‘However unpleasant,’ said Doda, ‘I will see it is done. All I want is for you to be well again.’
‘Since you ask,’ said his wife. ‘Well, this fortune-teller said that the only way my life can be saved is if Dodi, her husband and children, shave their heads, blacken their faces, sit backwards on asses, and come here beating broken clay pots, singing, “Long live Doda’s wife, long live Doda’s wife”.’
‘This is easy,’ said Doda. ‘I am sure my sister would not object to it. Not if it will save your life. After all, what is hair? It is like grass in the monsoon season. It will grow again quickly. And as for blackened faces, they can be washed off easily. Do not worry your sweet head in the least. I will arrange it immediately. All I want is for you to be well and for this household to flourish.’
His wife tried hard not to smile. She was finally going to humiliate Dodi.
Doda, instead of going to his sister, went directly to his mother-in-law. Just before he entered her house, he adjusted his expression. He put on a long, unhappy face and had tears in his eyes.
All the children and grandchildren in his mother-in-law’s household began calling, ‘Uncle is here, Uncle is here.’
The mother-in-law was not too sure how she felt about him. The last time he had visited, he had left a large clay pot filled with vicious creatures. What did he want this time, she wondered.
His very sad expression worried her. Was something wrong?
‘Is everything all right with you?’
‘Oh, I am fine,’ he answered, ‘but your daughter is very sick. In fact, she is on her deathbed.’
‘Oh, heavens,’ said his mother-in-law. ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘Well,’ said Doda, ‘a fortune teller came to see her today …’
‘Yes?’ prompted his mother-in-law.
‘I hesitate to ask. It is not pleasant,’ said Doda.
‘Do ask,’ said his mother-in-law. ‘There is nothing I would not do for my daughter.’
‘Well,’ said Doda, ‘it involves your whole family. Your sons, daughters-in-law and children.’
‘We will all willingly do whatever is necessary.’
‘What the fortune teller said was that the only remedy was for you and your entire family to shave their heads, blacken their faces, sit backwards on asses and come to our house beating on broken clay pots, singing, “Stupid daughter, stupid daughter.” It may seem odd, but that is what the fortune teller said.’
‘It certainly is odd,’ said the mother-in-law, ‘but if this will save my daughter’s life, I will do it.’
So the mother-in-law sent one son to hire asses, another to get the barber, and yet another to grind some coal.
The entire family had their heads shaved. Then they blackened their faces with ground coal, sat backwards on the asses, and started towards the house of Doda’s wife beating on broken clay pieces and singing, ‘Stupid daughter, stupid daughter.’
Doda’s wife, meanwhile, was awaiting, with much glee, a procession led by Dodi.
She put on her prettiest sari and took a position on her balcony. She could see quite a distance from there.
A procession was approaching.
Doda’s wife almost danced with excitement.
‘This must be good for you,’ said Doda. ‘You already look much better.’
As the procession neared the house, Doda’s wife sang gleefully to her husband:
‘The tricks of women are so bold.
They can sit at home and shake the world.’
To which Doda sang back:
‘Men, too, know a few things, you see.
Is that Dodi, or is that your mummy?’
Doda’s wife now saw that it was her mother who was leading the procession. She almost died of shame.
Her mother came up to her and said, ‘Well, daughter, you seem fine to me. Why did you ask us to humiliate ourselves like this?’
At this point, Doda’s wife burst into tears and told her whole story. ‘I have been so wicked,’ she cried, ‘and I have been punished. From now on, I will be a good wife to Doda, a good sister-in-law to Dodi, and a good daughter to my dear, departed father-in-law.’
It was on the tenth day of the waxing moon around late September that the good warrior King Ram finally defeated Ravan, the evil demon with ten heads, in a long and deadly battle that took place in a country we now call Sri Lanka. All this happened thousands of years ago but even today the story is acted out in every city and village of India. It is a nationwide celebration of the victory of Good over Evil.
In our family, we children would make crude clay statues of the demon, Ravan, and then lay them down on our driveway. Shouting, ‘Kill, kill, kill,’ we would hop on to our bicycles and ride all over the statues, crushing them to pieces. Tame stuff, I know. The problem was that our family was never a family of warriors. The only wars we waged were with pens and pencils. Even fifteen hundred years ago, my ancestors made their living writing, not fighting.
Because, at this festival, every family worships the ‘weapons of its trade’, my mother would first set up a statue of the good King Ram in our Prayer Room, properly garlanded with a fresh marigold necklace.
Under the statue where some people arranged guns and swords, my mother arranged, very neatly, some of the oddest things – my father’s Parker pen, my school pencil, paintbrushes, nibs, rulers, even bottles of royal blue Quink. All these things needed to be blessed and Dussehra was the best time for it.
This suited me perfectly. I do not know if the good King Ram was aware of it, but by the age of six, I had already developed a raging passion for stationery. I loved the feel of thick, smooth paper and the smell of freshly sharpened pencils. In a drawer marked ‘Private’, I had put together a collection that boasted a single pencil that would write in five colours, a fat red fountain pen with a black tassel, and a sable-hair brush that was fine enough to paint the veins of leaves.
It was heartwarming to know that someone in heaven was interested in my collection. If the good King Ram would bless my pens and pencils, I would willingly bicycle over the demon Ravan for him as many times as he pleased.
How Ram Defeated the Demon King Ravan
I King Dashrat’s Special Heir
Long, long ago there lived in the northern kingdom of Kosala, a warrior king named Dashrat. His capital city was Ayodhya. And what a city it was! It sprawled on the banks of the Saryu River, with elegant seven-storey mansions rising gracefully from formal parks and gardens. Its granaries were filled with wheat, its treasure houses with gold. Young people here dressed with such style and imagination, buying their woollens and colourful silks from caravans that criss-crossed the globe.
Elephants with tinkling bells tied to their feet and warriors brave as lions defended the city. There was no war for the elephants and warriors to go to, though, for the kingdom of Kosala was at peace.
King Dashrat, living in a snow-white palace on top of a hill, ruled honourably, wisely and with strength. His people were happy and contented and his enemies too afraid to challenge him.
The only man in Kosala who was not entirely satisfied with his life was King Dashrat himself. He was very, very old, and had no heirs to inherit his throne. He had three wives but no child to carry on his good work for the people of his kingdom.
Dashrat begged his priest for help.
‘There must be a way,’ he cried. ‘Let us offer prayers in front of a big sacrificial fire. Perhaps the gods will hear us.’
A huge fire was made and butter dribbled into it.
‘O gods, hear us,’ prayed the priest.
And the gods listened.
Gods have their own reasons for the things they do. Their reason this time was Ravan.
Ravan was a demon king, dark as a thundercloud and as wicked as Dashrat was good. If Dashrat ruled over the kingdom of Kosala in the north, Ravan ruled the Island of Demons, far away in the south. If Dashrat’s capital city was almost as fair as heaven, Ravan’s was des
igned by the architect of heaven. If Dashrat had one head and two arms, like most men, Ravan had ten heads and twenty arms. Ravan could smile a ten-mouthed smile, twirl ten moustaches at once, and let loose a rainfall of arrows from ten golden bows.
But that is not what troubled the gods. In a moment of weakness, the gods had granted Ravan a wish. Ravan, shrewd as he was, had asked the gods to arrange it so that no god in heaven and no creature from the underworld would be able to kill him. Ravan wanted to be immortal. The gods had unfortunately agreed.
The result was that Ravan and his fellow demons flew around heaven and earth drinking blood, eating people and changing shape at will to get at their victims. Ravan and his demons had become so powerful and so wicked that they could, at times, even stop the smoke given off by holy fires from reaching heaven, and this angered the gods.
While King Dashrat was preparing his sacrifice on earth, a god in heaven was saying, ‘There has got to be a way to stop Ravan. If we cannot stop him, who can? We are supposed to be gods.’
Another god said, ‘Whoever granted that wish to Ravan was so stupid … so very stupid.’
A third god said, ‘Let us not fight amongst ourselves but plan ahead. The wish we granted actually stops gods from heaven and the underworld from destroying Ravan. It says nothing about men and animals who live on earth …’
‘That is true,’ said a fourth god. ‘But Ravan is so strong that it would take a very special man.’
‘I could assist this … very special man … by being born again in his body,’ said a fifth god, who happened to be Vishnu, the Preserver of Life.
Just then, smoke from King Dashrat’s sacrifice managed, somehow, to reach heaven.
The gods had found a way. They would give King Dashrat an heir. A very special heir.
On earth a black giant dressed in crimson appeared in King Dashrat’s fire. His dark, silky beard fluttered in the breeze like a flag in the wind. Handing Dashrat a bowl filled with rice pudding, he intoned, ‘Come, divide this amongst your wives. They will give you the sons you desire.’ Then the giant disappeared in the smoke.
Dashrat took the bowl to his first wife, Kaushalya, and gave her half of the pudding. Out of what was left, he gave half to his second wife Sumitra. Out of what remained, he gave half to his third wife Kaikeyi. A little bit of pudding was still in the bowl. He gave that to Sumitra, saying, ‘Here, finish it up.’
Kaushalya duly gave birth to a son, Ram. Kaikeyi was next, with a son named Bharat. Sumitra was last. She had been given two helpings, so she had twin boys, Laxshman and Shatrughan.
As the boys grew older, Laxshman grew very attached to his eldest brother, Ram, and Shatrughan to his brother Bharat. All the brothers, however, were very close and loved each other.
It was Ram, of course, strong, handsome Ram, who was heir to the throne and in whose body there lived, very quietly, the soul of a god.
When the boys were sixteen a wise Sage and family adviser said, ‘It is time Ram and Laxshman were taught how to fight demons. I will take the boys away and begin their instruction.’
Ram was taught sacred verses that would increase his strength a hundred times, and he was shown how to use magical weapons that came straight from heaven. Both boys perfected their archery and their use of deadly flying discs.
On their way home, following this instruction, the threesome passed through the lands of the good King Janak. A wedding party was being held in the capital city and it was a very special wedding party.
Janak’s daughter, Sita, was about to pick a husband from all the men who were assembled. Just one condition had been attached to the men’s chances of happiness. They had, first of all, to bend and string a very heavy bow.
Almost every prince, king and nobleman present wanted to marry Sita because she was, quite simply, the most beautiful girl on earth. Her skin was soft and golden, her eyes large and shining, her lips red and full and her lustrous black hair so long that it reached her ankles. As Sita walked the belts draped around her hips jingled gently and her airy, silver scarves swayed in the breeze. When Sita smiled, she was as dazzling as the sun. Sita was quite irresistible.
One man after another had tried to lift the bow, but it could not be lifted, let alone bent and strung. It weighed as much as a mountain. King Janak despaired of ever marrying off his daughter, when Ram appeared on the scene.
Sita was watching from a window and fell instantly in love with the handsome prince. ‘Oh,’ she prayed, ‘please let him bend the bow.’
Ram looked down at the bow and said to himself, ‘No human can lift this. It is god Shiva’s bow from heaven.’ But when he bent down, he found that he could lift it with ease. He pressed one end under his foot and bent the other enough to string it. He bent it so much that, much to the amazement of all who were present, the bow snapped in two.
Ram and Sita were wed in front of a fire. Sita’s father showered the bride and groom with gifts of elephants, horses, dogs, and baskets filled with gold beads and turquoise to take back to Ayodhya.
The young couple settled down to live together in a shining palace of black stone. Wherever they walked, their love for each other made flowers bloom and leaves brighten in colour.
But trouble was brewing in King Dashrat’s snow-white palace on top of the hill.
II Ram is Banished
King Dashrat had been doing some serious thinking. He was getting too old. It was time he handed over the throne to his son Ram. Why wait to die? he thought. It would give me so much pleasure to see my dear son Ram sit on my throne and rule.
He made an announcement in court. ‘Let the preparations for my son’s coronation begin.’
Meanwhile, Queen Kaikeyi, Bharat’s mother, was idle.
She had a scheming, hunchback maid who came to her and said, ‘Today you are lolling happily on pillows, sucking a mango, but your tomorrows are bound to be miserable.’
‘What on earth can you mean?’ Kaikeyi asked.
‘When Ram is king, no one will care for you or for your dear son, Bharat.’
‘What nonsense you talk,’ Kaikeyi said, delicately wiping mango juice off her fingers. ‘I love Ram and he is the heir.’
‘Not if you change things.’
‘But how can I?’
‘Easily,’ said the scheming maid. ‘Remember, a very long time ago, you saved Dashrat’s life during a war, and he said he would grant you any two wishes.’
‘Yes, and I said I would ask for my wishes later, when I knew what I wanted,’ said Kaikeyi, sucking out some more juice from her mango.
‘Exactly. Ask for them now. Ask for Bharat to be crowned King and for Ram to be banished to the forest for fourteen years.’
Now, King Dashrat’s palace had a room where anyone could go if they were feeling angry or upset.
Kaikeyi went into the Anger Room and threw herself on the floor.
Soon King Dashrat came in to find out what was troubling her. Kaikeyi was so very pretty. The King could never ignore her for long.
‘What is the matter, my sweet wife?’ King Dashrat asked.
‘Oh, nothing very much,’ Queen Kaikeyi answered.
‘It cannot be nothing or you would not be in this room. Besides, your eyes are all puffy. Tell me, sweet, what is the matter?’
‘I want to ask you for my two wishes,’ Kaikeyi said.
‘My Queen, I cannot break my promise to you, you know that. Ask for what you desire,’ Dashrat said.
‘Crown Bharat king and banish Ram to the forest for fourteen years.’
King Dashrat was stunned into silence. He had never broken his word, to god, man or beast. What could he do now? His happiness and his future had all been stolen from him.
‘Go and get Ram,’ he whispered with difficulty to his servants.
When Ram arrived, his father was far too unhappy to speak. It was Kaikeyi who said, ‘Bharat is to be king and you are to be banished for fourteen years.’
‘Is this what my dear father desires?’ Ram asked
.
‘Your father is keeping his two promises to me,’ Kaikeyi said.
‘Then I have no choice, I must honour my father’s word. If promises are made, they must be kept. Let Bharat rule. There is not much difference between us. I will leave tomorrow.’
As Ram was preparing to leave, his wife Sita and his brother Laxshman announced that they would accompany him.
‘I cannot live without you,’ Sita said.
‘And I will guard you both,’ Laxshman insisted.
‘The forest is full of unknown dangers,’ Ram said. ‘There are only leaves and twigs to sleep on and roots and berries for food. Enjoy the comforts of the palace. Fourteen years will pass quickly.’
But Sita and Laxshman would not be persuaded. The three packed a few belongings and set out for the forest that lay to the south of Kosala.
All of Ayodhya wept at the disaster that had struck them. The birds stopped singing and flowers refused to bloom. As for the King, he fell into a deep gloom. ‘I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it,’ he cried. One day, his heart broke and he died.
Bharat was sent for. He had to be crowned king, but when he found out what his mother had done, he began to curse her.
He decided to rush to the forest and bring his brother, Ram, back.
Bharat followed after Ram and found him on a quiet mountain top that was covered with spring flowers.
‘Our father is dead. Please come back and be king,’ Bharat begged.
‘I must keep my father’s promise,’ Ram said. ‘If we give in, a little bit here, a little bit there, soon, there will be no honour left. No, I cannot return for fourteen years. I am sure you will rule wisely.’
‘I will never wear the crown and never sit on the throne,’ Bharat said with great passion. ‘Give me your sandals. I will place them on the throne in your name. I will go back to our kingdom only as your caretaker and sit at the foot of the throne. Our family and the people of Kosala will wait patiently for fourteen years until you return. For fourteen years there will be no merriment and no music.’
Seasons of Splendour Page 5