The Ramayana

by Ramesh Menon

  Bright as Agni from his tapasya, that rishi said, “When you reach the Sangama, follow the Yamuna east and you will find a well-worn path that runs for a krosa. After a krosa, cross the river and you will see the path continues on the other side. Walk that way until you come to a nyagrodha, a solitary ancient of the jungle. That sacred tree is called Shyama. Let Sita worship him, as siddhas have done through the ages, for he is a guardian of Chitrakuta. You can rest among his roots or go on, as you choose.

  “Another krosa ahead is a softer forest: the Yamunavana of palasa, badri, and yamala trees. The trail through that vana is full of charming sights. You will see lakes, streams, and lofty falls. I have walked that way many times; the jungle is thick with bamboo, but the path will not hurt your feet. For there is gentleness upon it, and it leads straight on to Chitrakuta.”

  Bharadvaja came to the riverbank with the kshatriyas. He blessed them and went back to his asrama, his heart beating with Rama, his mind full of the dark prince. Without turning back, the brothers and Sita walked away beside the swift river. They walked a while before they found the path that skirted the water. A krosa from there they saw the ford where the river was slow.

  The princes cut down bamboo stems and jungle vines, and lashed them together to make a raft; on it, they crossed the midnight-blue water. Sita worshipped the river in midstream, just as she had the Ganga a day ago. She prayed to the Goddess Yamuna to bless them.

  South of the river, they took the jungle trail through the Yamunavana and came to a great nyagrodha, growing far from his fellows, like a lonely tower in the wilderness. With pradakshina, Sita worshipped that spirit and prayed aloud, “Ancestor of the jungle, bless us that we return safely to Ayodhya after fourteen years.”

  Rama said, “Let us press on; I am impatient to arrive.”

  The forest grew ever stranger and more vivid, as they went deeper into its spaces of mystery. Birds and flowers were more brilliantly plumed and petaled. Their songs were unfamiliar and their scents piquant. The path snaked through the Yamunavana, at times following the breathy river close to its bank, at others leading them far from the water, always climbing. The air was cooler here and, as Bharadvaja promised, they saw shining lakes and glittering waterfalls. The land was fresh and unspoiled, and they felt the earth received them like favored children.

  They decided to spend the night beside the Yamuna. They were tired, and thought they would make their way to Chitrakuta early the next day. Peacocks screamed around them as they settled down, and a lively troop of langurs was full of gossip in the trees above. They no longer felt threatened by the forest, but welcome and elated. Friendly breezes toyed with their hair. They slept contentedly that night and no thoughts of Ayodhya disturbed them.

  21. Chitrakuta

  With a thousand birds singing, the jungle woke them at dawn. The feathered ones sang the sun in rapture, blessing another day in the world as they have done since there were first birds in its trees to give praise. It had been dark when they settled here the previous night. Now they stood astonished by the loveliness of the place in which they found themselves. Forgotten were yesterday’s insoluble sorrows: this was their new life, of vibrant hill-green and deep river-blue. The flowers here were like pieces of a rainbow broken across the forest, and vivacious monkeys followed them again through the trees. They spied on herds of deer and came upon lakes tranquil as rishis’ hearts.

  The leaves had fallen off the palasa trees and scarlet flowers blazed on their branches like countless flames. From other trees, beehives hung heavy as little boats. When they ate the fruit of these forests, they knew they had never tasted anything to rival them. Tiny, nondescript songbirds, throats full of musical fire, sang down to incandescent peacocks. Those beautiful and tone-deaf fowl screeched back plaintively.

  Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana walked on until a mountain rose before them out of the foothills. They saw herds of elephant, bison, and deer moving on its shoulder streaked silver with shimmering cascades. The echo of the falls drifted across the silence of the valleys, as if borne on the wings of birds. Slowly they made their way up, and searched for a place to live in. They came to Valmiki’s asrama, and that rishi welcomed them. They took his blessing and climbed on. Then, in a flat clearing within a circle of eucalyptus and early pine, Rama stopped still. He felt certain that this was the place for them; as if here many paths of grace, laid on the earth in invisible arteries, converged, and imbued it with exceptional power and auspiciousness.

  Nearby, the Mandakini, which flows into the Yamuna, gushed over her rocky bed. Rama and Lakshmana collected logs of wood with which they could build a kutila. But Lakshmana told Rama to stand aside, and with wonderful skill began to lash together their first home in the wilderness. He took two days before it was ready: a cozy log cottage on the hillside, thatched with grass and straw.

  Outside, and a few yards from the little dwelling, was a shelter for worship. The construction was clean and strong, and Rama hugged his brother, crying jovially, “You couldn’t have built it better if I had helped you! But we must offer a sacrifice of deer’s flesh to the gods of the jungle, so they keep evil away from our asrama for fourteen years.”

  Expert hunter that he was, Lakshmana went off to stalk a herd of chital he had seen earlier beside the Mandakini. An hour later he came back, grinning, with a skinned carcass draped over his shoulders. They roasted the stag on a spit. Rama chanted the mantras for vaastu shanti and offered the meat to the Devas of light, to Rudra and Narayana, the vana devatas and the Gods who rule men’s fates.

  Rama bathed and entered the log cottage for the first time. Lakshmana and Sita went in after him. Contentment was upon them, since they could not have wished for better company or a more beautiful place in which to live.

  Thus Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana arrived on Chitrakuta, and settled there. The sorrow of Ayodhya left them alone, save very rarely.

  22. Sumantra returns

  For a long time after Rama crossed the Ganga, Guha and Sumantra stood on the bank of the river. The old sarathy stood gazing after his princes and Sita like one who watched a bad dream: bemused, expecting to awaken from it at any moment. Gently Guha led Sumantra back into his city. He kept the old man with him for a day and a night, until news came back from the jungle that the exiles had reached Bharadvaja’s asrama.

  Near noon the next day, Sumantra bid farewell to Guha, yoked his horses, and rode back to Ayodhya. Three days and nights rode Dasaratha’s sarathy, like Vayu, his heart full of sorrow. The fourth evening, when the sun had set, he arrived at the gates of Kosala’s capital. Nothing stirred in the city. No music was in the air; no games of chess were being played on the street corners. No contests of wrestling or marksmanship did Sumantra see in the alleyways. No butter lamps lit Ayodhya; no women strolled out on their husbands’ arms. Silence hung over the city.

  At the clatter of Sumantra’s wheels, the people flung open their doors and came out to see if Rama had returned. They crowded the chariot and cried, “Where is Rama? Where is our yuvaraja, Sumantra?”

  The old sarathy hung his head and replied in a whisper, “I left him on the banks of the Ganga. He ordered me back to Ayodhya.”

  Before the word spread, and he was mobbed, Sumantra snapped his reins and drove on to Dasaratha’s palace. The women of the harem saw him coming, and when they saw he came alone, hope went from them. They turned back to their apartments in despair, crying. Sumantra came to Dasaratha in Kausalya’s chambers and knelt before his king. Dasaratha questioned him mutely with blind eyes.

  Sumantra said, “We drove south for three days and I left him on the banks of the Ganga. I watched him cross the river. After waving to me, he walked into the forest with Lakshmana and Sita. And I saw them no more. The king of hunters, Guha of Shringiberapura, had news from his trackers that three days ago the princes and Sita arrived in Bharadvaja’s asrama.”

  As he spoke, Sumantra’s gaze roved anxiously over his master. Dasaratha had aged a life in the week since the s
arathy had seen him. He had grown so thin, he might not have eaten at all since Rama left. Pale skin hung loosely on his face; tears leaked from his weary eyes like his life. He sighed with every word he heard, and shivered as if with some great terror. Now when he spoke, his voice, which once rang like thunder through his sabha, was barely audible. Sumantra had to move closer to hear what he said.

  “Tell me more, so my pain grows a little less. Though there is no cure for me. Tell me how he walked into the jungle; tell me how he slept while you were with him. Did he send a message for me? What did Sita and Lakshmana say? Tell me everything, Sumantra: give me some peace.”

  “They wept, my lord, before they left me. Your sons rubbed their hair with the juice of the nyagrodha and twisted locks of jata on their heads.”

  Dasaratha listened to this in silence, and he seemed to become absorbed in the images of Rama that rose into his mind. But abruptly he sat erect and tried to get up from his couch. He could not, and cried, “Take me to him, Sumantra. I cannot live without my child. Yoke your horses; take me to him now!”

  At his sides, Kausalya and Sumitra stroked his arms and tried to quiet him, though they also cried. Sumantra stood before them in anguish. The king clasped Kausalya’s hands. He said to her, “Forgive me, Kausalya, forgive me. Don’t be angry; ah, I could not bear that. Though I betrayed your love, you have always been kind to me. And now look what I have done. Forgive me, oh forgive me, Kausalya.”

  He sobbed like a heartbroken child. Kausalya cradled Dasaratha’s head against her. She caressed his face, saying, “There is nothing to forgive, my lord. If I have spoken harshly to you these past days, it is only from my own sorrow. We will share this grief and conquer it, and Rama will come back to us.”

  But Dasaratha had fallen asleep from exhaustion. For a while, she held him quietly. Suddenly his eyes flew open as if a demon had visited his swoon. They darted here and there, as if searching blindly for something. Then he sighed and shut them once more.

  Thus, with Kausalya’s leave, Sumantra left Dasaratha. He bowed low to the king he had served for so many glorious years, and backed out of that chamber.

  23. A forgotten curse

  It was past midnight when Dasaratha awoke from a restless slumber. Kausalya and Sumitra sat beside him. Night was always a lucid time for the king. His mind seemed to clear when darkness fell, and so did his speech. Tonight he put his arms around Kausalya so she would hear what he had to say. Without Rama, he had no desire left to live in the bitter present; the past called him irresistibly. He thought he could see Kausalya dimly. He saw her as she had been many years ago: young and beautiful.

  Slowly but clearly, he said to her, “Whatever a man does, good or evil, comes back to him someday. And he pays for everything. Once when I was young and a keen hunter, I had a strange adventure. I was expert at shabdavedi, by which one kills an animal from hiding, aiming blind at just the sound it makes. I was proud of my skill.

  “It was a summer’s end, I remember. I can see the parched earth thirstily drinking the first showers of the monsoon. The sky was heavy with storm clouds and the frogs on the swollen pools were giving throat all together to welcome the rain. I remember that day so clearly: as if it has returned to me and I have set out again to hunt beside the Sarayu, under the green mountain. The river had risen and everything had been lashed clean by the torrents of the past day.

  “I stood very still, hidden in some thickets. I waited beside a pool on the river that was a favorite water hole for the animals of the jungle. For half an hour, I stood motionless and there was no sound save the songs of birds in the trees. Then I heard it, like music to my ears: the long gurgling noise that elephants make as they drink through their trunks. Never looking out from my hide, lest I give myself away, I eased my arrow through an opening in the thicket. Tracking the sound with only my hearing, I drew back my bowstring and shot a fierce arrow at where I judged the elephant’s heart to be.

  “Instead of the shrill trumpeting of a wounded beast, I heard a scream that froze my heart. It was the scream of a man. Then a voice was raised in agony: ‘Who has shot me like an animal? I am a rishi; why am I hunted with arrows? Who are you, sinner? Come out; let me see you before I die.’

  “I scrambled out in shock and saw a young sannyasi before me, fallen over on his side. My arrow had pierced him right through and protruded evilly from his chest. Its feathers were stained with his blood, which gushed from him and fell on the white sand. Beside him lay his water pot, from which all the water had spilled. A legend of pain was in his eyes, and anger.

  “When he saw me he cried through lips that frothed blood, ‘A kshatriya! What have I done to deserve your savage barb? I came to the river to fetch water for my old parents who are both blind. Now they will die without me, and thinking that I abandoned them.’

  “His breath came in a tortured wheeze; more blood bubbled from his mouth. I fell sobbing at his feet. I told him how I came to shoot him with my arrow. I begged him not to curse me, to believe it had been a mistake. I held him in my arms, and between painful gasps he said, ‘Fill the water pot and take it back to my father. You will find him a way down this trail. Tell him what happened; pacify him and try to prevent him from cursing you. As for me, I know you did not mean to kill me and I forgive you.’

  “The effort of speaking drained him and he lay quiet for a while. But I saw his eyes glaze over, as death came for him. His face contorted in another spasm of agony, and he cried to me, ‘Draw the arrow from me, Kshatriya, and let my life follow it. This pain is unbearable and I am dying too slowly.’

  “He smiled wanly at me, and his thin face was so radiant and beautiful. I grasped the shaft of the arrow and, with a heave, pulled it dripping from him. With one last scream that echoed through those woods, frightening the birds in the trees into flight, his eyes rolled up and he was dead in my arms. Now there was peace on his face; his lips softened into a smile.

  “For a long time, I stood stricken beside him. Then I picked up his water pot and filled it from the river. Summoning all my courage, and on heavy feet that wanted to turn and run back to the comfort of the palace, I made my slow way along that dreadful path through the forest, toward his father’s asrama. The father heard me before I saw him, and thinking I was his son returning with water, hailed me.

  “They sat at the door to their hut: two blind old people bent with age and poverty. Their eyes gazed sightlessly at me and I stood silent before them. The old muni said with some asperity, ‘Why are you standing there so quietly? Your mother is thirsty; give her the water. This is not the time to be playful.’

  “I took a deep breath and gave the water into the old woman’s hands. Then I said, ‘I am not your son. My name is Dasaratha, and I am a prince of the House of Ikshvaku.’ I paused and moistened my lips, which were dry as deserts. They craned their heads to my voice. Somehow, I went on, ‘I have caused you both great grief. What I have done is unforgivable. But I did not do it wantonly and I beg you to forgive me.’

  “The blind father asked, ‘What have you done, Kshatriya?’

  “I told them as best as I could: how the water pot being filled had sounded like an elephant drinking, and how I shot my arrow without looking. The rishi and his wife received my news with grave calm. They were obviously master and mistress of their emotions.

  “Slowly, the old man said, ‘If you had not come here with such courage, my curse would have burst your head from afar like a melon. Take us to our son. We want to touch him one last time with our fingers, which for us are our eyes’

  “In misery, I led them by their wizened hands down the path of sorrow. Kneeling in the wet sand, the father stroked his son’s face and wept. Then the mother knelt beside him. When her fingers felt her child’s cold body and the wound in his side, she screamed and fell over.

  “Grimly the old rishi performed the last rites for his son. He asked me to gather dry twigs and branches for the cremation. He piled them over his dead youth, chanting hymns fro
m the Veda. At last, he offered water as tarpana to the departed soul, for his journey in death. Then he lit that fire with a touch of his hands.

  “As it blazed up, his wife clutched his hand. The rishi turned to me. ‘You cannot imagine how I suffer at being parted so brutally from my child. I curse you that in your old age you will also die of the grief of being separated from your son. Before you die, like us you will lose the sight of your eyes’

  “Before I could stop them, they walked into the fire and were made ashes with their son.”

  Dasaratha sighed. Kausalya held his hands tightly in hers and the tears she shed onto them burned him. She said, “You never told me about the brahmana’s curse before.”

  “Only now I thought of him, when my sight left me and I was as blind as he was. Kausalya, hold me, and forgive me for everything I have done. My senses grow weak and I feel as if I am in a dark cave. I will not live long, my queen; the brahmana’s curse will soon be fulfilled. Rama, I see your face before me, but you are so far away when I need you most. Oh, Kaikeyi has been the death of me.”

  He lapsed into incoherence. Kausalya held him close in the darkness, and Sumitra covered them both with a shawl. Dasaratha fell into an uneasy sleep. Only at times he would grow restless and whimper Rama’s name.

  24. The death of a king

  The sun crept over the rim of the world, and the morning vandhis and magadhis came to Dasaratha’s door, singing his praises. The women of the harem brought water and unguents for his bath. During the early hours, Kausalya had left her husband in a deep sleep and gone to her own bed for a short time. The women who slept in the queen’s quarters came that morning, as they did every day, to awaken the king.

  They stripped the sheets from his bed and saw them damp with sweat. Dasaratha did not stir, and his face was set in a serene smile. Growing anxious now, they shook his arms and then his body. But he slept on. It was the women’s screams that woke Kausalya and Sumitra, and they came running. But their husband had left them forever in his sleep.