Others called blessings to Rāma. “May your rule be long and prosperous, and may you exceed your ancestors in glory!”
Rāma smiled as he passed by, his heart gladdened by the happiness of the people. The tumult of the crowd did not touch his serene inner nature. Ever the same, he looked on all his people with love and compassion.
Yet even Rāma felt his happiness drain away when he saw King Dasharatha. He knew immediately that his father was in distress, crumpled like an autumn leaf on his throne, tears streaming from his eyes. Queen Kaikeyī stood over him like a guard.
As was customary, Rāma bowed low to his father, touching his feet. His father did not even greet him.
“Dear Father,” said Rāma in his quiet, soft voice. “What has happened to strike you down like a mighty oak felled in the forest? Have I done something to displease you? If so, just tell me and I will remedy the wrong.”
On hearing his devoted son’s voice, King Dasharatha moaned, “O Rāma!”
Alarmed, Rāma turned to Queen Kaikeyī. “What is troubling my dear father? Is he ill?”
Queen Kaikeyī answered in a harsh voice, “There is nothing wrong with your father that you cannot fix, O Rāma.”
“Speak the words and I will do it,” said the tenderhearted Rāma.
The shameless Queen Kaikeyī said, “In order to honor his word, your father has promised me two boons. The first is that my son Bharata should be crowned king instead of you. The second is that you should leave today to dwell in the forest for fourteen years.”
Rāma was not in the least ruffled by these severe words. “If that is what my father wishes, then so be it,” said Rāma. “My only desire is to fulfill my father’s desires. For him, I will willingly don the robes of an ascetic. My brother Bharata must be summoned at once. Let him come here tomorrow to care for my father and rule the kingdom.”
The hardhearted Queen Kaikeyī, still not satisfied, pressed him further. “It is important that you leave immediately. Your father must abstain from food and drink until his promise is fulfilled.”
“Then so be it,” said Rāma in pleasant tones. “I will leave today. My only concern is for my father. Promise me that you will take care of him and bring Bharata here to serve him.”
With his radiance undimmed, Rāma bowed low to his father. Circling his father in a clockwise direction, he left the chamber, followed by Lakshmana, whose eyes flashed with the fire of wrath. Pausing to enter the coronation hall, Rāma reverently bowed to the sacred milk, ghee, and other items that were intended for his coronation ceremony, and left the palace without looking back.
Like a yogi with no thought for his personal happiness, Rāma sent away his bewildered chariot driver and friends, and made his way on foot to his mother Kausalyā’s palace, followed by Lakshmana, who was nobly fighting back tears. To those who gazed upon his face, Rāma appeared unchanged. He smiled as serenely as when he had arrived at the palace, expecting to be crowned king.
Passing through the gate, he greeted the happy crowds with respect and joy. No one suspected that he had just been cruelly deprived of his kingdom. By Rāma’s smile, ever contented, no one could know that he would soon be setting out alone into the wild forest, without an ounce of the gold and riches that were once his.
Rāma entered his mother’s palace, which as always was filled with the smell of incense and the chanting of pandits. He knew that she had spent the previous days fasting and performing sacred rites for his success as king. Her face, pale from fasting, brightened when she saw him, and she ran to greet him. Rāma bowed low and touched the feet of his mother, but she did not wish him to bow to her, and drew him to her in a loving embrace. He kissed her on the forehead.
“I have waited so long for this moment,” said the pious Kausalyā, who normally dressed in simple silk but today wore a festive sārī embroidered with gold and precious gems. “Surely all the gods and the four directions are smiling on me. My heart is filled with happiness.”
“Ah, dear Mother, there has been a change of plans,” said Rāma quietly as he took a seat beside his aged mother. He held her hand and spoke as gently as he could. “I have come to receive your blessings. Today I will not be crowned king, but will retire to the Dandaka Forest for fourteen years. There I will eat the roots and fruits of the ascetic, and spend my time fasting and meditating with the holy saints who dwell there. My father, in an ancient promise to Mother Kaikeyī, has asked me to do this, so that Bharata can be installed in my place. While I am happy to uphold my father’s honor and pleased to fulfill Mother Kaikeyī’s desire, I am concerned for your welfare and also for my beloved Sītā and Lakshmana, who serve me so faithfully.”
All color drained from the noble queen’s face and she fainted. Rāma caught her and held her in his arms until she woke up. It pained his heart to see his tender mother, so unaccustomed to hardship, in a state of distress.
When she recovered, the normally serene queen burst out, “How can I accept this slight from Kaikeyī? All these years I have waited for this day, when you would be king. How can the gods, whom I have petitioned daily on your behalf, treat me with such indifference?”
Then the fiery Lakshmana stepped forward. His whole life, his very breath, he had spent in serving the radiant hero Rāma. To see Mother Kausalyā crying, to see Rāma dealt such an outrageous injustice, was more than he could bear, for he was devoted to Rāma with every cell of his being.
“This wicked deed of Mother Kaikeyī must not be heeded!” His nostrils flared and he hissed like a fire spitting sparks. “Surely our father’s mind is touched by old age. How else could he banish the sinless Rāma, who does not take offense even if someone directs anger at him, but is patient and compassionate to all? He is adored by the people, who have dreamed all their lives of being ruled by him. Let us ignore this wicked plot and go ahead with the coronation. I will vanquish all who oppose us!”
To prove his point, the impetuous Lakshmana, so young and handsome, drew an imaginary bow. If the situation were not so grave, Rāma would have smiled at Lakshmana’s passion. Instead he spoke gently but firmly.
“All my life I have lived to serve my father and the path of truth. How can I abandon him in his old age? How can I let him go to his death in dishonor? No, I must uphold his honor and fulfill his promise to Mother Kaikeyī.”
He went on, “Surely there are forces at work here that we cannot see. Surely Mother Kaikeyī, who has always loved me, would not be banishing me and bringing such grief to my poor parents if this idea of hers were not part of a larger design, whose purpose is hidden from us now. Our only hope is to follow our Dharma. We cannot waste our time now, blaming those who play a part in this grand design.
“As for myself, I could not live another instant if I thought I were bringing dishonor to my father and our ancestors. Only bloodshed and suffering would result from disobeying my father now.”
With compassion and respect, Rāma wiped away Lakshmana’s tears with the edge of his golden robe.
Then he tenderly addressed his mother, “I know this separation is not easy to bear. But you are a noble lady, known far and wide for your virtue and purity. I have come here today to receive your blessings, so that I may leave for the forest with a light heart.”
Queen Kausalyā, seeing Rāma’s fortitude and equanimity, gathered her emotions like a seamstress gathering her embroidery threads at the end of a day.
“Then I will follow you. Take me into the forest with you, to care for you. I have no life here without you. Surely I must be a hardhearted woman, or my heart would already be broken. Grant me this one wish, O Rāma.” Again, she gave in to her sadness and cried, her body shaking.
Even when faced with his mother’s entreaties, his own heart heavy with her grief, Rāma did not falter. “O Mother, just as I must follow my Dharma, so must we all. My father needs you. He has been betrayed by Mother Kaikeyī, who is temporarily
blinded by the gods. It is your duty to serve my father, as it is every married woman’s highest duty to serve her husband, especially in great need.”
The virtuous Kausalyā, brought to her senses by Rāma’s words, wiped her tears and said, “I shall do as you say, my noble son. For you are the embodiment of Dharma.”
Rallying about her son as a crowd rallies about a hero, she smeared sandalwood paste on his forehead and sprinkled rice on his head. Then, in a gesture of maternal love, she drew him to her breast and kissed the top of his head.
Smiling bravely despite her anguish, the virtuous Kausalyā said, “Just as I waited long years for your auspicious birth, so I will wait these fourteen years for your return. On that day I will be born anew. On that day I will live again. Until then, I will pray for you daily, my son. May only fortune and wisdom meet you; may you be blessed by all the Devas.” One by one, she invoked Ganesha, Lakshmī, Krishna, Vishnu, and all the Devas she worshipped every day, who resided like familiar friends in her devoted heart.
“Follow in the footsteps of your noble ancestors, and may you surpass them in glory. You are my love and my life.” With these words, her heart breaking, the high-minded Queen Kausalyā set aside her own desires and gave her blessings to her son.
Surely Kaikeyī would not be banishing me
if this idea of hers were not part of a larger design.
—Ayodhyā Kānda 22.16
CHAPTER 9
Rāma Prepares for Exile
SĪTĀ WAITED, WONDERING what could be keeping Rāma. Wasn’t the auspicious hour for the coronation fast approaching? Wasn’t it time for him to receive the royal oblation of holy water, honey, and curds, his eyes shielded by the royal umbrella, his attendants fanning him with the hair of one hundred yak tails?
As soon as Rāma entered the room, Sītā asked softly, “My dear, what has happened? Isn’t it time for the bards to be singing your praises as you mount the royal elephant, towering like a lofty mountain?”
Rāma related the strange turn of events. “It is the way of Dharma for a son to honor the words of his father and his mother, so I must obey,” said Rāma. “The wise say that there is nothing in the three worlds that cannot be won by honoring father, mother, and guru.”
Hearing of her husband’s exile, Sītā did not fall to the floor in a faint. Nor did she smolder with anger like the faithful Lakshmana. Instead, she immediately began preparing in her mind for a fourteen-year journey through the forest. For in temperament and valor, she was an equal match for the heroic Rāma. Like Rāma, she cared not for her own happiness, but lived to serve others.
“I will go with you, my lord,” she said simply.
Rāma embraced her affectionately and said, “My sweet Sītā, a forest is no place for your tender feet to tread. You are a noble lady, versed in the ways of Dharma. While I am away, you must start the day with fasting and prayers. Honor my father Dasharatha, for he is old and ill. Each day, comfort my mothers Kausalyā and Sumitrā, who are filled with grief. Treat my brothers Bharata and Shatrughna with respect and affection, as you would your brothers or sons. Never speak my praises in the presence of Bharata, for nothing displeases a king more than hearing others lauded in front of him. Always serve him as your ruler and do nothing to displease him, for the powerful love those who fulfill their wishes.”
At the thought of being separated from Rāma, Sītā’s heart contracted. “My mother and father have taught me to serve my husband and to stay with him always, whether he is a ruler in a palace or a poor forest dweller. You yourself have taught me that a wife shares the destiny of her husband. This is her joy and her duty. For a devoted wife, there is no worse punishment than being separated from her husband. Grant my prayer and let me come with you, O Lord.”
“O Sītā,” said Rāma, taking her hands in his. “One as tender as you cannot possibly know how dangerous the Dandaka Forest is. There the wind howls at night. There the monstrous rākshasas and fierce beasts attack the innocent. There the only foods to eat are roots and fruits scavenged during the day. I could never risk your life in this way.”
As tears streamed down her face, Sītā continued to entreat Rāma. “Many years ago, Vedic astrologers told me that I would spend time in the forest, meeting the sages and saints who dwell there. Do you not remember how many times I have asked you to take me to the forest? I am longing to accompany you now. With you by my side, I will be happy. With you by my side, I will be free from harm. With you by my side, I will sleep peacefully at night and sport playfully in the day in honey-scented woodlands and lotus waters. I will befriend the deer and the swan. Without you, I will be like the moon without the sun to light it. Without you, the jewels of the palace will be like heavy stones around my neck.”
Still Rāma refused to consent. Finally, the thought of separation becoming too real, the lovely Sītā grew agitated and sprang to her feet. She taunted her beloved husband, “Surely my father did not know that you were so cowardly, or he would never have given my hand to you at the sacred fire! How can the world say you are as resplendent as the sun? I have never cast my thoughts to another man. Ever devoted to you, I cannot endure even an hour of separation. How could I live in grief for ten plus four years of sorrow?”
With this she wailed piteously, exhausted with crying. Like a rose petal falling, she collapsed in his arms.
At last Rāma revealed his true thoughts, clasping her to his heart. “O Sītā, I would not bring you unhappiness even for all the rewards of heaven. I did not wish to subject you to the hardships of the Dandaka Forest, even though I am surely capable of protecting you from them. But since you have shown me that you are not only destined but determined to follow me into the forest, I would not be separated from you for all the riches on earth. I only needed to know the strength of your feelings, O precious daughter of Janaka, dearest to my heart.”
At his words, Sītā embraced him tenderly.
“Now, my lotus-eyed lady, prepare to give away your jewels, your silken clothes, and your golden housewares to the wives of the ascetics and the poor,” said Rāma. “For you will be needing none of these in the forest.”
Sītā, her cheerful mood restored, began making one pile of golden sārīs and another of glittering gold and jeweled ornaments. Like a bride opening gifts at her wedding, she prepared to give away her life’s possessions, for she was happy to become a forest dweller if it meant being with Rāma.
All this time Lakshmana, who always followed his brother Rāma like a shadow, had remained silent, though his face was also drenched with tears. Now he approached his brother, folding his hands in respect. His words burst forth like water from a dam. “Only one thing will appease my quaking heart,” said Lakshmana. “Let me follow you, as I have always done.”
Rāma, his heart filled with love for his younger brother, gave many reasons for Lakshmana to stay. But Lakshmana persisted, saying, “Since our birth, I have never been separated from you even for a day. How could I part from you for fourteen years?”
Rāma consoled him, saying, “If you come with me, then who will care for our mothers Kausalyā and Sumitrā, who will grieve inconsolably without your company? And surely someone must look after their interests when Bharata is king, for he may be blinded by his mother’s ambition and may slight them. Serving your elders is your duty.”
The valiant Lakshmana, whose love for Rāma arose from the core of his being, was himself a persuasive speaker. His face radiating with love, he said, “You can ask Shatrughna to care for Mother Kausalyā and Mother Sumitrā. Surely there is no loss of Dharma if I serve you.”
When Rāma didn’t raise an objection, Lakshmana continued, “With my bow and arrow, I will walk before you, clearing the way of all harm. With my basket and trowel, I will search the countryside for roots and fruits to sustain you. Each night I will watch over you and Sītā while you sleep.”
Rāma smiled broadly, for in truth
he could not imagine living without the faithful Lakshmana by his side.
“Then come with me, dear Lakshmana! Go at once to Vasishtha’s house and bring the celestial bows and quivers, filled with arrows, bestowed on us by Vishvāmitra. We will need them in the dreaded Dandaka Forest.”
Lakshmana smiled, his heart light for the first time that day. He quickly left to do Rāma’s bidding.
Later, after Lakshmana returned from his sad goodbye to his beloved wife, Rāma said, “Ask Suyagya, son of the noble Vasishtha and leader of the Brahmins, to come here. Then call all of the holy men who will guide the kingdom while I am away.”
Next Rāma summoned the royal treasurer and instructed him, “Bring all that belongs to me.” Shimmering gold and jewels were heaped in a mountainous pile. The immeasurable wealth Rāma had won through acts of valor lay before him.
After the virtuous Suyagya and his wife arrived, they stood by while Rāma and Sītā bowed low to show respect. Rāma bestowed upon Suyagya gold bracelets, necklaces, earrings, precious gems, an elephant, and one thousand gold pieces. To Suyagya’s wife, Sītā gave pearls, gold bracelets, precious gems, intricately woven tapestries, and a luxurious couch with silk coverlets embroidered in gold thread. The Brahmin and his wife thanked them, their faces bright with tears.
Throughout the long morning, Rāma and Sītā gave away all of their jewels, ornaments, clothing, cows, horses, and gold pieces. They gave to holy sages, students of the Veda, their friends, the elderly, and the poor. Rāma distributed gold, jewels, and thousands of cows to one elderly minister, who had long served the royal family. He heaped gold and jewels on his servants, who were moved to tears by his generosity. He did not forget any who had served him or were in need.
By the end of the morning, Rāma’s immense wealth was gone.
O Sītā, I would not bring you unhappiness even for all the rewards of heaven.
The Ramayana Page 8