The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  Kaikeyi stamped her foot and said shrilly, “You want to leave empty coffers and deserted streets for Bharata to rule! Remember your oath, Dasaratha. Nothing goes with Rama; he goes clad in bark.”

  With a wild cry, Dasaratha turned on her. “Wretched enemy, is there no limit to the torment you will inflict on me? Woman, your boons were only that Bharata be crowned and Rama exiled. There was nothing about my wealth or my people, and what I do with them; and nothing about me, or my life. You are a serpent I have nurtured at my breast. I will also go into the forest with Rama, and you can rule Ayodhya with your son.”

  But Rama said to his father, “All I need are some clothes made of valkala, as rishis wear.”

  Before Rama had finished, Kaikeyi ran out of the sabha. She came back, panting, with three rough robes made of strands of bark woven together. She came defiantly to Rama and thrust one bundle of coarse cloth into his arms. Her glittering eyes met his calm gaze, and a mad smile curved her lips. Rama donned the robe of bark she gave him, and Lakshmana put on another.

  Dasaratha watched helplessly, almost beyond grief now. One valkala robe remained in Kaikeyi’s hands, and she held it out to Sita. Sita took the strange garment from Kaikeyi. But try as she would, she could not put it on properly: she did not know how. She stood in that court, with some of the robe around her head and some still in her hands, tangled. She turned shyly to Rama and he quickly wrapped the rest of it around her waist, over the pale silk she wore.

  Their hearts breaking, the women of the royal harem cried, “Sita hasn’t been banished. Leave her with us.”

  “Take Lakshmana, but not the tender princess.”

  “How will she live in the jungle?”

  When he saw Sita wearing valkala, Vasishta flashed at Kaikeyi in rare anger, “You will stop at nothing, will you? You have banished Rama. Let Sita rule from his throne if you want to be forgiven at least part of your sin. Or we will all follow Rama to the forest and build another city there. He will rule us and the forest will be Ayodhya.

  “Fallen queen, your ambition has blinded you to one thing: Bharata will never accept this kingdom you have won for him with treachery. Shatrughna and he will follow Rama to the jungle. Take my word for it; I know these princes better than you do.”

  Dasaratha seemed to gain courage from Vasishta’s anger. He said, “Stop this madness, Kaikeyi. Sita shall not wear valkala.”

  Kaikeyi fumed, but Sita could put aside her crude cassock.

  Rama said to the king, “My mother Kausalya isn’t young any more. She will not be able to bear this sorrow unless you help her. If you don’t share her burden, she will give up hope and her life with it.”

  Dasaratha sobbed bitterly. He said, “In my past lives I must have separated many children from their parents, that I am cursed like this now. And I can’t even die of grief, as I gladly would to be rid of this agony. Because one evil woman wants to own this kingdom, this barren patch of dirt, all our people must suffer.”

  He shook his head in despair; he looked imploringly at Kaikeyi. But that queen’s heart was set in stone.

  Vanquished, Dasaratha said to Sumantra, “Yoke my best horses to my chariot and bring it to the door. Take my noble son to the edge of the forest and leave him there. I know now that no matter how a man follows dharma, the sins of his past lives overtake him inexorably. That is why I, Dasaratha, who was once a powerful king, can only watch helplessly while my innocent child is banished. And who banishes him? I, his father, who love him as I do my life, and his youngest mother, who did so until today.”

  14. Rama leaves Ayodhya

  When the king’s sarathy returned to the royal presence, the time had come for Rama to leave. Suddenly Dasaratha seemed to grow stronger. His voice was firm, and he said, “Sumantra, bring silks, and ornaments from the treasury to last Sita fourteen years.”

  Kaikeyi opened her mouth to speak. Then she saw the look in her husband’s eye, and thought better of it. Sita was draped in finery by Kausalya and the other women of the harem, who paused from time to time to wipe their tears. It was as if they wrapped her not just in silk but in their love and blessings. They attired her ritually, like a bride, in that sabha of sorrow, and she was an embodiment of grace. Kaikeyi’s lips throbbed, her face twitched; but Sita was enthroned in the hearts of the people.

  Then Kausalya said loudly, so everyone heard her, “My child, women usually serve their husbands as long as they prosper. How many will share their husbands’ sorrow and misfortune? But you are ready to follow Rama even into exile, and your sweet face shows no trace of regret. I bless you, Sita, purest of women.”

  Sita said softly, “Don’t worry about your son, mother. He is my light and I will look after him.”

  Rama came to Kausalya and walked around her in pradakshina. Taking her hand, he said, “Don’t grieve too much. This hour of parting is the hardest; the years will pass before you know they have come and gone. They will pass as night does in sleep, and I will return to you.”

  He went to Sumitra and Kaikeyi, and took the padadhuli from their feet. Kaikeyi flinched from his touch. “If I have ever offended you, forgive me, my mothers, I meant no harm. Give me your blessings; I will need them during my exile.”

  You could hear sobbing in the sabha as the women of the palace wept, and strong men could not contain their grief. Sita and Lakshmana sought their mothers’ blessings; seeing his brother fall at Sumitra’s feet, Rama’s eyes were full.

  Sumitra said to her son, “Serve Rama as you would your father. Lakshmana, my child, there is no sin in what you have decided to do. And I know that, with Rama, the jungle for you will be Ayodhya.”

  Rama walked around his father in pradakshina. As grief struck him again, he came back to Kausalya and fell at her feet once more. With Lakshmana and Sita at his side, he stood silently before Dasaratha, with his head bowed. He knelt at his father’s feet and clasped them. Sita and Lakshmana took the king’s blessing.

  At last, Sumantra said, “Rama, the chariot is here.”

  Rama turned away from his parents and went out into the sun. In the teeming streets, the people wore finery to celebrate the crowning of a yuvaraja. The women began to wail when Sita, Rama, and Lakshmana climbed into Sumantra’s chariot. In a tide, the crowd swept toward the chariot that bore their prince away from them. They reached out hands of grief to him; they stood in the horses’ path. They cried to Sumantra, “Drive so slowly that fourteen years pass on your journey through these streets.”

  Some lay in front of the chariot wheels and had to be lifted out of the way by the king’s soldiers.

  But others cried, “Death to Kaikeyi! Death to Dasaratha!”

  “We want Rama for our king today!”

  “He belongs to the people. We will not let him go to the forest.”

  Rama also cried now. He knew all of them by their names. He had eaten in their homes and shared their joys and their hopes. He knew who their children were and which child belonged to whom. Parting from his parents he had borne resolutely; but now the tears came and he could not stop them. Sita wept beside him, and Lakshmana sobbed. This was a sea of love they plowed through, their chariot a ship of sorrow. This love was what Rama could hardly bear to be parted from. He cried to the sarathy, “Fly Sumantra, before my heart breaks.”

  Dasaratha ran out of his palace. For the first time in years, he ran out onto the street to pursue the chariot that bore his son away from him. But a few steps and he fell, and the people had to lift their king from the ground. Then Kausalya, who had controlled herself until now, tried to follow the chariot. Faintly Rama heard her voice above the crowd, screaming his name.

  He heard the king crying, “Stop the chariot. Sumantra, I command you, stop!”

  But Rama whispered to Sumantra, “Fly, Sumantra. Say later that you didn’t hear him for the crowd.”

  He stood up in the chariot, dark and handsome, wearing valkala, and more luminous than ever. With his fine hands and his soft voice, he asked for passage from
the swirling crowd. His people, who could refuse him nothing, parted, and he rode along the path they cleared. As Dasaratha stood benumbed on his palace steps, the banner on his son’s chariot vanished from view. But the old king stood on for an hour with some of the sad crowd below him, lest Rama change his mind and return.

  At last, Kausalya laid a hand on Dasaratha’s arm in mercy, and, leaning on her after many years, he turned back into his palace. The people also began to disperse.

  15. Grief

  Dasaratha had crossed the threshold into the palace when it struck him like a blow that his son had really gone. The king’s legs gave way under him. Kausalya could not bear his weight and Kaikeyi ran to his side. But when she took his hand, Dasaratha’s eyes flew open. He snatched away his hand and cried, “Don’t touch me! I never want to see your face again. And if Bharata is loyal to you, I will not look at him either.”

  He allowed only Kausalya to support him. Dasaratha pointed through the great palace doors and said sadly, “Look at the trail of dust that takes my Rama away from me. Dressed like two tapasvins, my sons have gone to sleep on beds of branches and leaves; and that flower of a girl with them. How will she endure the thorns that pierce her feet? How will Sita bear the terror of the beasts of the jungle? Kaikeyi, I hope you are satisfied with what you have done. I will die soon now, and then you and your son can rule Ayodhya over my ashes.”

  He looked around him by the last light of day streaming through the doors. The palace was dead without Rama: a body out of which the soul had gone.

  Dasaratha said to Kausalya, “You are my Rama’s mother. Forgive me for all the pain I have caused you. Take me with you to your apartment, Kausalya; let me seek my peace in you.”

  The palace guards carried him to her apartment and set him down on a couch. Kausalya sat beside him. After the sun set, the king and his first queen spent all night speaking together of their son: how noble he was and how true. Dasaratha did not stop crying.

  Once, raising his arms above his head, he said, “Rama, you have left me and gone. Fortunate shall they be who live to see you return; but not I, my son, not I. My hours are numbered now. I feel death near me, as if he comes to fill the void you have left.”

  Kausalya wept. Her husband reached for her in the darkness. “Touch me with your tender hands I have not felt for so many years. I did not tell you earlier, but the vision of my eyes followed Rama’s chariot and has not returned to me. I cannot see any more. But hold me now and let us share our grief.”

  Kausalya came to him. They sat with their arms around each other and found some solace. They whispered to each other about Rama: about how he looked now, and what he was like when he was ten, and five; how everyone loved him, and how he had broken Siva’s bow. They spoke of nothing but Rama while they held each other and the night’s living darkness swept like a cold wind through the fissures in their hearts.

  Sumitra sat in the next room and realized that, instead of giving Dasaratha her strength, Kausalya was plunging him into deeper despair. Sumitra called the older queen, and said firmly in that solid night of sorrow, “Calm yourself, Kausalya. Rama is so pure that no harm will come to our children. The sun will not burn them, the breeze will blow gently around them and the vana devatas will all protect them. At night, the moon will wrap them in his light like a father. And which animal that dares attack them will escape with its life? Have you forgotten the devastras our sons command? Or the rakshasas they killed, when they went with Viswamitra?”

  Kausalya grew quiet. Sumitra stroked her face. Lakshmana’s mother said, “It is your strength Dasaratha needs tonight, not your tears. Fourteen years will flit by before you realize they have gone, and Rama will come back to you.”

  Kausalya was ashamed. Sumitra had also sent a son to the forest today, though he had not been banished.

  16. The people of Ayodhya

  Like a sea leaving its shores and seeking a new bed to lie in, the people of Ayodhya followed Rama’s chariot beyond the city gates. Though he begged them to return, they followed him far beyond the limits of the city. Finally, he had Sumantra stop the chariot and spoke to them.

  “If you love me, you must listen to what I say. I am going away to keep my father’s dharma. I beg you, give this love to my brother Bharata. You know him well: he is a fine man, older than his years, kind and strong. He will rule Ayodhya as ably as Dasaratha. Welcome Bharata to the throne; he will be a good king to you.”

  But they began to shout him down. “We want you for our king!”

  “You were born to be king; aren’t you the eldest?”

  “Stop the horses, Sumantra!” they cried.

  “You cannot take our king from us.”

  The old and the infirm were in that crowd, and they shouted as loudly as the young. Rama climbed down from the chariot and went among them. One old man, who had no teeth left in his head, unfurled a battered old umbrella over him. “I will shield you from the sun, my prince. Your Sita wilts in the heat; let her get down and walk under my umbrella. It is a royal parasol, Rama, because it is held over you in love!”

  “Come back with us, Rama, or we will all go into the jungle with you,” said another old one.

  A brahmana priest, who was also old but obviously as fit as any youngster in the crowd, said, “Look Rama, I have brought my sacred fire with me. I mean to stay with you for fourteen years.”

  Rama only smiled. He shook his head and walked faster to try to leave them behind. But they followed him, old and young, men and women. Then, as if nature herself wanted to bar the prince’s way, the Tamasa lay ahead of them, rippling velvet in the dusk. Sumantra unyoked his horses and led them to drink.

  Rama stood staring at the river, after its winding course. He turned to Sita and Lakshmana. “The first day of our exile ends. Let us sleep here tonight, beside the Tamasa.”

  The sky was burnished gold, fading quickly. They could hear the twilight noises of birds and daylight creatures returning to their roosts, their holes and hides.

  Rama said to Sita, “Can you hear the wild folk coming home for the night?” Then he was somber. “But in Ayodhya, Dasaratha will not sleep tonight: he mourns his sons who have left him. My only consolation is that Bharata will be home soon.” He put his arm around his brother. “Lakshmana, I am so glad you came with us. You shall be our protector, Sita’s and mine.”

  Lakshmana had made beds for the three of them with leaves and grass, even as he used to when the princes had gone with Viswamitra. Rama lay down with a sigh. He asked Sumantra, “Have the horses grazed, Sumantra? Have you eaten anything? As for me, I won’t eat tonight; there is no hunger in me.”

  Sita lay down beside him, Lakshmana on the other side, and they fell asleep, in calm, while a breeze played on their faces. All the people also lay down around them and slept, strangely refreshed by their adventure. The moon rose over the unusual spectacle, and the river whispered about it all the way to the sea.

  * * *

  Two hours before dawn, when the moon had set and no one stirred, not even the breeze any more, or the little creatures of night, Rama shook Sita and Lakshmana. He held a finger to his lips and whispered, “We must be on our way.”

  They woke Sumantra. Without a sound—the horses were well trained—they crossed the sleepy, murmurous Tamasa. On the other bank, Rama said to Sumantra, “Cross the river again and ride for a time toward Ayodhya. Then fly back to us on your tracks, before the sun rises and the people wake up. They must think we have turned back to the city. Otherwise, they will either follow us into exile or take us back to Ayodhya; and neither course is the way of dharma.”

  Sumantra was back within the hour. Rama briefly turned his face north; then he, Sita, and Lakshmana climbed into the chariot, just as the false dawn that comes before sunrise flushed at the horizon. Like the wind, they swept away toward the Dandaka vana.

  17. The hunter king

  Yoked to the swiftest horses in Ayodhya, the fine chariot carried Rama farther and farther from home. T
hrough town and village they flew without stopping, across emerald plains, fording frothy streams, plunging through scented woods and swaying fields. For the night, they stopped beneath a large pipal tree out in the open, leagues from any habitation. They lay under portentous stars, which had shone down on the earth through the chasmal vaults of the universe ever since the earth was made. Starlight entered them as subtle destiny; but they lay asleep knowing nothing of its powerful mysteries.

  With dawn the next day, they pressed on and came to the southern lands of Kosala. Here Rama asked Sumantra to hold his horses. Climbing down from the chariot, he stood gazing across fallow fields and sown in the light of the lonely morning, as the wildflowers around his ankles opened just for him and the birds in the trees sang the rising sun. But when he saw some farmers and their women come out of their simple dwellings, he climbed into the chariot again and told Sumantra to ride hard.

  They came to the cool Vedasruti, whose waters were known for their sweetness. They forded the river and gained the far bank. On they drove and after half a day they came to the sacred Gomati. They crossed that river also, comfortably for the water was still low, and rode on.

  Rama said wistfully to Sita, “These are the lands that Manu gave his son Ikshvaku in the krita yuga.”

  He told them about every land they passed. He knew each one’s history intimately and spoke as if they were all precious parts of himself. They had come to the Syandika and forded her when, suddenly, grief seized Rama. He said in anguish, “Sumantra, when will I hunt with you again in the forests of the Sarayu? When will I see my father and mother again?”

  But seeing tears spring in the old sarathy’s eyes, he controlled himself. Now they had reached the southern limit of Kosala. Rama stopped the chariot. He climbed down and turned his face north, from where they had come. He folded his hands and said softly, “Land of my ancestors, let me leave you now. Gods of Kosala, bless me that I return to my mother and my father when my exile is over.”