At that moment, the sky filled with the sounds of tinkling chimes, gongs, and the melodies of Gandharvas strumming their lyres. “Wonderful! Wonderful!” called the Devas. They rained rose petals on the wife of Gautama, who at long last had been restored to her exalted state.
As Rāma, Lakshmana, and Vishvāmitra left the āshram, they saw Gautama descending from the Himālayas in a celestial chariot to take Ahalyā to heaven. The sage Gautama blessed Rāma and showered him with blessings for freeing his cherished wife.
—
NOW THAT THE prophecy had been fulfilled, the time had come to enter the city of Mithilā. The two princes and Vishvāmitra’s disciples walked behind the orange-robed sage along wide boulevards, past gaily painted mansions inhabited by prosperous and virtuous citizens and adorned with flowers, gold, and precious gems.
The essence of youth and beauty, bronzed and muscular, intelligent and modest, the brothers dazzled the eyes of the people. Their golden quivers filled with celestial weapons, they walked like gods in the beautiful city.
Soon they came to a yagyashālā, the hall that King Janaka had built for a great yagya. Thousands of pandits from kingdoms all around had gathered there, and as Vishvāmitra and the two princes approached, many holy men hurried forth to pay obeisance to the renowned sage.
A few moments later, King Janaka himself arrived to welcome the highly esteemed Vishvāmitra. Like Dasharatha, King Janaka was a wise and virtuous king. He was respected throughout the world not only for his knowledge of the Veda, but for living an enlightened state of life. He enjoyed all that was desirable—wealth, honor, fame, and glory. Once childless, King Janaka had a special daughter, Sītā, whom he loved more than life itself.
The philosopher-king Janaka greeted Vishvāmitra and the two princes with the traditional greeting, circling their heads with the flame of a ghee lamp, and invited them to reside in the palace as his guests.
As soon as they arrived at the palace and were seated in a place of honor, King Janaka asked, his face alight with joy, “Who are these two resplendent warriors, who walk like lions among men and shine like the immortals themselves?”
And so the praiseworthy Vishvāmitra told the wise King Janaka of the brave deeds of Rāma and Lakshmana—how they vanquished the demoness Tātakā, restored peace to Vishvāmitra’s āshram, and freed Ahalyā from her curse.
King Janaka, the embodiment of goodness, gazed with affection and wonder at the two radiant princes. His heart quivered with an auspicious premonition. Surely these young men would bring him good fortune.
He said to Vishvāmitra, “With your arrival, I am already enjoying the fruits of the yagya. I feel that you have come here with the intention of blessing me. Please tell me what I can do to make you happy.”
“I have brought these princes to see the great bow of Shiva,” replied Vishvāmitra. “They are skilled archers and wish to gaze upon the most famous bow in the world.”
King Janaka nodded and said, “I will tell these young men the story of the bow. One day I was preparing a field for a yagya. As I ploughed the first furrow, accompanied by sages and ministers, suddenly I stopped. For there at the tip of the blade a beautiful baby girl clutched handfuls of earth and playfully threw them at her kicking feet.
“The queen and I felt that this baby was divine, because she was the daughter of Mother Earth. We named her Sītā, which means ‘furrow.’ I have loved and cherished this daughter, born of the soil. She is sweet, compassionate, intelligent, and beautiful beyond words. Like Lakshmī herself, she is no ordinary mortal.
“When it came time for her to marry, I decided that Sītā must be matched with one worthy of her divine nature. I wanted her to marry a hero among men, one who had been tested in battle and could protect and cherish her. That is why I have called a special svayamvara for Sītā.
“Now you know that in a typical svayamvara, the royal bride chooses her own husband among the eligible princes present. But for Sītā, I proposed a test to separate the worthy from the unworthy. I announced that Sītā would marry the man who could string the immense bow of Shiva, which my ancestor received in eons past as a gift from the Devas.
“Hundreds of princes have come from far and wide to string the bow. Yet not one has succeeded in lifting it even one inch, because through its divine properties the bow assumes the weight of the karma of the person who touches it. Now I despair that a man does not exist who is worthy of Sītā.”
The king bowed his head to hide his emotion, for he dearly loved his daughter Sītā and was pained by the thought that she might never marry.
“These youths are warriors,” said Vishvāmitra quietly. “They are anxious to see this famous bow. Bring it to them.”
Rāma and Lakshmana exchanged glances. So it was to attend the divine Sītā’s svayamvara that they had traveled so far.
As I ploughed the land set apart for the sacred ritual,
there arose from the course of the plough a baby girl,
who became known by the name of Sītā.
—Bāla Kānda 66.13–14
CHAPTER 5
The Winning of Sītā
The bride sits on her velvet throne.
Her red sārī is heavy with gold,
drawn ’round her jasmine-plaited hair.
It hides her smooth brow,
shining with rubies and pearls,
and her large eyes
turned within.
Her jeweled feet rest in rose petals.
Garlands twine a canopy above
the narrow-waisted,
the envy of maidens,
King Janaka’s daughter.
Mithilā’s bravest princes
gather at her feet.
The bronzed arms
of two hundred heroes
flex with pride and glory.
Who will lift Shiva’s bow
and claim her?
She smiles at none.
Her veiled eyes do not reveal
her secret desire.
Twenty thousand blow their conches and ring their bells
when the first man bends to lift the bow
glittering in the morning sun.
But when the evening star rises above
the dim embers of the sinking orb,
the bow lies in the dust still,
unmoved, and none dare whisper.
Then the golden Prince of Ayodhyā
enters the city of Sītā.
Her breath soaks inward,
collected in a quiet pool,
and the air hangs heavy
over the earth standing still.
In one swinging motion Rāma raises the bow,
bends the ends of infinity,
and cracks the waiting silence.
Her eyes, still inward, see the sun.
“Heave, ho!” The shouts of five hundred men filled the air as they dragged the immense bow of Shiva, mounted on a golden carriage with eight wheels, through the streets of Mithilā. Inch by inch, straining against the ropes, they made their way to the palace. Hundreds followed them, ringing bells and blowing conches. Others watched from their windows high above the street, tossing flower petals on the bow and its carriage.*
“The Prince of Ayodhyā will try his hand at the bow!” As word spread through the city, tides of people flowed toward the palace. No one wanted to miss this stirring event.
“He is merely a boy,” lamented one aged lady, with a sigh. “How will he possibly succeed where grown men and even the gods have failed? How can a youth pick up a weight greater than Mount Mandara?” She watched the bow inching through the street below her window.
“But have you seen him?” asked her granddaughter, as she cast rose petals out the window and watched them float down to the bow. “He and his brother are like gods! As the sun
warms heaven and earth, so these brothers will bless our kingdom.”
Hidden in her chambers, Sītā heard from her attendants that people were gathering to see the handsome prince lift the bow. She fixed her heart on Rāma and knew he was her beloved. With tears of devotion Sītā implored the Devas, “Be gracious unto me, O Devas! Lighten the weight of the bow! Be kind to me! It is for this day that I have often prayed to you.”
At last the bow reached the palace, where King Janaka and Vishvāmitra waited. As Rāma stepped forward like a young lion to see the famous bow, the assembly fell silent as the night.
Covered in mounds of orange, red, and yellow flower petals, even its golden cabinet seemed to emit a radiance, a power from its legendary past. As Rāma gently lifted the lid and peered at the giant bow, the fragrance of sandalwood paste filled the room.
While Rāma gazed at the immense and ancient bow, Lakshmana, filled with excitement, pounded the ground with his foot and roared, “Earth be stable! Waters be stable! Directions be stable! Hold on to your breath, for Rāma will break the ends of infinity!”
He would have continued, to the amazement of all, except an amused glance from Rāma told him that was enough.
Rāma humbly bowed to the bow and then to Vishvāmitra. He said, “O revered one, with your permission I would like to lift this bow and string it.”
Vishvāmitra nodded. Powerful as an elephant, Rāma stepped close to the sacred weapon. Then in one fluid motion, Rāma lifted the bow and strung it, bending the ends together with such force that it broke in two with a clap of thunder.
The earth shook, and the people fell to the ground in terror. Only King Janaka, Vishvāmitra, Rāma, and Lakshmana remained standing, calmly waiting in silence while the forces of nature churned around them.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” shouted the celestial Rishis, Devas, and Gandharvas, who watched from the heavens above. Brahmā praised Rāma and celestial nymphs danced in the sky. They showered wreaths of flowers on the radiant Rāma and cried, “Rāma has broken the bow!” The sweet sounds of celestial bells soothed the air like a healing balm, and soon the people were exulting, “Jai Rāma! Jai Shrī Rāma!”
Lakshmana, filled with pride, gazed upon his brother like a rabbit at the full moon. Sītā, still in her chamber, felt her soul fill with rapture. In her mind’s eye, she placed the white garland, cherished in her heart, upon the breast of her lord.
When silence once again stole over the crowd, King Janaka spoke to Vishvāmitra with his heart overflowing with gratitude. “Now I know that you have, indeed, come to Mithilā to bless me. This Rāma is surely a god among men. That such a youth could lift this mighty bow when others could not even budge it! Surely, my dear daughter Sītā is fortunate to become his bride. I have promised her to the man who could string the bow, and now I offer her in marriage to the radiant Rāma, who is her match in virtue. With your permission, O Vishvāmitra, I will inform Rāma’s father of these wonderful events and invite him here.”
“So be it,” proclaimed Vishvāmitra, his voice lifting in happiness. “Send the messengers without delay.”
And so King Janaka instructed his royal messengers to leave that very moment and travel to Ayodhyā with all haste. The messengers departed at once, delighted to carry the news.
—
KING DASHARATHA STOOD at the doorway to his verandah, gazing fondly upon the city of Ayodhyā below. How celestial it looked, with the setting sun glancing off golden rooftops. His thoughts, as always, went to Rāma, who had been away for several weeks now. Was his son safe? When would the king see him again? It was this same familiar doorway where the king stood sixteen years earlier, waiting to hear of Rāma’s birth.
Suddenly his chief minister, Sumantra, entered the king’s chamber. “Your Majesty, messengers have come with tidings from King Janaka of Mithilā. They have traveled for three days to receive an audience.”
King Dasharatha hastened to his court. There his eight ministers and the kingdom’s holy sages, headed by Vasishtha, were already assembled.
“O King Dasharatha,” the messengers announced from the center of the court, “King Janaka of Videha sends good tidings concerning your son Rāma, who is now with Vishvāmitra and Lakshmana in the royal city of Mithilā.” Everyone in the hall held their breath as the messengers began to tell the king of all the wondrous events of the last few days.
Hearing their words, King Dasharatha’s eyes filled with tears. At the news of the coming union between his handsome son and the beautiful daughter of King Janaka, the entire assembly shook with delight, like peacocks at the sound of an approaching rain. They realized that Vishvāmitra had, indeed, brought blessings to the king’s sons when he led the boys away from their home.
King Dasharatha first addressed Vasishtha: “With your blessings, revered sage, we will leave at once for Mithilā.”
The wise Vasishtha replied, “O most fortunate king, for a wise man such as yourself the world is full of happiness. As rivers freely flow into the sea without being asked, so joy flows unbidden to your virtuous soul. Prepare the marriage procession!”
The sky streaked crimson with dawn when King Dasharatha and the royal entourage departed for Mithilā. The king swayed in his royal palanquin, led by Vasishtha and other sages and followed by hundreds of elephants and chariots heavy with gifts of jewels and gold. They slowly made their way to Mithilā, where their beloved Prince Rāma waited.
King Janaka himself greeted King Dasharatha at the gates to the city, accompanied by servants offering baskets of gifts and golden platters of cake and fruit. What a sight for the gods—the historic meeting of these two enlightened monarchs. It was difficult to determine which could surpass the other in virtue, compassion, and wealth. They were the supreme rulers of their time.
“O king of kings,” said King Janaka, “by accepting my daughter as your son’s wife, you have fulfilled my vow. I am forever in your debt.” He fell at King Dasharatha’s feet, honoring him with the traditional greeting.
“Nay, nay, it is I who am in your debt,” said King Dasharatha, raising King Janaka with his own hands. “You have blessed our family by offering the divine Sītā as Rāma’s wife. We are truly fortunate.”
And so the two kings greeted each other with both humility and respect. The royal family of King Dasharatha was given a palace to live in, furnished with red and gold silken carpets and comforts of every kind. There Rāma and Lakshmana were reunited with their father, who tenderly embraced them again and again as they told him of the happenings of the past weeks.
In the ensuing days King Janaka made plans for the wedding, which was to take place on a most auspicious day. One evening King Janaka’s bards sang with great joy, telling the story of the king’s ancestors. Then King Dasharatha’s bards did the same. In this way, the two families who were to be united learned the full glory of one another’s heritage.
When the bards fell silent, King Janaka said to King Dasharatha, “Just as Sītā will become the wife of Rāma, let my younger daughter, Ūrmilā, become the wife of your younger son Lakshmana.”
“I will accept your daughter Ūrmilā as my own daughter,” said King Dasharatha, his heart swelling with happiness. “She will grace our home with light.”
Then Vishvāmitra addressed the two kings, “O most auspicious rulers, hear my suggestion. Let the two beautiful and virtuous daughters of King Janaka’s brother wed Bharata and Shatrughna. In this way these two illustrious houses will forever be bound together.”
King Dasharatha could not contain his joy. Such a glorious beginning for his four sons! The next day he rose early and bestowed a generous gift to the Brahmins of the land: one hundred thousand cows with gilded horns for each son. The four hundred thousand cows each came with a calf, were in excellent health, and gave abundant milk.
Finally, the auspicious day set by the Vedic astrologers arrived. The Prince of Ayodhyā and the Prin
cess of Mithilā, as well as Rāma’s brothers and their brides, were to be married at the hour of Vijaya (victory)—at sunset, as the cows were returning from the pastures.
As the time approached, conches and drums sounded, joyous songs of women filled the air, and pandits chanted the sacred Vedic hymns. Flowers floated from the heavens, gracing Rāma and his noble brothers, who rode to the pavilion on white horses. As they took their seats near the sacred fires, the people tossed gold coins to wish the princes prosperity.
Vishvāmitra, Vasishtha, and other famed Rishis were seated in places of honor. King Dasharatha and King Janaka greeted each other with ceremonial words of praise, then took their seats.
At the auspicious moment, Sītā entered the hall, circled by her friends and handmaids as the moon is circled by a ring of light. Sītā walked like a young deer, her pure and simple beauty unsurpassed. Upon seeing her, it is said that the god of love forgot his duties and bowed to her in the innermost recesses of his heart.
Rāma’s eyes flashed upon Sītā’s divine beauty and grace, and his heart was filled with love. Her clear eyes sparkled like the ocean in the moonlight. Her forehead was adorned with a pearl, as well as gold and rubies, her hair bound with garlands of jasmine. Her sārī was woven with golden thread and shimmered around her like a luminous cloud. Rāma’s eyes forgot to blink as he drank in the loveliness of her sweet face, like a bee drawing in honey from a lotus.
Like the goddess Lakshmī walking on lotus flowers, Sītā slowly made her way to Rāma’s side. She gazed at her prince. His dark forehead was wide, the center adorned with a red tilaka mark. His eyes were bright, his hair curly, and his arms strong, like the trunks of young elephants. Filled with love, she received him into her heart through her eyes and then shyly closed her eyelids to hold him captive there.
“This is my dearest daughter Sītā,” said King Janaka to Rāma. “Take her hand. Now she will walk the path of Dharma with you. May you live long together in fulfillment.” Then King Janaka washed the feet of the prince with water and honey.
The Ramayana Page 5