The four princes were asked to display their valour. Arrows were shot towards the sky; they transformed into flowers and fell on the cheering crowds that lined the city streets. Swords were held aloft and spears swung with agility and grace. This display of skill impressed one and all.
And finally, rings of pearls and diamonds were pierced into their nostrils: on the left side of the brides and the right side of the grooms.
Everyone in Ayodhya felt assured that the future was safe, and fertile.
Vasishtha told the boys, ‘Before your wife came into your life, you were a student with no claim over property. After your wife leaves your life, you must become a hermit, with no claim over property. Only as long as she is by your side do you have claims over wealth. Without her, you cannot perform yagna; you must only perform tapasya.’
Arundhati, Vasishtha’s wife, came to meet the brides and told them her tale. ‘We were seven couples in the forest. Our husbands were rishis well versed in the understanding of yagnas and tapasya and we were their faithful wives. One day, after our bath, we went to worship the fire in the yagna-shala. The other wives, in their hurry to finish their chores, forgot to wear their symbols of marriage – no beads around the neck, no bangles on their arms, no vermilion in the parting of the hair, no toe-rings. Agni, the fire-god, mistook the women to be without husbands and made love to them. I, however, remained untouched. The rishis abandoned their six wives; they are now known as the Matrikas, forest virgins who are bound to no man. I alone, faithful wife of Vasishtha, serve my husband in the yagna-shala while the other six have become tapasvins, refusing to see women. I have a star by my name in the sky beside the constellation of Saptarishi, named after the seven rishis. And the six women, once my sisters, form another constellation, the Krittika cluster of stars. The Krittikas were rejected by all except Shiva and Shakti, who made them the wet nurse of their son, the warlord Skanda, named Kartikeya after them.’
Sumitra told the daughters-in-law that at night they should ask their husbands to show them the star called Arundhati. That would be the first time they would touch their bodies, holding their hands until the fingers pointed to the star that has come to be the symbol of marital fidelity in Aryavarta, the land of Vedic wisdom.
‘But that is some time away,’ said Kaikeyi. For the girls were still young. They would not be given courtyards of their own. They would sleep in the beds of their mothers-in-law while the boys, now men, would leave their mother’s courtyard and sleep in the courtyard of their father, the king.
In time, when the lotus bloomed, the love-god Kama would be invoked to strike the young hearts and the grooms would be invited as bees to the flower-bedecked bedchambers of the brides.
The threshold plays a key role in the Indian household. It separates the domesticated inside from the wild outside. And so there is great fear when the daughter leaves the household and the daughter-in-law enters the household. Both events are marked by ceremonies aimed at drawing positive energies and keeping out negative energies.
Even today, grooms of many communities are expected to hold a sword during the wedding ceremony, as a reminder of times when brides, along with their dowries, were at risk of being abducted by bandits.
In Jagannath Puri, the image of Krishna sports a nose-ring on the right side. In ancient times, in many communities, men too wore nose-rings. The practice disappeared with time.
The Saptarishi constellation is known as the Great Bear in English; Arundhati is known as Alkor; Krittika is known as the Pleiades or the Six Sisters. The twin stars of Alkor and Mizar in Ursa Major are known as the Arundhati and Vasishtha stars, Arundhati being fainter than Vasishtha.
The Krittikas or the six virgin goddesses (sometimes seven) are fierce forest maidens who are revered and feared by women unable to bear children or whose children suffer from fevers and rashes. Their open-air shrines are found in rural communities throughout India. In the Mahabharata, they collectively bear the seed of Shiva and give birth to the six-headed son of Shiva, Kartikeya, who leads the armies of devas into battles. In later narratives, they become gentle wet nurses. They embody nature’s raw power undomesticated by social rules, marriage in this case.
In the Valmiki Ramayana Ram and Sita are rather young but they are much older in later versions, perhaps indicating what different communities considered a suitable age for marriage.
Child marriage does not imply immediate consummation. Marriage in many parts of India takes place in two stages. In the first stage, the relationship is formal as the bride and groom are very young. In the second stage, the relationship is consummated after the girl attains physical and mental maturity. Until then the girl lives with her mother or mother-in-law. The point is to help her fit into the husband’s household from an early age. Ceremonies mark her entry into womanhood and the groom is invited to come and claim his wife. This ritual is called ‘gauna’ in Bihar. There are many folk ballads that speak of women married in childhood waiting in their parental house for their husbands to come and claim them. Failure to understand the difference between the formal ritual and the actual marriage has led to many social problems.
Kaikeyi, the King’s Charioteer
Sita stayed with Kaushalya while Mandavi stayed with Kaikeyi. Urmila and Shrutakirti stayed with Sumitra. They spent all day and all night listening to tales of the sons told by their adoring mothers.
Kaushalya said, ‘Once Ram refused to sleep, for he wanted the moon to sleep beside him. Finally, to appease him, we put a pot of water on his bed. Reflected in the water was the moon. Thus he slept with the moon and, from that day, we decided to call him Ramachandra, Ram of the moon, even though this family worships the sun.’
Sumitra warned her daughters-in-law about the affection of their husbands for their brothers. ‘You have to work hard so that they prefer you to them.’
‘At night at least,’ chuckled Kaikeyi, making the women blush.
In the common courtyard of the three queens, Kaikeyi was most in demand. She was the most beautiful queen, dazzling in her daring.
The courtyard walls had murals showing how she served as the king’s charioteer when he was invited to fight the asuras by Indra, king of the devas. She had shielded the king from arrows and motivated him with her words while she steered the horses through the battlefield. At one point the axle of the chariot broke. Without a moment’s hesitation, she bent down and shoved her hand into the wheel, using her forearm to replace the broken axle.
Kaikeyi’s stories were delightful, especially those about horses, for she came from the land of horses in the north-west. Her maid Manthara, who had nursed her as a child, and had also nursed her son, Bharata, was a great cook. So the girls spent hours with her in the kitchen understanding the different ways in which food was cooked in Kekaya, Kosala and Videha.
Kaushalya made dolls for the girls. Sumitra fashioned their hair, decorating it with jewels, but it was Kaikeyi’s stories and Manthara’s food that got the most attention.
‘She knows how to become everyone’s favourite,’ said Sumitra.
‘She may be the king’s favourite queen,’ said Kaushalya, ‘but Ram is his favourite son.’
Manthara overheard this conversation and accidentally squeezed lime into boiling milk, curdling it.
The story of Ram’s love for the moon is commonly told to children across India. Ram is also called Ramachandra because his later decisions regarding Surpanakha and Sita brought a blemish to his solar glory.
The story of Kaikeyi saving Dashratha’s life in battle comes from later narratives.
The Valmiki Ramayana acknowledges Kaikeyi as Dashratha’s favourite queen, perhaps because it was foretold that she would bear an illustrious son and he was eager for one.
Kekaya is located to the north-west of India, near Pakistan and Afghanistan. Many epic princesses, like Gandhari and Madri of the Mahabharata, belong to this land. It is associated with horses, which is why Kaikeyi’s father is called Ashwapati, master of horses.
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br /> The Three Queens
Sita knew that people called her Janaki, Maithili and Vaidehi referring to her as the daughter of Janaka, resident of Mithila, from the land of Videha. But she had a name, Sita. She wondered what the real name of Kaushalya was, for her name simply meant princess of Kosala.
Dashratha was king of North Kosala with his capital at Saket. Kaushalya’s brother was king of South Kosala with his capital at Kashi. Great wars were fought between the two. Peace followed after the princess of South Kosala insisted on marrying the king of North Kosala. When Kaushalya became Dashratha’s queen, the two kingdoms merged into one, and Saket came to be known as Ayodhya, where wars are not fought.
Sita also wondered what the real name of Kaikeyi was, other than ‘princess of Kekaya’. Her father, Ashwapati, was famous for the horses he owned. Her brother, Yudhajit, was a great warrior. Kaikeyi spoke often about her brother’s exploits; they were very close as they had lost their mother when Kaikeyi was very young.
Sumitra once told Urmila and Shrutakirti what she had heard of Kaikeyi’s mother. King Ashwapati had been gifted the power to understand the language of birds but he had been warned that if he ever shared what he heard from the birds with anyone he would die instantly. One day, Ashwapati was sitting with Kaikeyi’s mother next to a lake when he heard the swans speak. Their conversation amused him and he laughed. The queen wanted to know what he had overheard. The king said he could not share what he had heard for that would lead to his death. The queen said, ‘If you love me truly, you will tell me what you heard.’ The king felt his wife was either too uncaring about his well-being or too stupid. Either way, he did not want her around him. He had her sent back to her parents’ house. Rendered motherless, Kaikeyi and Yudhajit were handed over to the wet nurse Manthara, who raised them both.
And Sumitra? It was clear she was no princess. Manthara one day told Mandavi in hushed tones, while she was grinding wheat, ‘Not of royal blood. Not a brahmin’s daughter. Perhaps a trader’s or a cowherd’s or a charioteer’s. Perhaps a servant’s. It is said marrying a woman of a lower social order increases the chances of fathering a son. But even this did not work and so a yagna was needed. That is why her sons are so servile.’
One day as the four princes sat with their brides in the common courtyard of the queens, Sita hesitatingly asked Ram, ‘Your father has three queens, one whom he respects, one whom he loves and one who serves him. Which queen will I be?’
Ram replied without a moment’s hesitation, ‘He may have three but I will have only one. I shall be satisfied with whatever this wife of mine offers me and hope that she is satisfied with whatever I offer her.’
Sita noticed the formal tone of his voice. ‘I asked you about queens, not wives,’ she said softly, with a smile.
‘I am a husband now who has a wife. Should I be king, then my wife will also become queen. The two are not the same, Sita. My wife sits in my heart; I exist for her satisfaction. The queen sits on the king’s throne and she exists for the kingdom’s satisfaction,’ he said, still formal.
‘Does this husband know his wife?’ asked Sita.
‘Why does the wife need to ask? Does she doubt it?’
‘The wife has not really spoken to the husband,’ said Sita.
‘Indeed,’ said Ram, suddenly thoughtful. Rites, rituals and rules had bound their relationship until then, not conversation. They held each other’s hand because they had to in ceremony. They sat next to each other because they had to in ritual. They fed each other as was tradition. She walked beside him as was the norm. But did he really know her? Did she know him? Did they see each other? What did they see of each other: the body or the mind? They were still prince and princess, not husband and wife.
Ram looked at Sita, curious and intent. Then his eyes lit up in wonderment. Sita immediately looked away, suddenly shy, becoming formal herself, trembling at the intensity of his gentle gaze.
Jain and Buddhist documents refer to Dashratha ruling Kashi and later moving to Ayodhya.
Saket is an ancient name for Ayodhya but is also identified as a separate city.
In the southern text of the Valmiki Ramayana, Sumantra, Dashratha’s charioteer and counsellor, speaks of Kaikeyi’s father abandoning her mother. Details of the story are part of folklore in Odisha and Andhra Pradesh. Backstories such as these are common to explain people’s behaviour, for in India all actions are seen as consequences of prior events. Nothing happens without a reason.
In the Jain Paumachariya, Sumitra is the daughter of Subandhu-tilaka, king of Kamalasankulapura. Regional retellings identify Sumitra as a princess too. But not much is mentioned about her royal past. Unlike Kaushalya and Kaikeyi who are named after the kingdoms they come from, Kosala and Kekaya, Sumitra is not named so, alluding to her non-royal station.
Sumitra’s name is very similar to Sumantra, leading to speculations that she could be his daughter. In folk songs from the Gangetic plains, Sita is visualized as a lucky and much-loved daughter-in-law for whom a well is made in the house by her father-in-law, husband and brothers-in-law. She does not have to go to the village well or the river to fetch water.
In ancient India it was considered normal for a man, especially a king, to have many wives. Though Draupadi has five husbands, it is more the exception than the rule. There are tribes in India in the Himalayas and down south where a woman marries many brothers, but this was never the norm.
The Hunting of Shravana
Dashratha was happy. Three wives, four brave sons, four wise daughters-in-law. The future of Kosala was safe. What more could a man want?
Joyfully, he went out hunting. He shot birds flying overhead and rabbits on the ground. He stalked a tiger and successfully ambushed it. He chased deer. Then, to test his skills, he decided to blindfold himself and shoot game using merely sound to spot the target. He heard what he thought was a deer drinking water from a pond and shot an arrow in its direction. Immediately a human scream was heard.
Ripping away his blindfold, Dashratha ran towards the terrible sound. He had, as he feared, shot a human being, a boy. The arrow had gone right through his chest. He had but a few moments to live. ‘My parents,’ he gasped, ‘please, kind stranger, find my parents, take them to safety. This hunter who shot me may hunt them down too.’ Then he died.
Dashratha noticed a pot of water floating in the pond. The sound he had heard was the sound of that pot being immersed in water. It hadn’t been a deer.
A guilt-ridden Dashratha carried the body in his arms and looked for the boy’s parents. ‘Is that you, Shravana?’ he heard a feeble man’s voice. ‘Your footsteps sound so heavy. What are you carrying?’
Dashratha saw the boy’s parents: they were old and almost blind. They sat in two baskets, which were tied to the ends of a long stick. The boy, he deduced, had slung the stick over his shoulders to carry his parents around. ‘I am Dashratha, king of Kosala. What are you doing in the forest?’ he said.
‘Our son,’ said the mother, ‘is taking us on a pilgrimage. He moved away from the pilgrim path to fetch some water. We were very thirsty. Shravana saw a tiger and a deer walking together. He realized they were both going to some waterbody. So he followed them with a pot. He should be returning soon.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Dashratha, throwing himself at the feet of the old couple. He then told them what had happened.
The parents pulled their son’s body from Dashratha’s arms. They checked his pulse and his breath. He was indeed dead. The mother then let out a wail. And the father spat out a curse, ‘As my wife wails so shall you, when you will be forced to separate from your son. As my heart is ripped in pain, so shall yours, when the joy of the future is stripped away from you.’
‘Please, let me help you. Please understand.’
‘No, stay away from us. Let us die here holding our son’s body. Let the tiger feed on us while we are still alive. Let the vultures eat us when we are dead. That pain will be more bearable than the pain you have caused us.�
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Dashratha fled from the old couple, and returned to the palace, guilt-ridden and terror-struck. ‘My sons … I want my sons before me,’ he ordered. Ram and Lakshman, who were in the elephant stables, rushed out to be by their father’s side. ‘Where are Bharata and Shatrughna? Has something happened to them?’ asked Dashratha.
‘Don’t you remember, Father?’ said Ram. ‘Before you left for the hunt you bid them farewell. Uncle Yudhajit had sent a chariot from Kekaya to fetch them. Old King Ashwapati is ill, and wanted to see his granddaughters-in-law before he died.’
‘And what if I die today?’ said Dashratha, as the servants wiped the sweat from his brow and fetched him water and pressed his feet. Everyone looked at each other.
What was the matter with the king? Why was he so frightened? ‘No, it is time to appoint the next king. Ayodhya needs a young king; let the old king retire. Yes, let me withdraw from my throne, before anyone withdraws my sons from me.’
Nobody understood what the king was rambling on about. But when Vasishtha came, Dashratha made it very clear: ‘Tomorrow morning, I wish to place the crown on the head of my eldest son, Ram. He has a wife now. He has killed and forgiven already. He is ready to lead the Raghu clan. And I am ready to retire, sit in the shadows, watch him rule and train his sons as Kaushika trained my sons.’
This was a good idea, thought Vasishtha. The king was respecting the ashrama system of Vedic society, according to which every man has to spend the first quarter of his life as a celibate student, the next quarter as a productive householder, the third quarter in retirement, supporting his son and teaching his grandson, and the final quarter as a sanyasi, renouncing home and wife. The system ensured no generation dominated society; every generation made room for the next. But he was suspicious of the king’s impatience.
The story of Dashratha killing Shravana is found in the Valmiki Ramayana, but the name given to the boy is Yagnadatta. His mother’s jati is shudra and his father’s vaishya. This reference to caste is significant, for if the boy was a brahmin his killing would have been the greatest of crimes.
Sita: An Illustrated Retelling of the Ramayana Page 8