by Mukunda Rao
‘Danger?’ guffawed Narada. ‘With a devoted brother and brave fighter like you, should Rama have any fear?’ Narada never spoke straight. He was a master of epigrams, of riddles, of double-edged jokes.
‘What is it, sir?’ asked Rama quietly.
Narada shook his head so that his long, luxuriant tresses danced this way and that over his ageing shoulders. ‘I was just imagining,’ he drawled, ‘going southwards and away from Ayodhya, what more might you come to lose?’
Rama smiled. ‘Is there anything left for me to lose?’
‘You really think so?’ asked the muni cryptically. ‘Anyway, beware of sceptical thinkers and wild cats. Think twice, think thrice; do not trust your instincts.’
This way, after their encounter with Narada, neither enlightening nor displeasing, Rama, Sita and Lakshman started on their long journey. Bow in hand, Rama walked fast, with Sita behind him and Lakshman following, gripping the bow in his left hand and sword in his right.
It was at once an arduous and an exciting journey. They climbed peaks from where the world looked enchanting and unmarked by human existence; they passed lakes filled with lotuses and surrounded by ketaki, karvira and other flowering plants.
Then, tired, they stopped to rest and have the meal of curd rice and fruits Jabali’s wife had given them. Eventually, they started again, with wild flowers blowing on their faces and koels singing from treetops. When they finally reached the hill that looked like the summit of the world, it was evening. Sita halted, feeling too exhausted to carry on. The sun looked on from his fast-descending chariot and grew soft and tender. As Sita sat down on a huge rock that looked like the three-headed Brahma, Rama said gruffly, ‘See now, we are hardly forty days into our exile and you cannot take it any more.’
‘Rama, I’m only tired in my limbs.’
‘I should have forced you to stay back at Ayodhya.’
‘When the lord of elephants is caught in the mire, his mate will not leave him alone,’ retorted Sita, smiling.
‘You two are at it again,’ Lakshman grumbled. Then, with some urgency, he drew his brother’s attention to the sun, now squatting dimly on the shoulder of a cloud. It gets dark soon in this part of the world, he said. They must quickly find some shelter and something to eat. He had already started feeling hungry. Hunger, like his notorious temper, was something over which he had no control.
‘Lakshman,’ Rama persisted ruefully, ‘I still think both you and Sita should have spared yourselves all this trouble.’
Lakshman frowned. ‘My dear brother, why don’t you go and sit with your ardhangini for a while and try to lighten her pain? I think she needs you.’ He winked at Sita. ‘I smell human beings,’ he said suddenly, ‘there must be some human habitation close by. I’ll go and see.’
‘You speak like a flesh-eating rakshasa.’ Sita giggled.
‘I have become one so that brother Rama can remain human,’ quipped Lakshman as he walked off to investigate.
Rama sat beside Sita and put his arm around her tenderly. ‘My legs are not as strong as the legs of Rama and Lakshman,’ she said, smiling. Rama pulled her to him and pressed his hungry lips to the nape of her delectable neck, and then gently bit her ear, now bereft of the bird-shaped gold earrings she had been so fond of wearing. ‘Shall I tell you a secret?’ he whispered.
Sita blushed and rested her head on his great chest, murmuring, ‘There shouldn’t be any secret between husband and wife.’
Rama stroked her hair and said in a voice sweet as honey, ‘Without you, I don’t know what I would have done with myself.’
‘I know,’ Sita cooed, and kissed his chest.
Feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, Rama now spoke in a grave tone, ‘Sita, there is something I have been wanting to tell you from the time we left the maharishi’s ashram.’
‘I know,’ she murmured again.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Then tell me, Rama. I’m your wife,’ said Sita, drawing back to recline on the rock like a river goddess come out of the water to bask in the sun.
‘You’ll be hurt.’ He tried to smile.
‘Hurt?’ Sita laughed. ‘No, Rama, you are too polite and kind to hurt anyone.’
His lips twitched and he looked grave, like a dark cloud pregnant with rain. ‘Sita, for some days now, I have been seriously thinking of becoming a hermit.’
Sita winced as if an arrow had been driven through her heart. Wouldn’t this suffering ever stop? ‘Rama, Rama, what are you saying?’ she cried.
‘Yes. I’m disgusted with samsara. This world of power and pleasure must always accompany pain and a sense of terrible insecurity. I want to go beyond this, I want to touch that which is untouched by either pain or pleasure.’
Sitting up, placing her hand on his shoulder, she said haltingly, ‘I understand your hurt, Rama, I understand the cause of this disgust, but…’
‘No, Sita,’ he cried, his voice growing harsh, his face turning dark with feelings he was not yet ready to admit. ‘I have decided that after these fourteen years of exile, I will not go back to Ayodhya and claim my right to be the king. As far as Ayodhya is concerned, I’m finished. I am no longer enamoured of power. In fact, I never was. Anyway, what has happened is for the good. Now, all that I desire is the knowledge of the truth, the truth that frees me from all pain, so that there is no desire for pleasure; I desire the truth that mocks at power and is not afraid of being nothing,
the truth…’
‘I understand your disillusionment.’
‘I’m angry, Sita. I’m burning, and I feel so stupid.’ He trembled at his own words. What was he saying?
‘Rama,’ cried Sita, and cupped his mouth to stop him from speaking further. The tears gathering in her eyes now slid down her cheeks. ‘Please, Rama,’ she pleaded, wiping the tears. ‘Don’t say anything more.’
Strange are the ways of maya! Who would have thought of him in this avatar, roaming the forests like a vagrant? ‘I’m finished,’ he cried. ‘It’s all over. I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but that’s how it is. You must understand.’
Sita didn’t want to understand, not now, not in her present mood and situation. But she would wait, she would be patient, she would learn to survive, learn to live. She slid off the rock, adjusted her clothes and said wearily, ‘I’m tired and hungry. Let’s go and see if Lakshman has found us shelter.’
Rama came and stood beside her without touching her, stiff and taut like a drawn bow. ‘I must know, Sita. I must know,’ he said grimly, as if speaking to himself, too full of himself and his own suffering.
‘Your brother is coming.’ Sita drew the end of her sari over her head and watched Lakshman climbing up the slope. On the muscular side, and almost as tall as Rama, Lakshman looked bigger and older than his brother. Rama was slim, with a fine chest and a slender waist. His smooth, glowing cheeks and a fine nose over full lips made him a joy to look at. Lakshman sported a moustache he was proud of; it made him look tough and manly.
‘Brother,’ Lakshman said as he approached them, ‘we are lucky. Hardly a krosa away from here are some cottages. I observed the inhabitants, and they appear perfectly normal. There was no sign of any weapons; they seem absolutely harmless. Hermits, I think.’
‘A hermitage in this place,’ said Rama, his face brightening as if his wish had at last been fulfilled.
‘You could say that,’ said Lakshman. ‘The huts don’t look like the damp and filthy ashrams we have seen till now. And the people here, unlike the ascetics we’ve seen so far, weren’t wearing tree bark and deer skins but clothes. They look well fed, and not the types who stand on one leg and do tapas. No yagnakundas, no agnihotrashalas here.’ Smiling at Sita, he continued, ‘I saw fruit trees and kitchen gardens as well. At last we can have some normal, tasty food. I’m fed up eating these roots and shoots and wild fruits. Come along, you’ll forget all your pain when you see this place. It looks as if the gods have finally decided to smile upon us.’
; The three made their way to the habitation. As they approached the foot of the hill, a bearded man in a loincloth and a white sheet wrapped over his chest came out of a cottage and stared at them. As they neared him, he asked in a voice that seemed to come from the hollow of a bell: ‘Who are you? You look like beings come out of the sun!’
‘We are from Ayodhya,’ replied Rama, and then with some emphasis, ‘I am Rama, the son of King Dasharath and Queen Kaushalya.’
The man screwed up his eyes with suspicion. Rama stood waiting, resting on the great bow that rose above his naked shoulders. As the setting sun splashed his last yellow rays over the valley and turned everything into a bower of surreal images, Rama’s skin caught the rays and looked like burnished bronze. There was nothing that seemed arrogant, or simple, in Rama’s expression. His demeanour was of a man who had known power and had learnt to keep his emotions under control.
The man now shifted his gaze to Lakshman. Even without his royal attire, Lakshman looked every bit a Kshatriya prince. Finally, he peered at Sita, who hung between the two princes. She was dark and handsome, with an oval face and large, smiling eyes under long eyelashes. A rather small nose but fine lips; determined lips, he mused. Her hair, black and soft as the touch of the breeze, was bound into a single braid that fell forward on her shoulder like the making of a great story. She was dressed in a single piece of simple yellow cloth. She could not be called a beauty, but there was something remarkable and charming about her. She would make an excellent character, the poet in him thought.
Piqued by the man’s long silence and his obvious assessment of them, Lakshman flexed his muscles and gripped his bow. The man suddenly roared with laughter. Much to Lakshman’s irritation, he took his time to calm down. ‘Yes, yes, I know now you are Rama, the prince, accompanied by your most devoted wife and faithful brother. I know. Come, don’t hesitate, you have come to the right place.’ And gesturing them to follow him, he turned his back and ambled towards the cottage. ‘Please wash your legs and come inside,’ he said, pointing at a large pot placed nearby. He took off his wooden sandals at the entrance and went inside.
It was a simple cottage, almost bare except for a tiny wooden desk, a stool on which sat an oil lamp like a silent witness, a thin mattress on which lay several golden-brown scrolls, some of them fresh and unused, others with bold inscriptions etched across them. The cow dung that had been smeared on the floor made it hard and cool. Their host unrolled a long coir mat and spread it on the floor.
‘Sit down,’ he said. He stooped a little when he moved; either it was because of his age or he had been born with a slight hunch. He went and sat on a deerskin behind his desk, caressed his great beard meditatively and grinned. Soon, a young girl came in carrying a tray with three earthen cups on it, which she set before the guests.
‘Please have it. I think it is buffalo’s milk. Is it all right for a prince to drink buffalo’s milk? Perhaps your Ayodhya Brahmans would have objected to it on the grounds that it isn’t good for the royal brain. Ha-ha-ha! I’m sorry, you must make do with it for now. I’ll arrange for cow’s milk tomorrow.’
The milk was hot and sweet and soothing to the throat. They drank quietly, gratefully. The man kept caressing his beard, a gentle smile playing on his thin lips.
‘I’m Valmiki, the fool of fools,’ he announced suddenly, and broke into a laugh, as if he had cracked a hilarious joke. ‘I’m sure you would have heard of me. I’m pretty famous in Ayodhya, particularly among your great Brahmans.’
Both Sita and Lakshman looked inquiringly at Rama, for they had never heard of any Valmiki. Did Maharishi Jabali have Valmiki in mind when he asked them to go southwards? Rama grimaced. Surely this was a mistake. All of a sudden, he was not sure if he should finish the milk. He put the cup down and studied the man. There was nothing extraordinary about him except for his sharp nose, which stood out like a cliff over his great beard. But his eyes, lucid and full of intelligence, affected Rama for some reason.
Could this man be the notorious poet Valmiki? Valmiki, a one-time thief turned poet, who wrote preposterously funny rhymes on gods and kings and Brahmans? Rama tried to recall what his tutor had told him. But look at the man. Didn’t he look old, tired and harmless? How could such a person be a dangerous rebel?
‘Are you saying you are Valmiki the poet?’ Rama asked hesitantly, doubtfully.
Valmiki grinned and said, ‘The poet who wrote wicked verses, eh?’
In his own image
The great Brahma made Brahmans
With brains in their bellies, genitals in their heads…
Rama’s Brahman tutor had quoted the lines with ease, as if he chanted them every morning when he set out for his ablutions. And then, as if he had uttered forbidden words, he had made a face like one who had swallowed a snake. Rama had suppressed a laugh. But now, remembering that incident, Rama asked with some consternation, ‘So you are Valmiki, that thief-poet?’
Valmiki laughed again. ‘I’m a renegade, Rama; rather, I’m an apostate worse than the Shambuka who dared to criticize your dharmic texts.’
‘Shambuka! You mean the Shudra Shambuka?’ Rama asked in horror.
‘He lives up the hill. You must meet him, Rama. He is a charming devil, known for his skill to exorcise the gods.’
Everything fell in place. So this was not a community of harmless, truth-seeking hermits but a colony of wicked poets, a school of heretics and lowborn Dasyus, some of them probably killers of Brahmans. His face flushed with anger and dread, Rama glanced at Sita and Lakshman. The two, perplexed at his discomfiture, stared back at him.
‘You are such a charming fool, Rama,’ continued Valmiki quietly, studying Rama’s tense face. ‘You trusted all those who should have been doubted and feared. Naively, blindly, you swallowed their words, their half-truths and their lies. You thought they loved you, adored you and wanted you to be their king. It never occurred to you that you were too good for them, too honest to be their ally and quite unsuitable to be the king of their liking, and it was in their best interest to get rid of you at the very first opportunity.’
The cutting remarks fell like a thunderclap on Rama’s ears. He sat stunned, unable to believe if this conversation was for real. After a while, he began to feel that Valmiki’s remarks were not only highly presumptuous but quite insulting as well. ‘Who are you talking about?’ he asked, his voice growing tight and harsh. ‘Do you mean my teachers, the priests, our ministers, my own father?’
‘Names are secondary, Rama. The fact is you have been fooled and you have allowed yourself to be fooled.’ Valmiki’s fingers kept pecking busily at his beard, while his gaze held Rama’s. ‘And,’ he continued, a grin escaping his lips, ‘talking of your father, I wonder how he managed to rule over Ayodhya all these years!’
‘What do you mean?’ Rama was beginning to lose his celebrated poise.
‘I mean he was a great worshipper of the body, no? Ah, people are really blessed to have such a man as their king! But then, I suppose this great quality runs in the solar race, in the Ikshavaku blood.’
Controlling his rising anger, Rama said sharply, ‘You left Ayodhya several years ago. You know nothing.’
‘Your story has travelled faster than you, Rama. People from Ayodhya keep coming here, and I’m well informed. And if you must know, I have been a life-long student of the history of Ayodhya.’
‘Then you must also have heard that I did what I did to keep my father’s promise. I had to protect the words of my father, my king. It’s my dharma.’ Rama sounded somewhat apologetic and was surprised at himself. Why was he trying to explain himself to a self-styled renegade, this dark-skinned, lowborn Dasyu?
‘Words are such perfect instruments of lies.’
‘Are you saying they are all lies? That I’m telling lies?’
‘I’m not saying anything like that. Although I must admit that sometimes, half-truths are more dangerous than total lies, and that one can never be completely truthful with words, especia
lly when one is a prince.’
Rama started to say something and then checked himself. Cheeks flushed with anger, he gritted his teeth. It seemed pointless talking to the man, and quite insulting to stay there any longer. He stood up to leave. But it didn’t stop Valmiki. Determined and merciless, he persisted, ‘Tell me, Rama, was it your dharma to deny your people the good king that you could have been? Was it your dharma to fulfil some ridiculous promise of a thickheaded father who spent more time with his youngest wife than running the affairs of the country?’
It was all too much for Lakshman, who had been fidgeting like a caged leopard all this while. Enraged, he sprang to his feet and drew his sword from the scabbard hanging at his waist. If Rama had not held him back, he would have leapt at the old man and sliced off his tongue, for that’s how impudent rascals were punished in Ayodhya.
Valmiki broke into laughter again. ‘You amaze me, Lakshman,’ he drawled. He already knew how, on learning about Rama’s banishment, Lakshman had leapt up and, with his sword drawn, had dashed out in search of Dasharath and Kaikeyi, with Sumitra and Kaushalya and the guards at his heels, shouting, begging him to control himself and desist from committing the terrible sin unheard of in Ikshavaku history. But look at him now, standing behind Rama, wringing his hands, spitting like an angry cobra.
Valmiki prudently refrained from saying anything more that would provoke Lakshman further and force him to ignore his brother’s authority, for he also knew that Lakshman was an impetuous Kshatriya whose thoughts always followed his actions, like the tail followed the monkey.
‘I think we must leave,’ said Rama, staring at Lakshman with apprehension. He was now eager to leave, not so much because he felt offended and wronged, but because he was afraid that he no longer would be able to keep Lakshman’s temper in check. And surely, he reckoned, Maharishi Jabali couldn’t have directed them to this ashram of renegades. They had definitely made a mistake.
‘Don’t, Rama. The story has just begun,’ said Valmiki, smiling mischievously. ‘You are known for dharma, truth, forgiveness and compassion. They are fine qualities that sit well on you. Don’t lose them now. But then you shouldn’t try too hard to be good either.’