by Ramesh Menon
“And your mothers are well, Rama. They also wait impatiently for you.”
Suddenly, the sage’s voice was tremulous, “These have been such a long fourteen years for us all. I can still see you standing before me, wearing deerskin, your hair freshly matted, and so solemn. Do you remember, you had just lost your kingdom? Yet dharma was all you thought of. Ah, you were like a God cast down into the world for some slight fault. I see it all so clearly; you had given away everything you owned as alms.
“I strive to be detached. But that day, when I was alone, I wept. Least among all the created did you deserve what had happened to you. But there was a great purpose behind it all. And even then Ravana’s name came to my mind. But I could say nothing, for your encounter with him was still fourteen years away.
“From witnesses who are not of this world, I have already heard your story. Word of everything that happened to you in Chitrakuta, in Panchavati, on Rishyamooka and Lanka, came back to me. Your destiny in exile is fulfilled, Rama. Now it is time you claimed the throne of the world.
“But I will not let you go today. Tonight you must spend here with me, all of you, as my guests.”
Rama bowed. He took Hanuman aside and said to the vanara, “I cannot refuse Bharadvaja; and perhaps this is a heaven-sent opportunity. Dear Hanuman, fly to Ayodhya for my sake. Go first to Shringiberapura, which we saw; from there, Guha will show you the way.”
All attention, Hanuman stood gravely before Rama.
Rama went on, “Go to Bharata in Ayodhya; tell him about my life during these past fourteen years. Tell him everything you know, and tell him I have returned. As you speak, watch him carefully, Hanuman. Most of all, watch for the slightest flicker of disappointment on his face.
“Power and kingdom are mighty things, and the best of men are tempted by them. If you see the faintest sign of regret in Bharata’s eyes that I have returned, fly back and tell me. I will return quietly to the jungle, while my brother rules Ayodhya in peace.”
48. The wonderful news
Hanuman’s was a delicate mission. He decided to go to Bharata disguised as a human being, just as he had first accosted Rama. Outside Bharadvaja’s asrama, it took him no more than a moment, and a thought of his father Vayu, to effect the transformation. Then he flew up into the sky as a diminutive brahmana with a shining face. He flew across the holy Ganga, across the Sangama, where her golden waters flow into the midnight-blue Yamuna. He saw Shringiberapura beyond the rivers.
Hanuman flew down from the sky into Guha’s court, astonishing that king of hunters. He cried to Guha, “Rama of Ayodhya has served his exile and returns home in triumph!”
Guha sprang up and embraced the quaint messenger. Hanuman told him about Sita’s abduction and Ravana’s death. Guha wanted him to stay on in his city, so he could hear all about the war of Lanka. But Hanuman said he must meet Bharata urgently, and asked the way to Ayodhya.
With directions from Guha, the little brahmana flew up again, while Guha’s people stared after him. Ayodhya was near enough for one who had carried the Sanjivini mountain from the Himalaya to Lanka. Guha had described Nandigrama, the village a krosa from Ayodhya, where Bharata still lived like a hermit, though fourteen years had passed.
Hanuman flew down a short distance from Nandigrama and walked the rest of the way to Bharata. The canny vanara hid behind some bushes and stood watching the prince for a while. Bharata was quite alone, like a solitary rishi.
Hanuman saw he was as handsome as his brothers. But he hardly looked like someone who ruled a great kingdom. He wore a ragged deerskin, his face and his body were caked in dirt; only his dark, piercing eyes shone through that mask. But even these were half-closed, as if Bharata was absorbed in some fervor that kept all his thought turned within himself. Above his face, his hair was piled in thick jata, as wandering rishis wear who are unconcerned about their bodies. He was lean, as if he hardly ate.
Bharata sat at the foot of a splendid throne set in a roofed, but otherwise open, pavilion, and spoke incessantly to that throne. When Hanuman crept closer, he saw that a pair of padukas lay on the seat of the golden throne. It was to these that the emaciated prince spoke. When he had watched Bharata carefully for a time, Hanuman came out from hiding and approached him. Bharata stood up, a little startled to see the wiry, cheerful mendicant. The kshatriya sensed at once that the little brahmana before him was not quite what he seemed.
Hanuman smiled at Bharata. He said solemnly, “Your brother Rama, for whose sake you live like a muni, has sent me. He is well and his exile is over. Rama killed the great Rakshasa, Ravana, and he is on his way home to Ayodhya to quench the yearning in your soul.”
The little brahmana spoke in the finest, formal language. At his first words, a great smile lit Bharata’s face. By the time he finished, the prince gave a shout and actually fainted. In a moment Bharata revived. He clasped the little mendicant to him, crying, “Brahmana, for this news I will give you wealth you have not dreamed of!”
Bharata hugged Hanuman and planted kiss after kiss on his cheeks, and he wept and laughed at once for stark, unblemished joy. “This is not just good news you have brought me, my friend. This is my life you have brought me, who have been dead for fourteen years. Tell me what you want, anything at all, and it shall be yours.”
Bharata saw the little brahmana before him also wept. Bharata hugged him again. He spread a seat of darbha grass for Hanuman and, taking his hand, made him sit close beside him. “My friend, we have had no word of my brother since I left him at Chitrakuta. Now you say he is coming back. And, oh, this is such wonderful news, I can hardly believe it is true!
“You know what they say, good messenger: ‘Stay alive for a hundred years and happiness will come at the end. Even if it is late!’
“That is my story. I have grown so used to sorrow and only just keeping my spirit in my body, I cannot believe my fortunes have changed. You have made me so happy I feel I am dreaming and this cannot be true. Forgive me, kind friend, your news is too good to absorb at once.”
Bharata still held Hanuman’s hand, as if it were a living link with his Rama, more precious than life to him. “Be kind to me again, friend brahmana. Tell me all about Rama’s life since I last saw him. Leave nothing out; tell me everything you know.”
Sighing wistfully, as if Rama’s story was part of his own life, Hanuman told that strange tale to the avid prince. Bharata sat rapt, and shut his eyes to listen to the little brahmana. For two hours the story lasted. Finally, after Ravana was dead and Sita tested by fire, Hanuman ended, “And Rama has reached the banks of the Ganga. He is spending the night with Bharadvaja in his asrama. Tomorrow is an auspicious day. It is panchami, the fifth day after amavasya, and the moon will be in Pushyami. Tomorrow, Bharata, you will see your brother.”
* * *
Shouting the news aloud, Bharata ran into Ayodhya. He called Shatrughna and together they began to prepare for Rama’s return. Ayodhya was decked out in flowers and banners. The roads were sprinkled with elephants’ ichor and fragrant water, and strewn with festive petals and garlands. The news spread like light, and the people poured into the streets.
All the forlorn mantapas were cleaned out, for the first time in fourteen years, and festooned. Ayodhya was as colorful as a rainbow over Amravati. Songs were in the air and laughter, as if a curse had been lifted from the city that had been as somber as a burning ghat.
The army must receive Rama: the road between Ayodhya and Nandigrama had to be leveled in a hurry. The women of Ayodhya drew auspicious and exotic yantras with colorful powders, all along that royal highway. Urns with holy water, incense, and masses of vivid flowers were set out under the sky.
The next morning, after a day and night of frenzied preparations, the people gathered in Nandigrama to welcome Rama home. No one stayed back. They came laughing, singing, and dancing in the streets, as if all their destinies had turned around in a night. None of them had slept a wink and each one came to see just his or her Rama, the
soul of Kosala.
They were curious: Had he grown older? Was his long hair streaked with gray now? Was he as handsome as before; was Sita’s beauty deeper with the years? How did Lakshmana look? Would he still be the reluctant darling of all the young women? And the older ones too! After fourteen dead years, Ayodhya throbbed with life again. The faces that had been grim for so long were all wreathed in smiles.
At dawn the queen mothers arrived in Nandigrama in their silver and golden palanquins. Everyone waited, on edge, and Bharata stood before them all, with his brother’s padukas in his hands. The white parasol had been unfurled for Rama and the royal chamaras had been fetched out. The crisp morning air was fragrant with incense and flowers; later, as the sun rose, it boomed with deep conches.
Bharata stood breathless with anticipation, like all the others: the loving people of Ayodhya come to welcome home their prince of grace.
49. Rama returns
Bharata stood impatiently in Nandigrama, with all Ayodhya behind him. Hanuman had flown back to Rama and back again, bringing word of the hour of his arrival. He stood beside Bharata now. That prince was anxious and restless, as if he still could not believe Rama was indeed coming home today. Slowly the sun crept over the horizon. Bharata fidgeted where he stood.
He turned to Hanuman. “There is no sign of my brother, or the army of vanaras.”
Hanuman was back in his own splendid vanara form. He craned his neck, smiled, and said, “Indra granted the vanaras a boon: that wherever they went the forests would bloom and the trees hang heavy with fruit. My ears are keen, Bharata. I can hear the monkeys feasting around Bharadvaja’s asrama. But now Sugriva gathers them into the vimana, and they will be here as quickly as you wish.”
They stood together, scanning the horizon. Hanuman pointed a long finger and said, “That cloud of dust is where my people are with Rama.”
Then, it seemed a full moon had risen above that distant cloud: a golden moon that flitted across the sky toward Nandigrama. A sigh went up from the people.
Hanuman said, “The pushpaka vimana was once Kubera’s, but Ravana took it from him.”
But the people of Ayodhya hardly cared. Their ecstatic shouts of “Rama! Rama!” rose into the sky and reached the dark prince inside the vimana. He squeezed Sita’s hand. Silent as time, quick as thought, the magic craft flew to Nandigrama. Rama saw Bharata standing below, his face radiant and tears flowing down his cheeks. The next moment the ship landed. Its opalescent door slid open and Rama stepped out first of all.
With a sobbing cry of “Rama!” Bharata ran to his brother and fell at his feet. Repeatedly, he lifted his head and set it down in the dust. He sobbed and he laughed, and he would have danced for joy if it had been proper to his station. But with as fond a cry, Rama lifted Bharata up, hugged him, and covered his face with kisses, as a father would his son.
Bharata prostrated himself before Lakshmana and Sita, crying, “Abhivadye!”
Formally, Bharata went around to all the vanara chieftains, introducing himself, embracing them one by one. To Sugriva he said, “King of the jungle, you are our dearest friend. For friendship is reckoned by what a friend does in a time of need.”
Bharata embraced Vibheeshana. He cried, “Lord of Lanka, without you, I have heard, our cause would have been lost. We owe you a debt of gratitude we can never repay.”
Then Shatrughna was with Rama, crying for joy, prostrating himself before his brother. Rama raised him up lovingly. When Shatrughna had greeted Sita and Lakshmana and the vanaras and rakshasas, at last Rama came to his mother Kausalya. His tears flowing, his smile so tender, he knelt before her and clasped her feet. She was older and frailer; but now that she saw him before her, it was as if her spirit found another youth. Over and over again she embraced him and covered his face with kisses.
Rama prostrated himself at Sumitra’s feet, and she embraced him and blessed him. At last, he came diffidently before the third palanquin that had brought dead Dasaratha’s queens to Nandigrama. Before it, her head bent and her face covered, stood Kaikeyi.
Rama said gently, “Mother, it is I, Rama.”
She gave a cry as if her life had come back to her. She flung her arms around him and cried, “How can you ever forgive me, my child? I was mad, Rama, and I have paid for it these fourteen years. I beg you, my son, try to forgive me.”
But Rama had already fallen at her feet. When she raised him up, he saw her eyes were clear; no trace remained of the hatred and greed he had last seen in them. Her face was marked with deep lines and she looked older than either Kausalya or Sumitra. Kaikeyi’s face had softened now, and Rama thought, “My father has forgiven her.”
He embraced her and said, “We are all fate’s puppets. Only the strongest of us are chosen to play the hardest roles upon this stage of life. If you had not done what you did, Ravana would be alive and the world still full of danger. It was not you who sent me away from Ayodhya, but my destiny that took me. As for forgiveness, it is not for me to forgive you, but for you to understand you had no choice in what you did. You must forgive yourself, little mother.”
Rama made Sita and Lakshmana prostrate themselves before Kaikeyi. Now he saw Vasishta, and the kulaguru of the Ikshvakus also wept for joy. Vasishta embraced Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita, while the people of Ayodhya stood watching all this in a happy daze.
Bharata came to Rama again, and he held Rama’s padukas in his hands. He knelt and placed his brother’s feet in those sandals. Bharata said, “Rama, your padukas watched over me while you were away. With their inspiration, I ruled the kingdom in your name. And Ayodhya has not fallen into anarchy. Though grief was always near us, we looked at your padukas and dreamed of the day you would return. Rama, look into the granary and the treasury; their stores have increased tenfold. The army of Ayodhya is the greatest fighting force in all Bharatavarsha.”
Rama said quietly, “Not once during my years of exile did I worry about Ayodhya. I knew that Bharata’s rule would be a golden one.”
Rama turned back to the mystic vimana, which loomed beyond him. He said to it, just as if he spoke to a friend, “Return to Kubera now. I set you free from Ravana’s yoke.”
The wonderful craft quivered as if it understood him perfectly. It rose silently into the air. It hovered there for a moment, and spun thrice on its axis, like a planet. Then, without a sound, the vimana flashed out of the sky and toward Kubera’s kingdom in the mountains of the north.
Rama stood near his guru Vasishta, like Indra next to Brihaspati.
Bharata said, “My mother’s sin has been forgiven, Rama, that you have come home. Her suffering and ours are over. My brother, I now return what you left in my care: I give back the kingdom of Kosala to you. My burden is removed and I feel light again. I have discharged my task to the best of my ability. But I do realize that my ruling for you was like a crow swimming for a swan.
“Now, Rama, be crowned, and let the world see the glory of Ayodhya again. As long as there are men on earth, as long as the sun and moon circle in the sky, precious Rama, rule!”
Rama greeted his people, moving through the delirious crowd, which reached out hands of love and blessed him, Sita, and Lakshmana. Then the brothers went off to the river, just they four. They cut away their jata on the banks of the Sarayu and bathed in the cool water, laughing and splashing one another, euphoric to be together again.
Their long arms smeared with sandalwood paste, wearing resplendent silks and priceless ornaments, the princes returned to Bharata’s asrama like four Devas. Meanwhile, the three queen mothers had taken Sita in for her bath, and they clothed her in the finery they had brought out of Ayodhya. Their long ordeal had wrought a miracle among Dasaratha’s wives: they were as fond as sisters now that fate’s purpose had been fulfilled. The past seemed like a bad dream, from which all of them had woken.
Kausalya called the vanara wives, Tara and the others, and embellished their long hair, combing it out and twisting it into elegant coiffure.
Wh
en they were all together, princes and queens, an old man drove up before Rama in a fine chariot. When Rama saw him, he gave a cry and ran to embrace Sumantra. Rama and his brothers climbed into the royal chariot. With the vanara army, led by Sugriva, Hanuman, Vibheeshana, and all the people of the city, the festive procession set out from Nandigrama for Ayodhya.
50. Pattabhisheka: Rama’s coronation
Asoka and Vijaya, ministers of Ayodhya, went formally to Brahma’s son Vasishta, kulaguru of the House of Ikshvaku. Solemnly they asked him to crown Rama king of Kosala.
Bharata drove the chariot in which Rama came from Nandigrama to be crowned. Vibheeshana and Lakshmana sat on either side of him, with the chamaras, the whisks of pale silk thread. Shatrughna held the sovereign white parasol. The people were a colorful sea around the chariot, and the vanaras mingled with them joyfully.
Shatrunjaya, the white tusker, had come with tears in his old eyes to receive his prince. Rama made Sugriva ride on his back. Like the moon surrounded by the stars, Rama came to the city of his fathers to be crowned. The royal road was a long carpet of flowers; incense and perfume hung in the air, and hymns from the Vedas. Led by caparisoned cows, the procession made its way through the streets. Rama rode at its heart in the great royal ratha, with the rishis of the sabha and the older ministers accompanying him. As they went, he described his adventures in exile to them in his soft voice.
Speaking of how he met Sugriva and of Hanuman’s valor and devotion, Rama came within sight of Ayodhya. He climbed down from the chariot and folded his hands to her golden turrets. At the gates he prostrated himself and touched the earth with his brow; his eyes were full, and so was his heart.
After fourteen years, which were another life, another dream, Rama came to his father’s palace. Slowly he climbed the polished marble steps, where he had last seen Dasaratha in the flesh, heartbroken. Sorrow perched on Rama’s heart for a moment, that his father could not be here for his coronation. But then he saw the lucent face and form he had seen in Lanka; he felt Dasaratha’s presence near him, and Rama smiled again.