The Ramayana

by Valmiki

  Surrounded by birds and animals and other sages, Bharadvāja welcomed Rāma as an honoured guest. ‘It has been a long time, Rāma, since I saw you here,’ he said. ‘I have heard about your unjust banishment. There is a quiet and deserted spot between the two rivers. It is a pleasant place, conducive to gaining spiritual merit. You can live there simply and easily.’

  ‘I am afraid that if we live there, the citizens of Ayodhyā will keep coming to see Sītā and me,’ replied Rāma. ‘Can you tell us of a lonely, uninhabited place where we could establish a small settlement and live in peace?’ Bharadvāja saw that Rāma’s words were wise and he told him about a place that would meet his requirements.

  ‘Child, there is a mountain about ten yojanās from here. It is very beautiful and has a pleasant view from all sides. Ṛṛṣis often visit it since it is a holy place. The mountain is called Citrakūṭa and like Mount Gandhamādana it teems with bears and monkeys. A man who sees Citrakūṭa is filled with goodness and is disinclined to act inappropriately. A great many sages have practised austerities there for hundreds of years and have ascended to heaven with ease, their heads as bare as skulls. It is extremely isolated. You could live there in peace and comfort. Or you can stay here with us and live the life of an ascetic.’

  Night fell as the sage and Rāma talked of many things. Rāma Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā spent the night at Bharadvāja’s hermitage and at dawn, Rāma went to the sage who shone with his own splendour. ‘We have passed a pleasant night with you. Now we ask for permission to leave for the place where we must live.’ ‘Go to Citrakūṭa which abounds in roots and fruits and honey,’ said the sage. ‘Go to that blessed place which is filled with the songs of birds and made beautiful by herds of elephants and deer that wander there. Go, Rāma, and make your home there.’

  Bharadvāja blessed the departing travellers as he would his own children. They walked in the direction of the mountain, crossing the Yamunā as they went. ‘Take Sītā with you and walk in front,’ said Rāma to Lakṣmaṇa. ‘Give her fruits and flowers that might please her.’ Walking between the brothers, Sītā appeared like a female elephant between two tuskers. The gentle woman asked Rāma about every single flower and creeper that she had never seen before. Fired by her enthusiasm, Lakṣmaṇa brought Sītā all kinds of plants and flowering stems. Sītā was filled with delight when she saw the dark sands of the Yamunā frequented by swans and cranes and water birds.

  After they had gone some distance, the brothers killed a few animals and ate them on the banks of the Yamunā. They amused themselves with the sights and sounds of the forest until they found a suitable resting place for the night.

  The next day, they reached Citrakūṭa and found that it was indeed a pleasant region, inhabited by different kinds of birds and animals. ‘We shall be happy here,’ said Rāma as he asked Lakṣmaṇa to fetch leaves and logs to make a small thatched hut. Lakṣmaṇa killed a black antelope as an offering to the spirits of the area. They roasted it over a blazing fire. When it was fully cooked and all its blood had been absorbed, Lakṣmaṇa said, ‘Rāma, this animal is suitable as an offering. It has been roasted to a dark brown colour and all its limbs are intact so it looks as if it is alive. You can worship the gods with it.’

  Rāma bathed, recited mantras to ward off evil and offered the antelope as a sacrifice to the gods. Then all three of them entered the hut which had different areas within it, designated for various activities.

  Now that they had settled on the mountain with their minds calm and serene, Rāma’s heart was filled with joy and he no longer felt any sadness at leaving the city.

  Chapter Ten

  Once Rāma had left for the forest, Guha and Sumantra spent a long time talking sadly before Sumantra harnessed the horses and set off for Ayodhyā. He drove quickly through towns and villages and fragrant forests until on the third day he arrived on the outskirts of the city.

  Sumantra saw that Ayodhyā was completely joyless, silent and deserted and was filled with despair. ‘Can it be that the entire city with its horses and elephants, commoners and noble people has been consumed in a fire of grief for Rāma?’ he thought as he entered the gates.

  Thousands of people ran after Sumantra when they saw that he had returned. ‘Where is Rāma?’ they asked. ‘I left the great-souled Rāma on the banks of the Gangā when he asked me to return,’ replied Sumantra. The people sighed and cursed and called out to Rāma as the tears streamed down their faces. They gathered in small groups and Sumantra could hear them talking among themselves. ‘Our lives are truly over,’ they said. ‘We shall never see Rāma again.’

  Sumantra’s face was pale as he drove through the main streets to the king’s palace. He entered the inner courtyards and saw Daśaratha’s women talking sadly about Rāma’s absence. Deep inside the palace, in the white chamber, Sumantra saw the king still distraught with grief for his son. He bowed to the king and repeated Rāma’s message.

  The king listened in silence and then fell to the floor in a faint. The women began to wail as Kausalyā lifted the king with Sumantra’s help. ‘Speak to Sumantra. He has returned from the forest with a message from Rāma who has undertaken such a difficult task,’ she said. ‘You have treated him unjustly and now you are ashamed of your actions, great king! But no one can help you in your sorrow! Get up. May your health be restored! The woman who incites fear, Kaikeyī, is not here, so you can speak freely!’ she wept.

  The men and women in the city heard the wailing from the palace and young and old wept anew as the city was plunged into turmoil.

  Kausalyā continued her lament. ‘Did you think, lord of all men, how your sons and the gentle Sītā, who is used to the best of things, would bear the hardships of the forest? How will that delicate woman survive the heat and the cold? All her life, that gentle creature has eaten the best of foods, flavoured with subtle spices. How will she eat the crude foods of the forest?

  ‘Rāma is accustomed to hearing the finest music. Now he must listen to the harsh sounds of the beasts of the jungle. Rāma’s mighty arms are as strong as Indra’s flagstaff. Now he must use them to pillow his head! Ah! my heart must be as hard as a diamond that it does not break into a thousand pieces!

  ‘Even if Rāma returns after fourteen years, there is no guarantee that Bharata will give up the kingdom and all its wealth. An elder brother can only feel contempt when he is offered a kingdom that has already been enjoyed by his younger brother! A tiger will not eat what another animal has killed and Rāma, that tiger among men, will not accept what has been enjoyed by another. If you were truly devoted to dharma you would never have exiled your virtuous son! You have destroyed the kingdom and the state, yourself and your ministers. You have destroyed me and my son! You have destroyed everything! And your other wife and her son rejoice!’

  Daśaratha was deeply pained by Kausalyā’s harsh words. Suddenly, he remembered the terrible thing he had done out of ignorance in his past and his sorrow increased.

  ‘Have pity on me Kausalyā!’ he begged. ‘You are kind and loving even towards strangers. I beseech you! You are righteous and know the best and the worst that a human being is capable of! You also know that to a wife, a husband is like a god, whether he is good or bad. Do not speak to me so cruelly, even though you are overcome with your own grief!’

  Kausalyā’s tears flowed afresh when she heard the king’s piteous words. ‘Forgive me!’ she wept as she placed the king’s hands upon her head. ‘You do me a great wrong by pleading with me! A husband who is known through all the world for his goodness cannot debase himself at his wife’s feet in this manner! I know that you are an honourable and righteous man and I am familiar with the dictates of dharma. I do not know what terrible things I said in my grief for my son!

  ‘Grief is the greatest enemy because it destroys fortitude, knowledge and everything. The five nights that have passed since Rāma left have seemed like five years to me. When I think of him, my hearts swells with grief like the ocean when it fill
s with water from the rivers!’

  As she was speaking, the light grew gentle and soon night fell. Soothed by Kausalyā, the grieving king fell asleep.

  After a while, Daśaratha awoke and still depressed, he began to brood. He kept thinking about the terrible thing that he had done in the past and finally, he spoke about it to Kausalyā.

  ‘A man reaps the fruit of all he does, be it good or bad, my dear. A man who acts without knowing the consequences of his action is called a fool.

  ‘When I was a young man, Kausalyā, I was known for being the archer who could find a target just by hearing its sound. It was this skill that led me to commit a terrible crime. This sorrow that has befallen me is of my own making. I am reaping the consequences of shooting an arrow in ignorance after hearing a sound.

  ‘This happened before I married you, when I was the heir-apparent. It was the middle of summer, when passions run high. The sun had sucked all the moisture from the earth, and leaving her dry and spent, had moved into a lower orbit. The heat diminished, and soon, soothing clouds were visible. Peacocks and frogs rejoiced in the forests.

  ‘During that pleasant season, I had not yet learned to control my passions. I was restless and so, armed with my bow, I climbed into my chariot and went to the banks of the river Sarayū. I was hoping to kill either a boar or an elephant or some other large animal. In the darkness, I heard the sound of a pot being filled with water. It sounded like an elephant to me. I carefully chose an arrow that was as deadly as a poisonous snake and shot it from my bow.

  ‘I heard a human voice call out from the direction in which it flew. “Why would anyone shoot an arrow at a hermit? I came here to these deserted banks at night to draw water. Why would anyone loose an arrow at me? What harm have I ever done that person? I live like a ṛṣi, eating only what the forest produces. How can anyone use a weapon against me when I have renounced violence? This is an unrighteous act, without cause or purpose. It is as terrible as sleeping with a teacher’s wife!

  ‘“I have no sadness at the prospect of my own death. I grieve only for my father and mother who will be inconsolable when I die. I have supported them for so long. They are old, how will they live without me? Who is this immature person who has destroyed everything for me with a single arrow, simply because he could not control himself?”

  ‘The bow and arrow fell from my hands when I heard these heart-rending words. I had always wanted to walk the path of righteousness. In terrible agitation, I followed the voice and on the banks of the river I found a young hermit, his genitals pierced by my arrow. He scorched me with his glance and said, “What harm could I, a forest dweller, have ever done to you, great king? All I wanted was to collect water for my parents. When you killed me with that single arrow, you also killed two old people, my blind mother and father! They are waiting anxiously for my return. How long can they endure their thirst, sustained only by hope?

  ‘“Ah! the fruits of austerities and penance and learning are useless since my father has no idea that I lie here like this! And even if he knew, what could he do, helpless as a tusker that cannot go to the aid of another wounded elephant! Go quickly and tell my father what has happened lest he consume you with his wrath, as the fire consumes the forest.

  ‘“This path leads to my father’s hermitage. Appease him before he curses you in anger. But before that, have mercy on me and pull out this arrow. The pain washes over me as the river water swell over its banks! I am not a brahmin, so you need have no fear on that account.* I was born of a śūdra mother and a vaiśya father.”

  ‘As he lay there curled up in his pain, I pulled the arrow from his body. I looked at him, half in the river, soaked by its waters, and I felt fear clutch at my heart. I realized I had done a terrible thing in my ignorance and I began to think how I could make amends for it.

  ‘I filled his pot with water and went down the path he had indicated until I reached his hermitage. I saw his blind parents with no one to lead them around, like birds with clipped wings. They sat there, unable to move, utterly vulnerable, talking about their hopes which I had shattered.

  ‘“What took you so long, my son?” said the old man when he heard my footsteps. “Give me the water! Have you been playing in the river? Your mother’s throat is parched. Bring me the water quickly! Have we offended you in any way? You should not hold anything against us, you are an ascetic. We cannot walk and you are our feet. We cannot see and you are our eyes. Our lives depend on you. Why are you so quiet?”

  ‘I was so overcome with fear and panic that I could not speak. With a great effort, I controlled myself. I found my voice and began to tell the old couple about the terrible thing that had happened to their son.

  ‘“I am not your son, great sage. I am the warrior Daśaratha. I have earned the contempt of good men and this grief through my actions. Blessed one, I came to the banks of the Sarayū armed with my bow, eager to kill an elephant or any other animal that came there to drink. I heard the sound of a pot being filled with water and mistaking it for an elephant, I loosed an arrow in the direction of the sound.

  ‘“When I got to the river bank, I saw a young ascetic lying on the ground, an arrow through his heart, taking his last breath. I wanted to kill an elephant and so I shot my arrow guided by the sound. In doing so, I killed your son! He died the moment I pulled the arrow from his body, crying for you and lamenting your blindness. I killed your son accidentally in my ignorance. What happens next depends on you and your capacity for mercy!”

  ‘The sage was overwhelmed with grief when he heard my story. I stood before him with my palms joined and he said, “If you had not confessed this to me, your head would have shattered into a thousand pieces. A kṣatriya who wilfully kills an ascetic falls from his position in society. You are alive only because you committed this act in ignorance. In fact, your entire clan could have been wiped out today. Where would you be then? Take us to where our son lies,” he said to me. “We wish to look upon him for the very last time, even if his body lies on the ground covered with blood, his clothes in disarray!”

  ‘Alone, I led the devastated old couple to where their son lay and helped them to find his body. They touched it and threw themselves upon it weeping. “Even if you do not love me, my son, think of your mother,” cried the old man. “Sweet child, embrace me, say something! Who shall I hear reciting the sacred verses in the morning in a voice so pure and clear that it rises straight to the heavens? Who shall speak to me the way you used to after you had bathed and performed the evening rituals? I cannot beg and have no one to protect me. Who shall gather roots and fruits for me? Who shall treat me like an honoured guest? How shall I take care of your mother, this virtuous woman who is old and blind and yearns for her son?

  “Stop here, my son! Don’t leave for the world of the dead just yet! Tomorrow your mother and I shall come with you! In any case, overcome with sorrow, alone in this forest, we shall soon follow you! When I meet the god of death I shall ask him to spare you so that you can support your aged parents. Ah! my son, even though you were blameless in this, you were killed by a wicked act. But the power of my austerities will ensure that you attain the world of heroic warriors.”

  ‘The old man wept as he performed the last rites for his son along with his wife. Then he turned to me and said, “With a single arrow, you made me childless. Now kill me, too. Death shall not cause me any pain. But because you killed my innocent son in your ignorance, I shall place a brutal curse upon you that shall cause you great pain. You too shall grieve for a lost son as I have. And you shall die grieving for your son!”

  ‘The words of that powerful sage have come true today, dear Kausalyā. I shall indeed die grieving for my son. If only Rāma could embrace me now and come back to the kingdom! But I could not have acted otherwise and neither could he!

  ‘Ah! Kausalyā, my eyes dim, I cannot see you any more. My memory fades. Death’s messengers hurry me along! What greater sorrow could I have than not being able to see noble and honourab
le Rāma at the moment of my death! Those who shall see Rāma again after fourteen years shall be as blessed as the gods!’

  King Daśaratha died around midnight in a paroxysm of grief for his beloved son.

  The king died like a fire that has been extinguished, like the ocean without its waters, like the sun without its light. Kausalyā wept as she placed the king’s head on her lap. ‘You can have your heart’s desire, Kaikeyī!’ she said. ‘You renounced the king so that you could have your own way, you cruel and wicked woman! Now enjoy the kingdom without rivals!

  ‘Rāma has left me and gone and now my husband is dead. Alone and abandoned on this unpleasant path, I have no wish to continue my life. What woman, other than one like Kaikeyī who has renounced both her husband and dharma, would have any wish to live now? Kaikeyī destroyed this entire clan because of the hunchback!’ Distraught, Kausalyā fell upon her husband’s body and clung to it until the attendants led her away. The kings advisors did not want to perform the funeral in the absence of his sons and so they ordered that the body be preserved. The palace retainers placed the king’s body in a huge trough of oil and began the preparations for his last rites.

  Chapter Eleven

  Vasiṣṭha gathered the king’s advisors and ministers and the learned brahmins. ‘Bharata and his brother Śatrughna are staying happily with Bharata’s mother’s family in Rājagṛha,’ he said to them. ‘Let messengers be dispatched at once on our fastest horses to bring the brothers here.’ The assembly agreed and Vasiṣṭha summoned the special messengers. ‘Go to Rājagṛha without delay. Follow my instructions carefully. Hide your grief and speak to Bharata thus. “The ministers and priests ask after your welfare. You must come to Ayodhyā with us immediately, for there is some urgent work for you there.” Do not tell him about Rāma’s exile or his father’s death or the terrible calamity that has befallen the royal family. Take these silken garments and jewels for Bharata and the king and go quickly!’