by Vanamali
Valmiki led her to Rama and said, “Son of Dasaratha, here is your wife, the ever-chaste Sita. Fire itself cools at her approach, for she is purer than Agni. Twelve years ago you abandoned her in front of my ashrama through fear of public censure. But I tell you truly, she is as chaste as Anasuya, wife of Atri. If Sita is tainted, then let my austerities be in vain. Though you loved her and knew her to be innocent, you repudiated her to satisfy your subjects. Now, at your insistence, she is here to prove her innocence for the second time.”
“So be it,” said Rama. “With the gods as witness, Sita proved her innocence once before in Lanka and I accepted her, but still the people whispered and I was forced to send her away, to uphold my dharma as king. I hereby acknowledge Lava and Kusha as my own sons and will accept Sita, too, as my wife, if she proves her innocence once more in front of the people of Ayodhya, as she did long ago before the vanaras and rakshasas at Lanka.”
As he said this Rama allowed himself the pleasure of gazing at his lovely wife once again. Bereft of jewels and adornment, dressed in bark as befitting an anchorite, with matted hair in a knot on top of her head, stood his queen—queen of Ayodhya and queen of his heart. His heart smote him as he looked at her. Involuntarily he stretched his hands toward her. Without thinking, she put her delicate, pink tipped palms into his. Despite her lack of adornment, she was still incredibly lovely and he could not tear his eyes away from her. Sita gazed back at him and as their hands and eyes locked in a mutual embrace, they felt as if they were drowning in the ocean of love that was mirrored in their eyes. They held infinity in their hands and eternity in their eyes. A ring of interested spectators had formed round them, but Sita and Rama stood alone within the circle, lost in each other as if they could not bear to sunder their gaze. For twelve long years they had been starved of this pleasure. Time stopped and they beheld heaven in their eyes. Their lives passed like a dream in front of their interlocked gaze, and still they could not bear to look elsewhere.
At last Sita broke the silence and whispered, “My lord, do I have your permission to make a public avowal of my purity?”
Rama nodded. Wearing the ochre robe of an ascetic, yet looking beautiful as a bride, Sita, daughter of the Earth, stepped into the center of the circle and with folded palms bowed before her Mother Earth, saying, “O Madhavi! Goddess of the Earth, beloved mother! If you know that I have never loved any man but Rama and never thought of any man other than my husband, even for a moment, then please open wide your arms and accept your daughter, for I can no longer bear to live in this vale of tears. Grief alone has been my lot in life, and now I long for the comfort of your arms. O mother! Take me to your bosom, as you brought me once out of your womb to the field of my father, Janaka.”
Hardly had she finished speaking when the Earth split open with a shudder, and out of the chasm there arose a beautiful flower-throne on which was seated the goddess of the Earth in all her bounty, covered with flowers and holding sheaves of the nine types of grain.
She opened her arms and Sita ran into them and was seated beside her on the throne of flowers. Before the astonished gaze of the spellbound audience, the Earth opened once more, and the throne carrying Sita and her mother slowly descended into the bowels of the Earth as the gods rained flowers from above. As the gap closed over their heads, the Earth shuddered, the wind moaned, and the crowd came out of their mesmerized state with a great sigh.
As Sita disappeared from sight, Rama awoke from the grip of terror that was holding him and started to weep uncontrollably. He ran to the spot where she had disappeared and piteously called to her.
Holding a staff picked from the sacrificial ground, he leaned on it, too weak to stand alone, and bending his head over he cried aloud, “O Janaki! O Vaidehi! O Sita, my beloved wife! Why have you deserted me, just when I thought I could have you back? Once you were taken away by the wicked Ravana but I brought you back, and then I was forced to send you away again. At that time I was able to bear the parting only because I knew you were alive and being looked after somewhere, but now I cannot bear to live when I know I cannot see you any more. I fear I am being punished for my cruel act in having banished you.”
Then, in anger, he smote the Earth with the staff and said, “O goddess of the Earth, return my beloved to me at once. I have suffered enough. I cannot live without her. Or else, open your arms once again and accept me also. I would rather live with her in the netherworld than here as a king. Remember I am your son-in-law and have pity on me. You know my valor. If you refuse my reasonable request, I will destroy you, burn your forests and crush your mountains, and reduce everything to liquid.”
All the worlds trembled with fear at the agony in Rama’s voice that had changed to anger. No one dared approach him. At last Brahma, the Creator, came to him and said, “Rama! Remember who you are. Let me remind you of your divinity. Immaculate Sita will be reunited with you in heaven, for she is none other than your consort, Lakshmi. Do not grieve but take delight in your children and listen to the rest of the tale of your life, which they will recite at dawn tomorrow. It is an exquisitely beautiful poem of a life that was ruled by dharma alone. You should be the first to hear it, for it is about you. O Rama! You are undoubtedly the foremost of all rishis.” With these words, Brahma vanished.
With his two sons in tow, Rama went to the hut of the sage Valmiki and spent the night there, grieving for Sita. The whole night he kept murmuring, “Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me? Don’t you know that I cannot live without you? I know you must have felt the same when I deserted you, and that is why I have to suffer the pangs of separation now. At least then I had the satisfaction of knowing you were alive and I could see you anytime I wished, but now you have left me to go to the bosom of your mother and my life is a barren desert. O Sita! O Sita! Will you not return to me?”
The boys, too, were overcome with sorrow at the loss of their mother, and Valmiki had the unhappy task of comforting all three. It is only to be expected that a poem that began with the bereavement of the female bird should end with the bereavement of the human couple. At that time, when he had watched the male bird being shot down by a cruel arrow, Valmiki felt as if he had been pierced by the same fatal arrow. How much more did he feel it now, when he saw the tortured king bemoaning his loss over and over again, throughout the long and lonely hours of the endless night?
The next day, in front of the assembled crowd Rama asked the children to chant the last portion of the epic. He then distributed wealth to all those assembled—the kings, Brahmins, citizens, tree dwellers, cave dwellers, and rakshasas. The yaga was over, the people dispersed, and the jungle once more crept over the space that had been cleared for the function.
Rama returned to Ayodhya and spent the rest of his life as a lonely ascetic. Without Sita life had no meaning for him. He never married again but kept the golden effigy of his lovely wife beside him and performed ten thousand ashvamedha yajnas in order to please his guru and the people. His rule was noted for its exemplary nature. There were no diseases among the people and no one died prematurely, the kingdom prospered and thrived, and the citizens rejoiced. Rama and Sita had paid for this glory with their unceasing tears. They suffered so that the rest of the country could rejoice, blossom, and flourish. Never once did the citizens think that the price of their prosperity was the sacrifice of their queen, that their land was watered with her tears, their happiness bought with her sorrow. She was the sacrificial offering tied to the stake of their malice, banished to the forest by their poisonous tongues, and eventually swallowed in the chasm of their doubt. They rejoiced and sported with their wives while their king returned to his lonely chamber every night, with only his memories for company.
Rama carried on his duties for the rest of his life with his usual charm and adherence to dharma and showed a pleasant and happy face to all. Lakshmana alone knew this was just a facade, that inside he was burning with regret at what he had done to his queen and longing for the day when he could join her
in their celestial abode.
Thus many years flew by and Kausalya, Sumitra, and Kaikeyi passed away. At last one day Kala, the time spirit, came to the palace of Ayodhya in the guise of an old Brahmin. Rama was waiting for him. He had been waiting for thousands of years. Lakshmana brought him in and Rama placed him on a golden seat and asked him what he wanted.
He replied, “If you want to honor me and the gods, then promise me our meeting will be private. Anyone who dares interrupt us should instantly be put to death.”
“So be it,” said Rama. “I’ll tell Lakshmana to guard the door and no one will interrupt us.” He asked Lakshmana to dismiss the doorkeeper and take up his position, for anyone who dared to enter would be put to death. Then he turned to the ascetic and asked him to freely say whatever he wished, without fear of interruption.
“Listen, O king!” said the spirit of time. “I have been sent by Brahma to recall you to your heavenly abode. Your time on this Earth is over. You have accomplished all that you set out to do. You are Vishnu, the eternal, immutable, all-pervading protector of the universe. Your stay among mortals is over. It is time for you to return.”
Rama smiled and said, “I am honored by your visit and happy with your message. I will do as you say.”
As they were thus talking, the rishi called Durvasa, who was known for his bad temper, came to the door and asked Lakshmana to allow him to enter. Lakshmana politely barred the way and said that no one could enter. Hearing this the sage lost his temper and shouted, “Announce my presence immediately or I shall curse you and your brothers and your whole race, as well as the land of Kosala, so that nothing and no one remains to tell the tale!”
Lakshmana thought for a moment and decided that it was far better for him to give up his life rather than make the whole country and his brothers suffer. He went inside and announced the arrival of the sage to Rama. Rama took leave of the ascetic and hurried outside to meet Durvasa and asked him how he could be of service to him. Durvasa said that he had just ended a thousand-year fast and wanted to be fed immediately. Rama plied him with the choicest delicacies of the realm. Durvasa was immensely pleased and showered his blessings on the land instead of his curses and went back to his ashrama. With the greatest of sorrow, Rama remembered the promise he had made to Kala, and going inside with bowed head, he stood lost in thought. Was this the last sacrifice? Was he being asked to sacrifice his dear brother, his alter ego, at the altar of dharma?
Lakshmana knew what was passing through his mind and said cheerfully, “Brother, do not hesitate. Kill me this minute. I am prepared for it. I thought it better for me to die rather than the whole country be cursed by the sage, as he threatened to do. If you wish to abide by dharma, then kill me, O king! One who does not keep his word will go to hell. In order to keep our father’s word, you were prepared to forego a kingdom. What am I compared to that?”
Rama spoke not a word but summoned his priests and ministers and asked them what he should do, for he had promised the ascetic that anyone who interrupted them would be executed, not knowing that this would be his final test. The priests and ministers were silent, knowing the agony that was passing through the king’s mind. At last Vasishta spoke. “If a king does not keep his word, dharma will be corrupted and the morals of the country will decline. But banishment can be given in lieu of death, so it is your duty to banish Lakshmana.”
Lakshmana stood with his head thrown back, his eyes gazing fearlessly into Rama’s. Rama looked into those beloved eyes, which had always regarded him with such love, and looked at that beloved form, which he had known since childhood, and which had followed him faithfully like a shadow. He knew that one need not die when parted from a shadow but what about the shadow? Would it not come to an end when parted from the body? Pain flowed from his eyes while love flowed from Lakshmana’s eyes.
“It does not matter, brother,” he whispered. “Command me to leave as sternly as you once ordered me to leave Sita in the forest.”
Rama was in anguish. Over and over again he murmured, “Everything passes. Everything perishes. Nothing will remain. Time is all powerful. Everything will be swept away in the powerful river of time. I have to abide by my promise. I have to be true to the only thing to which I have clung all my life—dharma, the cosmic law of righteousness. I have been tested time and time again, and I have not failed. Let me not fail now.”
He was facing Lakshmana but could not look into his eyes. Instead he fixed his gaze on a spot just above his head and said in an expressionless voice, drained of all emotion, “In honor of truth, in honor of dharma, in honor of the law I have always upheld, I banish you, O Lakshmana, forever. You shall never return to this land of Kosala again, on fear of death.”
Lakshmana looked lovingly at his brother, whom he had obeyed implicitly all his life, and said, “My dearest brother, do not grieve. I have loved you all my life and obeyed you without a murmur. It shall be as you wish. Farewell! And once again, fare thee well. We will never meet again in this life. Perhaps we will meet in heaven.”
So saying, he went thrice round Rama and prostrated to him, and went without a backward glance to the banks of the swiftly flowing river, Sarayu. The thought of a life apart from Rama was unthinkable. Death was preferable to such a life. He did not even consider it. Going to the Sarayu River he sat in yogic contemplation on the banks. He gathered in his vital breaths, withdrew into his atman, and merged himself into the Brahman—the cosmic whole. Thus he sat in deep samadhi. Indra, the king of gods, sent his chariot and took Lakshmana, the fourth part of Vishnu, to heaven where he merged into that essence.
Back in Ayodhya, Rama knew that Lakshmana would never be able to live without him, and he himself no longer cared to carry on a life that had ceased to have meaning for him. Firm in his vows of dharmic discipline, he had been forced to part, one by one, from all those whom he held most dear. He had always known that life was only a dream, a drama in which he had been called to play a part. He had come to the end of his lines. The curtain was going up for the final scene and he had already been given his cue to depart. He called his priests and ministers and announced his decision to them. “I hereby appoint Bharata as lord of Ayodhya. The southern portion of this fair land of Kosala will be given to Kusha and the northern to Lava. I myself shall follow Lakshmana.”
Bharata and Shatrugna refused to live without Rama and decided to follow him. Many of the citizens for whose sake he had sacrificed his all decided that they could not live in a land without their beloved king. Hearing of his terrible decision, the monkeys and bears and Vibhishana from across the sea arrived and begged to accompany him.
Rama said to Vibhishana, “O lord of rakshasas, stay on in Lanka, for that is your duty. Rule with dharma as your guide. So long as I am remembered on Earth, so long will your kingdom endure.”
Then turning to Hanuman he said, “Live long, O noble Hanuman. Wherever my story is told, wherever the name of Rama is mentioned, you will be there to hear it. This story will be told as long as the sun and the moon shine, as long as people remain on this Earth, and as long as you are there to hear it.”
Then turning to the bear, Jambavan, he said, “O wise one! You shall live till my advent as Krishna, scion of the race of Yadu. Until then you shall suffer no defeat. When you meet one who is able to defeat you, then you will know that I have returned.”
To the others he said, “If you so wish, you may all follow me. This very day will you enter heaven along with me.”
All the people of Ayodhya followed Rama with love and devotion. Even the animals followed him, the cows, goats, and elephants, as well as the monkeys and bears. The very stones on the streets of Ayodhya wept, for they could not follow him, and the trees bent low and brushed his head as he passed. Every creature that could walk or roll or dance or totter followed him. Sumantra was waiting at the banks of the river with the four red horses he had freed from the chariot. Guha, the hunter king, was also there. The whole party came to the pellucid waters of the river
Sarayu, which circled the land of Kosala like a silver girdle. Rama walked into the icy waters accompanied by all the rest. The waters closed over their heads like a benediction. The heavens opened and the celestials rained flowers.
Brahma spoke, “O gracious Vishnu. Be pleased to return to your celestial abode. Thou art the soul of all—indestructible, immutable, and eternal. Be pleased to give up this form of maya and resume your swaroopa.”
Out of the waters rose the incredibly beautiful form of Lord Vishnu, holding the discus, conch, mace, and lotus in his hands. All those who had decided to join him also came out of the waters endowed with celestial forms, and all rose up to the heavens as the music of the spheres floated down in the velvet darkness.
With the ascension of Rama to his heavenly abode, the twenty-four thousand verses were complete. Back in the deserted city of Ayodhya, Lava and Kusha sang the final verses of the song to an unseen audience, the song known as the Ramayana, the Way of Rama, the first poem ever to be composed by the adi-kavi, Valmiki.
Hari Aum Tat Sat
What follows is the phala-shruti, or benefits that will accrue to those who read or listen to the Ramayana. Before we go into that, let us see what we have gained from reading this inspiring book. The Ramayana, as we see, starts and ends in sorrow and bereavement. It is meant to portray the stark reality of life in this world, which is filled with meetings and partings, in which we are continuously faced with dilemmas, in which the average human being flounders and wonders how he can lift himself to a higher place. Valmiki put Rama time and time again in such situations. He never tried to cloak the endearing weaknesses in Rama’s character with half-truths that might satisfy the mediocre spiritualist, to whom religion is a panacea. His book is meant for stalwarts like Rama, who have hearts filled with love for the whole of humanity, yet must bravely march forward using the surgeon’s knife when necessary to root out evils in both self and society. The knife is used not only against demon forces, but also against the self to ruthlessly root out weakness. Rama was true to his principle of dharma to the bitter end. He spared neither himself nor anyone else, not even those closest to him. He was true to all the four aspects of dharma, which have been extolled in our scripture.