The Rāmāyana is like that iconic Indian image of the banyan tree, with its roots going deep while its boughs spread in a huge, enveloping canopy. You are invited to enjoy the shade of one of these beautiful new boughs in the Egenes/Reddy rendition, which contains the capability to blossom and inspire both the “unity of the one” and the rich diversity of the “many at once.” Enjoy your adventure.
—Michael Sternfeld
Prologue
The Qualities of Rāma
OF ALL THE sages in ancient India, Vālmīki was the most learned in the Vedic literature. Having purified his mind through long meditations, he was established in the Self and eloquent in speech.
One day Vālmīki was meditating in his quiet āshram, nestled in a vast and silent forest between the River Gangā and the River Tamasā. Suddenly, his own illustrious teacher, Sage Nārada, appeared to him. Nārada was not only a learned sage, but a divine musician who enchanted mortal and celestial alike with his melodies.
“Do you have a question?” asked Nārada quietly.
Vālmīki smiled, for he did, indeed, have a question to ask Sage Nārada, who could see the past, present, and future with equal clarity.
“Is there such a thing as a perfect person?” asked Vālmīki. “Is there anyone in this world with all the heroic qualities—who is dutiful, truthful, kind to all, learned, patient, free of envy, slow to anger, handsome as a god, and who can vanquish all foes? Does such a person exist?”
Now Nārada was smiling. “There is such a man who embodies all of these rare qualities and more. His name is Rāma, and he comes from the family of Ikshvāku. Let me tell you about him.” Nārada said:
Rāma has controlled his mind.
Radiant, powerful, and resolute,
wise, eloquent, and glorious—
he can easily destroy his enemies.
With broad shoulders, a neck like a conch, and a prominent chin,
he has long arms, reaching to his knees.
His head is noble, his limbs well-proportioned,
his complexion like the blue lotus.
Of medium stature,
his eyes large and his chest broad,
filled with splendor, with auspicious marks adorning his body,
he is courageous and skilled in the science of warfare.
The personification of integrity,
he helps those who seek him out.
Ever mindful of the good in others,
he is generous and keeps his word.
Pure and devoted to truth, he is adept at attaining samādhi,
transcendental bliss.
With a pleasing disposition,
Rāma inspires virtue in others.
With a perfect memory,
he knows the essential nature of the Veda.
As rivers flow to the ocean,
so the virtuous are devoted to Rāma.
Rāma is delightful to gaze upon, like the full moon,
mighty, like the ocean;
firmly established in silence, like the Himālaya.
Like the earth, he is patient
and devoted to the welfare of all.
Then Nārada told Vālmīki the story of Rāma, how he was born to King Dasharatha and was an obedient son. How he married the beautiful and faithful Sītā. How he was to be crowned king, but through no fault of his own was instead banished to the forest for fourteen years. How he and Sītā traveled in dense jungles, and Rāma fought the evil demons, called rākshasas, who were the enemies of all that is good and pure on earth. How Sītā was abducted by Rāvana, the king of the rākshasas. How Rāma fought and conquered Rāvana, freeing the world from evil. How he was crowned king of Ayodhyā. Nārada said:
In the reign of Rāma, everyone was happy, prosperous, and virtuous.
No parents witnessed the early death of their children,
no women were left widows, and all women were devoted to their husbands.
There was no danger of violent storms, nor fear of drowning or fire.
None starved nor fell sick; no one was a thief.
Granaries overflowed with food, treasuries with gold.
Everyone in the kingdom of Rāma was wealthy, happy, and devoted to Rāma.
Rāma himself bestowed untold riches on the sages
and established royal dynasties of immense wealth under his reign.
He led the people in following their duties and, after ten thousand years,
ascended to Brahma Loka, the highest heaven.
“Indeed,” said Nārada, “anyone who hears the story of Rāma is freed of all sin, will live a long life, and will be honored in heaven along with all his children and grandchildren.”
The wise Vālmīki listened to the words of Nārada and was filled with joy and wonder.
Later that day, Nārada returned to the heavenly realms, and Vālmīki strolled quietly to the nearby River Tamasā to bathe. After a refreshing dip, he wandered in the forest, enjoying the joyful call of birds, the play of light filtering through dense trees, and the soft moss under his feet. As he walked, his mind was filled with devotion to Shrī Rāma, the one man who embodied all that is good.
A bird broke into a lovely song. Looking up, Vālmīki spotted a pair of beautiful red-crested krauncha birds high in a tree. The sage noticed that the birds called tenderly to each other. If one flew to a tree, the other followed. They were never apart even for a moment, for they delighted in each other’s company.
Vālmīki smiled at the birds swooping and darting through the trees. He did not realize that another was watching too, a hunter looking for game. Suddenly, just as the male bird spread his wings to please his mate, an arrow pierced him, and he tumbled from the tree. Seeing her beloved mate lying on the ground, the female bird cried out in grief again and again.
Vālmīki felt his own heart contract with the pain of the bereaved bird. How cruel to separate this happy pair! Turning to the hunter, he burst out:
O hunter, having slain this bird enjoying with its mate,
may you never find rest, may you never find peace.
Vālmīki was silent for a long time, reflecting upon his own words. Then he said aloud, “Moved by compassion for this bird, I have spoken a Sanskrit verse in perfect poetic meter, which could be sung with the vīnā. Let this meter be called shloka, because it has arisen from my sadness, shoka.”
Vālmīki returned to his āshram and started the evening’s lesson with his disciples. But his mind kept returning to the suffering of the bird, the hapless hunter whom he had cursed, and the perfect verses he had so spontaneously uttered. As he was pondering these strange events, a golden light filled the room, and to his astonishment, Brahmā, the Creator, appeared to him.
“It was I who inspired you to recite that verse,” said Brahmā. “And it will only bring you glory, so there is no more need to worry that you cursed the hunter. Now you will compose a poem of the story of Rāma. To help you with your task, I will bestow a boon upon you. You will be able to see the events of Rāma’s life unfolding. You will be able to see into the minds of Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana. You will know all that happens and will tell the world the truth in your epic poem. So long as mountains and rivers have their place on the face of the earth, the story of the Rāmāyana will be told in the world.” Having said these words and blessed the exalted sage, Brahmā faded from view.
At first, no one moved, so awed were Vālmīki and his disciples by the unexpected visit. As his disciples murmured in excited whispers about the great honor conferred on their guru, it occurred to Vālmīki that the entire poem should be composed in the same shloka meter as the lines he had uttered earlier that day.
Retiring to his hut, Vālmīki sipped water to purify himself, and with his mind and heart devoted to God, he closed his eyes. The sage Vālmīki sank deep into meditation and,
with the power of insight given to him by Brahmā, began to see the entire life of Rāma unfolding before him like a river flowing. He saw it as clearly as one sees a fruit in the palm of the hand. What he saw, he composed into the beautiful, timeless poem of the Rāmāyana, known as the first poem (ādikavya).
The Rāmāyana is the story told by the wise and enlightened Vālmīki, who, filled with wonder, celebrated the deeds of the hero Rāma.
O hunter, having slain this bird enjoying with its mate,
may you never find rest, may you never find peace.
—Bāla Kānda 2.15
ONE
Bāla Kānda
Childhood
CHAPTER 1
King Dasharatha’s Joy
O Ayodhyā!
Architects designed you
to be beautiful,
gracious, and strong.
Untouched by enemies,
invincible behind towering gates
with a wide moat circling your waist,
your brave and noble warriors
could find their target through sound alone.
O Ayodhyā, delight to the senses!
Melodies of poets, singers, and musicians
echoed through your markets
where merchants from faraway kingdoms
traded their wares in peace.
Trumpets, bugles, flutes, conches, and gongs
sweetened the air with music.
Mansions lined your wide, straight streets,
their high-arched porches streaming
with flags and banners,
ringed by gardens
of sweet-smelling flowers.
An array of palaces adorned you
like a string of pearls,
their walls set with precious gems
and their high domes towering
like mountain peaks.
Mango groves and
tall trees girded your edges like a sash.
The chanting of sages and pandits
learned in the four Vedas
blessed your people,
who shimmered with gold
and jeweled ornaments
like the sun.
Truthful, brave, and contented,
no one lived in poverty,
and all lived happily with their families.
Elephants, camels, horses, cattle, and mules
lightened the work.
Rice was plentiful
and the water pure.
Your generous and truth-loving people
lived long lives,
revered by their children and grandchildren.
Like great sages,
they were pure and chaste,
clear-minded, self-controlled,
and only did what was right.
All your people were blessed
with beauty and riches.
And all these noble people of Ayodhyā
were devoted to their noble king, Dasharatha.
King Dasharatha waited alone inside his private chambers. It was spring, the ninth day of the pleasing lunar month of Chaitra. A light breeze carried the sweet scent of jasmine blossoms through the open windows, but the king did not notice. His mind was absorbed in thoughts of his three cherished queens, who at this moment were about to give birth.
How many years had he waited to be blessed with an heir? How many hours had he prayed for healthy offspring? And now, the fulfillment of his heart’s desire was only moments away. As King Dasharatha reflected on his long and celebrated life, the past, glorious as it had been, seemed like the darkness of night compared to the joy he glimpsed ahead.
The king stepped onto his verandah. From there, he could see the golden rooftops of the city below, beyond that the holy River Sarayu, and beyond that the fertile fields of his beloved country of Kosala, which stretched as far as the rays of the sun. Since the beginning of time, King Dasharatha’s family, of the glorious and peaceful dynasty of Ikshvāku, had ruled Kosala from the capital city of Ayodhyā. Founded by Manu, the father of Ikshvāku, king of the solar dynasty, the fabled city of Ayodhyā was celebrated throughout the three worlds.
As King Dasharatha thought of the virtuous people of Ayodhyā, he was grateful that they deemed him worthy to rule. For the king was humble in his greatness. Learned in the Vedas, truthful and pious, he had never broken his word. He had performed many yagyas, ceremonies to create balance in nature, and always gave generously to the pandits, saints, and wise men of the kingdom. His name, Dasharatha, meant “strong as ten chariots,” a title he had earned long ago, while helping the Devas, the divine forces of nature, achieve victory over the asuras, the negative forces of nature. Celebrated on earth and in heaven, King Dasharatha was loved and revered by all.
Standing on his verandah, King Dasharatha reflected on his long rule, the years when Kosala had lived peacefully with its neighboring kingdoms and increased its wealth many times.
Like the sun surrounded by brilliant rays, King Dasharatha was surrounded by eight wise ministers, who practiced right conduct with their families and friends, never speaking a word in anger. They were known for their honesty, courage, and friendliness.
Versed in economics, they kept the kingdom’s treasuries full without unduly taxing the people. Experts in defense, they made friends with the neighboring kingdoms. Skilled in lawmaking, they governed all with justice, levying fines on wrongdoers, but never more than the person could afford.
King Dasharatha also relied on the judgment of spiritual advisors, wise Rishis, headed by the radiant Vasishtha. Supported by benevolent ministers and enlightened sages, celebrated as the ocean of truth, King Dasharatha had no equal among all the monarchs on earth.
In all the years of his long rule, the king had known only one sorrow: even though he had ruled with wisdom and had conducted many yagyas, he had not been blessed with an heir. The grief of reaching old age without a son had weighed heavily on him, like a grinding stone on wheat chaff. Knowing that the illustrious line of the Ikshvākus would not continue, Dasharatha and his three wives were not able to fully enjoy the wealth and glory of their kingdom.
But that was behind him now, for on this very day his three queens would give birth to his children.
King Dasharatha felt the cool spring breeze and stepped back inside his palace, drawing the curtains over the doors. His chief minister, Sumantra, waited inside. Ghee lamps cast a warm glow over Sumantra’s shining garments.
“O Sumantra,” said King Dasharatha with a smile. “How delightful to have your company as I await glad tidings. After all, it was you who helped me reach this happy state.”
Sumantra, who was the minister of the household and the king’s most trusted ally and friend, smiled as he bowed low to King Dasharatha. “It was not I who helped you, but Destiny herself,” he said humbly. He took a seat across from his esteemed monarch, whom he had served during King Dasharatha’s entire rule.
The king smiled at Sumantra, but soon was lost again in his thoughts. As old friends, they fell into a comfortable silence, content just to be in each other’s company at such a moment.
King Dasharatha thought back six seasons, to the moment when he realized that he could no longer bear to live without an heir. On that day he had called the sage Vasishtha and all of his wise advisors to the court.
“O honored sages,” he said, “I have walked the path of virtue, and yet I have not been fortunate enough to produce an heir. With your blessings, it is my desire to conduct a special yagya, and by so doing I wish to gain a son.”
“Glory to King Dasharatha!” the ministers exclaimed. “Success to King Dasharatha! Your wish is now our desire.”
Later that day Sumantra asked for a private audience with King Dasharatha.
“O gracious king,” said Sumantra, bowin
g low. “There is an ancient story that came to my mind as you spoke today. I think it will help you obtain a son.”
“Then by all means, tell me, trustworthy Sumantra,” said Dasharatha, his eyes shining with love.
“Many years ago I heard a prophecy about our kingdom. Sanatkumāra, the sage of eternal youth, predicted that a certain young ascetic called Rishyashringa would marry the daughter of King Romapāda in order to end a drought in his kingdom. After that, the story predicted, the esteemed Rishyashringa would travel to Ayodhyā and perform a yagya, and as a result, King Dasharatha would gain four sons of untold valor, who would become the glory of the Ikshvākus.”
Sumantra paused for a moment. Then he said, “Just today, word reached us that King Romapāda’s daughter has recently married the pure-souled sage named Rishyashringa, and their marriage did, indeed, end the drought in their kingdom.”
King Dasharatha’s face lit up.
“O fearless king,” Sumantra advised, “do not delay. Invite Rishyashringa here to conduct your yagya and thereby obtain your sons.”
Taking his trusted minister’s words to heart, King Dasharatha first sought the blessing of the holy Vasishtha. Having received the sage’s blessing, King Dasharatha, the most powerful ruler on earth, set out the next day to the domain of King Romapāda with his wives and ministers. As they neared that virtuous king’s domain, they passed fertile fields and lush gardens, and noticed that the rivers ran with ample waters now that the drought was ended there.
He spent a week being entertained in the opulent palace of his friend King Romapāda, where the young sage Rishyashringa sat beside his father-in-law like a blazing fire. On the seventh day, King Dasharatha shared with King Romapāda the reason for his visit, and humbly requested that the king’s lovely daughter Shantā and the wise Rishyashringa return to Ayodhyā with him.
When King Romapāda consented, King Dasharatha faced the young sage with his palms pressed together in a sign of respect, said, “O holy one, I beseech you to fulfill my desire for an heir, just as you have ended the drought for King Romapāda.”
The Ramayana Page 2