by Mukunda Rao
‘Permit me, Rama,’ Lakshman exploded in fury. ‘This man doesn’t know how to speak to a prince. Let me teach him.’
‘Quiet, Lakshman, quiet,’ Rama admonished him. Turning to Valmiki, he said testily, ‘I think I made a mistake. I didn’t know.’
It seemed that no threat or fear could silence Valmiki’s tongue. He was a poet, and singing was his karma and dharma. ‘Ah, Rama,’ he sang, ‘even by mistake you did the right thing by coming here.’ Now, smiling warmly, and as if speaking for the first time, he said rather ostentatiously, ‘Welcome to you, Rama, along with your devoted wife and your faithful brother; you are welcome to live here as long as you wish. You can be yourself here, Rama. Although I must add that we are sorry we cannot make you the king here, nor treat you as the prince or the future king of Ayodhya.’
Then he took Rama’s hand in his. ‘Never mind what I said,’ he murmured, looking affectionately into Rama’s eyes. ‘Didn’t I say we can never be completely truthful with words? Come on now, we’ll spare you a cottage. It’s time you took a bath and rested your limbs.’ And, holding the hand of a dazed Rama, Valmiki led him out, followed by Sita and Lakshman.
The huts stood at a distance from each other, with large, open spaces around them. Since this community believed in eating well and eating good food, almost every hut had a backyard to grow vegetables. It seemed everyone was fond of vegetables like bitter gourds, brinjals and pumpkins, for they grew everywhere. And there were fruit trees in abundance. Different varieties of mangoes apart, there was a rare variety of jackfruit that grew underground.
The huts were built of clay and stones and thatched with dried palm leaves, which lasted several rainy seasons. The hermits (were they all hermits?), dark and tall in loose robes, occupied themselves in some work or the other, or moved about like spotted deer by the stream.
In the dying light, the three Ayodhyans observed this strange world. Were these people really heretics, bored and outraged by the subtleties and tyrannies of the pandits, by the oppressive regime of a hedonistic king and his coterie of corrupt ministers and high priests? Or were they an insurgent group, lying low but insidiously planning a violent overthrow of the Ikshavaku rule with the active support of the Dasyus and the Nagas? Rama was unsettled by what he saw around him; he was also shaken by the things Valmiki had said. Lakshman, in the meanwhile, feeling his brother was now safe, only thought of satiating his hunger and going to sleep. And Sita, though exhausted, was rather impressed with what she saw, and began to feel that it was quite possible to be different, to think and live differently.
After their meal of rice, vegetables and fruits, the three Ayodhyans, relieved of hunger and fatigue, sat outside the cottage. For the first time in the forty days since they had left Ayodhya, Lakshman felt light, like a bird gliding aimlessly in the sky. ‘You are a lucky fellow,’ he spoke dreamily, peering at the moon, which in turn stared back with a full face. ‘You have no work, nothing to sweat and cry about, no father to obey, no wife to please, no conflict to resolve, but to just sit there and watch the world go round. You see everything, don’t you? You see what even Surya cannot see! It must be great fun, eh?’
‘Lakshman, learn to be serious,’ Rama scolded gently. ‘We have to decide, and decide now. I think we must leave tomorrow morning. What do you say?’
It seemed to Lakshman that it was somehow improper to talk of leaving after the scrumptious meal, and when the moon was smiling on them, when a cool, soothing breeze played about them like glad tidings. As though he hadn’t heard Rama, Lakshman turned to Sita and said, ‘The food was very tasty. Ah, the jackfruit, it was truly divine! In Ayodhya, we don’t soak the fruit in honey, do we, Sita?’
Sita knew that Lakshman was deliberately trying to distract his brother. She had never seen this audacious side of him before. A giggle escaped her in spite of herself. ‘No,’ she said, trying to be serious. ‘I think the jackfruit was sweet enough. Mixing it in honey made it too sweet.’
‘You don’t like sweet things to be too sweet, eh?’ Lakshman teased.
‘Lakshman, I asked you a question,’ said Rama sternly.
‘Forgive me, my brother.’ Lakshman apologized, for he saw that Rama was really getting annoyed. ‘But how come I never got to hear anything about Valmiki and this Shudra Shambuka?’
‘Because you never showed any interest in learning,’ Rama remarked, showing his irritation. ‘How would you, when you kept quarrelling with your teachers?’
Lakshman refrained from answering back, for the subject of the gurus always annoyed him. He never liked them, had never felt comfortable with their teaching, their arrogance, their all-knowing grins and their ready answers to all questions.
‘Lakshman, you don’t seem to realize the gravity of the situation we are in.’ Rama paused, wondering if he should share his suspicions with his brother. One never knew what he would do when possessed by anger. Anger sat at the tip of his nose, ready to leap and knock things off at the slightest provocation. Rama did not want him to rush out wielding his sword like in a battle.
Even so, Rama decided that he must speak his mind, for he needed to get it off his chest. He said, ‘Lakshman, these people are renegades, and for all you know, some of them might even be murderers of Brahmans. How can we live with people who are the enemies of Ayodhya and killers of Brahmans?’
To Rama’s huge surprise, Lakshman did not get angry; instead, he giggled, as if what Rama said was some naughty joke. Then, putting on a grave face, for it would have been disrespectful to show his amusement when his brother was in this mood, he said, ‘Brother, you trust too much the clever Brahmans and their deceptive stories. Even if it is a fact that there are a few here who have knocked off the heads of some Brahmans, what is so terrible about it? If you say that killing someone unjustly is a crime, I understand that, although sometimes it is too difficult to decide what is just and what is not. But what I don’t understand is why it is a terrible, unpardonable crime only when you kill a Brahman. Forgive me for saying this: Left to myself, I would have gladly dispatched a few Brahmans to the other world.’
‘Lakshman,’ Rama said harshly, ‘don’t say anything and everything that that comes to your mind. You must have some control over your tongue. Brahmans are our gurus, dedicated to the pursuit of truth. They are our repository of knowledge and wisdom through ages. Brahmahatya, therefore, is the most heinous crime and it cannot go without punishment.’
Lakshman shook his head, wondering if it was time for him to speak his mind. Did Rama really know what he was saying? How could he be so blind? Weren’t there others who had searched for truth and become men of great knowledge and wisdom? There were many from the Dasyus, and from the Naga warrior clan as well. And there were those who lived in deep forests and engaged in rigorous tapas, who were talked about with great respect even by the generally foolish Ayodhyans. Why then did Rama revere the Brahmans so highly? Couldn’t he see what was most obvious to Lakshman? Oh, Rama was truly naive, and hopelessly romantic. Lakshman chuckled to himself. He had seen many a Brahman who was interested in everything else but the pursuit of knowledge and truth. Lakshman decided to speak his mind.
‘There you go,’ Lakshman started, rather crudely for Rama’s liking. But there was something in the ashram air that seemed to unlock his mind and unleash his tongue. Oh, that was another dictum laid down by the gurus: A prince should never speak like this; he should never behave like that; he should never do this or that but only do what a prince must. He should eat, sleep, speak, walk and laugh in a particular way – a way that befits a prince, and never behave like lowborn devils; and, even when a prince has to relieve himself, there is a way he must do so…
‘Brother,’ Lakshman continued, ‘I was really fed up with their codes of conduct and their bizarre shastras. I’m glad I’m out of their reach now, and they have no control over me, over my thoughts or feelings. At last, I’m free of those burdensome, exasperating rituals and duties. You know, an unrestrained tongue always s
peaks the truth.’
Suddenly, Lakshman paused, wondering if he had spoken too much, and too brashly, to his brother, and that too, in front of his sister-in-law. He had never done this before. But he couldn’t help it. He was not in Ayodhya, and he found it hard not to break the court etiquette, the royal manners as taught to them by the high priests and gurus. However, lowering his voice now, he confessed, ‘Somehow, I like this place. It seems to me that we could spend our fourteen years comfortably here. The weather is nice, and the food is not bad at all. What does it matter what Valmiki and Shambuka were or did at Ayodhya years ago? Moreover, we can’t believe in all that we have been told by our priests as absolute truth.’ Then he tactfully asked Sita, ‘What do you think?’
Was it really the hot-blooded, forever restless Lakshman speaking so audaciously and yet so rationally? Sita stared at him in disbelief. But she did not respond, wanting the brothers to sort out the issue on their own. Her limbs still ached.
‘Can I lie on your lap?’ she asked Rama. Rama frowned, though Sita could not see that in the dark. She gently placed her head on her husband’s thigh and stretched her legs, staring at the moon. ‘I never knew she was so beautiful, like a swan swimming in dark waters!’ she muttered as if speaking to herself.
‘That means you are in favour of staying here, right, Sita?’ Lakshman exclaimed.
‘I wonder where she goes in the morning?’
‘Ah,’ responded Lakshman playfully, ‘I suppose she goes and sleeps in her husband’s house.’
While Sita and Lakshman laughed in good humour, Rama’s fingers slowly began to caress Sita’s soft, silky hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured, ‘I’m really confused.’
‘Brother,’ Lakshman spoke quite sharply now, ‘you have been truly fooled. You are too naive. You should have at least let me find out the truth. We are not even sure if Father had really made that promise they said he had made to that despicable Kaikeyi…’
‘Lakshman,’ cried Rama in a voice heavy with sadness. ‘You doubt too much. It’s not good.’
But he could not stop thinking about it himself. Thinking of his mother, Kaushalya, tears came to his eyes. How much she had cried and begged him not to leave her alone at Kaikeyi’s mercy. And his father? He could not even see him before leaving the palace. The king was not well, and the vaidya had given him something to put him to sleep, Kaikeyi had said, stopping him from entering the royal chamber.
Why, Mother Kaikeyi, why did you do this? I would have gladly withdrawn and let your son who, after all, is my very dear brother, become the regent. Did you think that I would have instigated the people against Bharat, against my own brother, and so you sent me into exile?’ Quickly, as though clearing some dust from his eyes, Rama wiped the helpless tears and breathed hard, controlling his surging emotions.
Suddenly, from a cluster of huts below, flute music broke out like a welcome breeze, and a song soon followed, accompanied by music from a string instrument he could not place. The song rose steadily like the eastern wind, and grew in volume and intensity. His eyes moistened with tears again, he tried to concentrate on the song, if only to distract his mind from his dismal past.
Listen sister
Not one, not two, not three hundred,
A thousand men have I married,
Hai, not one with a heart!
But, sister,
They bartered my heart,
Looted my flesh,
Left me a mother
To bring up their sons, who,
Grew to be their fathers
To abuse their own daughters.
‘Lakshman,’ Sita said, ‘isn’t that Vasanta? The one who was pounding maize in the ashram kitchen?’
Lakshman said, ‘You mean the ox-eyed girl, the one who kept humming while pounding?’
Rama asked in surprise, ‘Lakshman, what were you doing in the kitchen?’
‘I wonder who composed the lyrics!’ Lakshman muttered to himself.
‘Valmiki is not the only poet here, Lakshman,’ said Sita. It seemed she already knew a thing or two about the people in the ashram.
Listen sisters, listen brothers:
When they see breasts and long hair,
They shout ‘woman’.
When they see moustache and beard,
They call it ‘man’.
What do they know?
Listen sisters, listen brothers,
Listen to Vasanta:
What do the fools know of the snares?
The eye cannot see,
The self that hovers
Untouched by maya…
They had never heard anything like this before. The poignancy and revelatory quality of the song was something utterly new, and also seemed inappropriate to them. What was also strange for them was the fact that a song was being sung at that hour of the night. It was something unheard of in Ayodhya, at least among the upper strata of society, that followed the principles of good behaviour laid down by the shastras. The villagers, mostly the Dasyus, indulged in music during the late hours of the evening, but this behaviour had been deemed barbarous by the Brahman musicologists.
With divine sanction, it had been decided that there could be only twelve melodies or tunes, and these had been neatly and irrevocably arranged so that a specific raga was sung only at an hour of the day fixed especially for it. Hence, it was considered not only vulgar but also inauspicious to sing, say, a morning raga in the night. Singing at night was considered highly inappropriate anyway, for that was the time for people to sleep. Brought up in such a tradition, Rama was offended by the song; still, in spite of himself, something in him was deeply touched by the pathos in the song.
This was indeed a queer place. The hermitages and settlements they had stayed in till now would have been buried in deep silence at this hour. But here, after the meal, the residents did not go to sleep; instead, they sat outside, played music and sang songs late into the night – not lullabies to put children to sleep but songs that wrenched the heart. Rama shook his head, sinking into deeper confusion.
Meanwhile, Sita was being affected in a different way. She found herself growing sad and thoughtful, and asked herself what it meant to be a woman. She wondered where the earth began and where the sky ended. She thought of her sisters, and did not at all feel jealous of their protected and proscribed lives in the palace. Lakshman grew restless like a tree caught in a tempest and, sighing heavily, sprang to his feet, saying, ‘I think I’ll go and sit with them for a while.’
‘It’s quite late, Lakshman,’ Rama said. ‘Isn’t it time for you to go to sleep?’
Ignoring his brother’s censure, Lakshman flew down the moonlit path towards the cottage that seemed like some untouched, unexplored chamber of his mind.
Rama sighed. He had to stop treating Lakshman like a child. In fact, he had to forget that he was his elder brother, forget too that he was a prince. Oh, if only he could forget everything. He shut his eyes and tried to still his mind, but was unable to forget his mother’s sad, weeping face. Kaushalya was not a trained singer, but one gifted with a good voice. She never sang before others, not even before the king. Only in the privacy of her room or while cooking a meal along with her dasis would she sing the many songs she had learnt as a girl from her mother. Rama had caught her singing on a few occasions when he had sneaked into her chamber. Later, while touring the kingdom as part of his princely duties, he had realized that the songs his mother sang were those that village women sang while performing their domestic chores.
There was another song being sung now, but Rama was not listening, too deeply sunk in his own mournful chant. ‘Rama,’ he heard Sita call softly, and felt her hand gently touch his shoulder. He opened his eyes.
‘Are you feeling sleepy, Rama? Shall we go in?’ she said, studying his face.
Rama shook his head and asked, ‘What do you want to do, Sita?’
Overcome with emotion, Sita grabbed his palms and kissed them. ‘Rama, Rama,’ she cried, ‘this is
the first time you have asked for my opinion.’
Moved, Rama held her face in his hands and said, ‘Sita, you are my other half. I may not directly ask for your opinion. But believe me, I always try to think your thoughts and feel your feelings.’
‘I’m blessed, Rama. You are changing. I’m happy for us.’
Rama nodded, trying to smile. ‘I think what Valmiki said makes sense now,’ he said, as if speaking to himself. ‘I can be myself here. I’m really beginning to be myself.’
‘Rama, do you really think Valmiki could have been a bad man?’
‘I really don’t know,’ replied Rama, ‘but he looks like one who has waded through the mire of samsara and overcome the fear of sorrow and death.’
Sita almost started laughing, not so much at Rama’s idea of Valmiki as at the pathetically profound manner in which he said it, but she quickly checked herself, fearing it might offend Rama. The problem with Rama was that he needed to idealize everyone. It seemed he needed to see the good in others to be able to believe in his own goodness. Sita asked, ‘But why do people like him get branded as renegades?’
Rama did not know. He was still groping for answers to the many questions bubbling in his mind. But there seemed no way he could find answers to all of them. He sighed. There was only the flute being played now, and it filled the space like a gentle breeze, like an intimation of another world where happiness was not the opposite of sadness and where sadness was tinged with some impersonal quality of mystery.
Yes, thought Sita, she also had to find out many things for herself. She had to find answers to the questions that had, like frightened birds escaping into the dark foliage of trees, slipped into the dark crevices of her mind the day she had stepped into Ayodhya as Rama’s young bride. She craned her neck and peered at the moon, which stood in the middle of the sky, smiling. Or was the moon mocking them? ‘Do you still want to become a hermit, my dear husband?’ she asked suddenly.