before the royal audience. People were spellbound at the sight of these two hermit boys who sang so sweetly. They also remarked on their uncanny resemblance to Rama. He had looked exactly like them so many years ago when he went to the forest wearing bark, with hair in matted locks. Rama was enchanted with the boys and told Lakshmana to give them twenty thousand gold coins and expensive clothes, but the boys refused as they had been instructed by their guru, saying that hermit boys who lived on fruits and roots had no necessity for such things.
Rama was astonished and asked them, “Who composed this poem and how many cantos are there in it?”
The boys replied, “The venerable sage Valmiki is the composer of this wonderful poem that recounts the doings of your majesty. It has twenty-four thousand verses and six kandas. The seventh, or the ‘Uttara Kanda,’ is now in process. With your leave we will recite the whole poem in its entirety to you, between the functions of the horse sacrifice.”
“So be it,” said the king.
For many days Rama and his brothers, as well as the gathered sages, kings, and monkeys heard the whole story of Rama. All were enthralled by the rec
ital. By the end of it, Rama realized that these boys were his own sons, the children of Sita. All the emotions he had contained for so many years now surged forward and his heart was choked with love for his exquisite wife, whom he had abandoned so cruelly twelve years ago. He could no longer suppress his feelings. The day that he banished her, he had enshrined her in his heart and thrown away the key. But these young boys who looked like him and smiled like her had broken open the door of his heart and loosed the floodgates of emotion, which threatened to overwhelm him with their intensity. Their smiles brought to his mind only too vividly Sita’s charming face. The desire to see her again was too strong to be subdued. Surely the fates would not deny him this final bid for happiness. He sent messengers to the hut of the sage with this request.
“Go immediately to the sage Valmiki and request him to bring the mother of these boys to me, for I feel very sure that she is none other than my wife, Sita. If he thinks that she is indeed blameless and that her character is without blemish, ask him to let her come and prove her innocence tomorrow, before this august assembly. Tomorrow at dawn, the princess of Videha is welcome to come and display her virtue.”
The next day everybody from all over the realm as well as the guests who had been invited for the sacrifice assembled in the Naimisha forest to watch the final scene in the drama of the lives of their king and queen. Into that spellbound crowd of expectant citizens, Valmiki arrived with Sita. Her head was bent to the ground, her palms were folded together in devotion, her eyes were filled with tears, and her heart with Rama. Seeing her dressed in the clothes of an anchorite looking so divinely beautiful, yet so sad, the fickle crowd set up a spontaneous cheer of welcome. They who had been so eager to send her away now appeared equally eager to welcome her return.