—Ayodhyā Kānda 30.27
CHAPTER 10
Rāma Is Exiled
See how tender his age,
he whose lips have never spoken angry words,
even when falsely accused.
The great-souled one, our guide and protector,
shares our joys and our sorrows.
See how Sītā sheds no tears,
for she is happy
following her lord wherever he goes.
See how Lakshmana enters the forest
as a child enters a room full of sweets,
eager to serve his soft-spoken brother.
O see how King Dasharatha runs after his son,
arms outstretched like the blind.
The blameless Kausalyā
cries out like a cow for her calf.
All because of one
whose heart is black ice.
Surely our king must be senseless,
or mad,
to fall under her sway.
Why else would he allow Ayodhyā’s song
to slip away?
It was a sad and subdued crowd who watched Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana walk to King Dasharatha’s palace, bereft of jewels, chariot, and riches. Their radiance undimmed, they were followed by servants carrying their weapons, flashing in the sun.
People were still pouring into the streets for the coronation, but having heard the devastating news they now hoped to glimpse Rāma before he was gone.
“To think he who never went anywhere without his charioteer to drive him and attendants to serve him is now treading in the dust,” said a white-haired woman, her eyes filled with tears.
“And our lotus-eyed Sītā, even the birds flying overhead never before saw her face,” said another. “Now she walks through the streets like a common woman, exposed to the stares of all.”
“Surely our king has lost his senses,” said a man who tried to prop up a festive banner, now dragging in the street.
“How can we live without Rāma to warm our days?” asked a young man.
Here and there a murmuring began: “Let us follow Rāma to the forest.”
“Yes, we will follow Rāma!” cried the people. “Let Kaikeyī be left with the wind howling through empty rooms.”
Like a river gathering speed as it nears the ocean, the people of Ayodhyā surged through the streets, following the royal couple and the faithful Lakshmana. So great was their love for Rāma, the loyal townspeople abandoned their palaces, gardens, and riches without a glance behind. Standing outside the palace gates, they patiently waited while Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana entered the palace to receive their father’s blessings for the journey.
Inside the royal chambers, the three saw Dasharatha lying on his couch, surrounded by his wives, who were crying inconsolably. All except Kaikeyī, that is, who stood defiantly at the head of his bed, her hands clasped at one hip.
As Rāma and Sītā approached the king, their palms folded together in reverence, King Dasharatha struggled to rise from his couch and greet them. His eyes red from tears, his face drawn and pale, limbs shaking and lips trembling with the effort of forming words, he looked years older. Kausalyā tried to help him, but he fell to the floor, overwhelmed by emotion.
Rāma caught his father in his arms and helped him back to his couch. “O Rāma,” the king cried plaintively, “take away my throne by force. I am the one who should be banished.”
Smiling sweetly, his face as full as the moon, Rāma spoke words as soothing as the fragrance of jasmine. “O Father,” said Rāma, “may you rule this earth for another hundred years. The throne is not for me. I have given my word to dwell in the forest and have come to receive your blessings, along with Sītā and Lakshmana, who wish to accompany me.”
The king said piteously, “I see that you are determined to uphold my ill-fated vow, because it is impossible for you to stray from the path of righteousness. Go with a peaceful heart, for you have won the blessings of all lovers of truth. But please, do not leave today. I cannot bear it. Stay one more night with your mother and me.”
“Dear Father,” said the gentle Rāma, “surely it is better to cut short this unhappy day. Why prolong your grief when nothing can be changed? I am happy to fulfill your vow, so your name will always be honored among the truthful. In this way the fourteen years will pass quickly, and your pledge will be fulfilled.”
For a moment, nothing could be heard but the wrenching sobs of King Dasharatha’s wives, who looked upon Rāma as their favorite son.
Then even the serene Sumantra burst into tears. Seeing the anguish of his friend, the king, the faithful charioteer turned to Kaikeyī.
“Don’t you see that you have destroyed our beloved king, for he cannot live without Rāma?” Sumantra asked her. “The people will follow Rāma to the forest and leave Bharata with an empty kingdom. You will be reviled for all eternity for this evil deed. Stop now. Come to your senses. O, why doesn’t the earth open its jaws and swallow you, why doesn’t the sun burn you to ashes for this unforgivable act?”
Kaikeyī stood staring straight ahead, her face and heart like granite.
At that point the king rallied his will and said, “Sumantra, you must send riches, bedding, and comforts with Rāma. Send armies to protect him. Send his favorite friends to keep him company. Send hunters to catch his food. Send the strongest fighters to slay the dangerous tigers and bears. Let him pass the fourteen years in comfort, visiting the holy spots of the forest.”
Like a sleeping volcano suddenly revealing its hidden fire, Kaikeyī erupted in fury. “Do you believe even for a moment that Bharata would accept a kingdom without its riches, its armies, its people?”
“For shame!” cried King Dasharatha. “How can you continue on this evil plan?” The servants looked down, never having heard angry words spoken in this family before. Kaikeyī, however, only flung more angry words.
Rāma soothed her, saying respectfully, “O Mother, do not fear. I will keep the king’s promise and Bharata shall keep the kingdom with all its riches.”
Turning to his father, he said, “Dear Father, I care nothing for wealth or power. I live only to fulfill your desires. What good would gold do me in the forest? No, I will tread lightly there, living at peace with the humble creatures and sages alike. All I need is tree bark for clothing and a shovel and basket for digging roots.”
With those words, Kaikeyī handed the illustrious Rāma and the faithful Lakshmana rough garments woven from the inner fibers of tree bark. “Wear these,” she commanded coldly. The two brothers shed their royal silken robes and donned the humble clothing of ascetics, their splendor undiminished by the change of attire. But when the shameless Kaikeyī handed the rough garments to the delicate Sītā, women and men alike cried out with loud sobs.
Holding up the coarse tree-bark robe, Sītā looked puzzled. “How do I wear this?” she asked. Rāma quickly came to her aid, draping the ascetic’s garb over her silken sārī.
With that, Vasishtha had to speak out. “O Kaikeyī, are you determined to ruin your family’s name? Now that Sītā has decided to follow Rāma, unwilling to leave his side, then all of Ayodhyā will also follow Rāma. You will see, even Bharata and Shatrughna will don bark clothing, as they, too, are lovers of Rāma. Even the birds and deer will follow him. There is no kingdom without Rāma.”
Vasishtha gestured to the unrefined garments that Sītā wore. “Let Sītā forever be adorned as befits the wife of the king. These are not for her to wear.”
Even with these words from the holy Vasishtha, Queen Kaikeyī refused to relent. Those present, sobbing openly now, turned to King Dasharatha and said, “Shame to you!”
Stung by these words, the king roused himself. Railing at Kaikeyī, he said, “This was not part of my vow. Surely you have no grudge against the pure-hearted Sītā, with her delight
ful and gentle ways. So devoted to Rāma that she will follow him even into the dangerous forest, must she also wear these coarse garments?”
The king mustered his strength and said, “Sumantra, bring rare and costly jewels and silken sārīs for Sītā, to last all her years in the forest.”
When Sumantra returned, Sītā took off the bark-cloth robes and adorned herself with resplendent jewels, gladdening the hearts of all.
Sensing the time for departure was near, Rāma begged his father, “Comfort and cherish my mother, who today has sustained a terrible blow, being separated from her only son. Known throughout the world for her virtues, she does not blame you, but grief may cause her life to slip away.”
Then Sītā, steadfast in her devotion to Rāma, bowed to her mother-in-law. Overcome with emotion, the flawless Kausalyā praised Sītā. “Blessed is the wife who stays by her husband even when misfortune overtakes him. Faithful wives who are virtuous, who follow the teachings of their elders, hold their husband sacred. I know you will never forget to honor Rāma as your lord, even though he is dressed in bark instead of gold.”
“Your teaching of Dharma is not lost on me,” said Sītā, folding her hands in love and respect. “I will surely follow the path you have laid out. Please trust that I will always live my life just as my parents and guru have instructed me.”
Sītā smiled at Rāma’s mother and continued, “I could no more be separated from Dharma than the moonlight from the moon. Just as the wood is inseparable from the tree, so a woman’s happiness is inseparable from her husband. Even her mother, father, or children cannot give the happiness that the husband gives—to the wife he is the giver of all. I feel only respect and honor for my husband, for indeed, the wife finds God in her spouse.”
Hearing these simple words of Sītā’s, Kausalyā was filled with joy, and her tears flowed in both happiness and sorrow.
Then Rāma, his hands folded in devotion, his heart set in the path of Dharma, walked reverently around his mother. Facing her, he spoke words of courage. “Mother, you must not give way to grief. My father needs you at this desolate hour. Let the fourteen years pass quickly, like a long winter’s sleep. You will see me return here once again, accompanied by friends.” He did the same for Sumitrā and Kaikeyī.
Next Rāma addressed both his stepmothers together. “If ever I have spoken harshly to you, if ever in my childish ignorance I have caused you harm, please forgive me now and give me your blessings for my journey.” With these humble words from the blameless Rāma, Sumitrā could contain her feelings no longer and wailed with immeasurable grief.
Rāma now took his leave from his father, circling once around him.
Then Lakshmana bowed in reverence, first to his mother Kausalyā, and then to his birth mother, Sumitrā, who embraced him through her tears. “You have my blessings to follow your brother to the forest, even though my heart is deeply tied to you,” she said. “Serve him faithfully, as you are accustomed. Rāma is your refuge. To serve your elders is the highest Dharma; now you must look upon Rāma as your father and Sītā as your mother. Go and be happy.”
Thus taking leave of their father, their mothers, and their beloved servants, Rāma and Sītā slowly walked through the palace, with Lakshmana following. At the palace gate, Sītā, glittering like a thousand stars, stepped lightly into the gold chariot, happy to be at Rāma’s side.
With Sumantra driving, the chariot rolled slowly through the crowds of soldiers, sages, and common people. The laments of the people hung in the air like a thick fog. Women wailed. Dogs howled. Men shouted, “Slow down, slow down, slow down!” Clinging to the sides of the chariot, young and old alike begged to see Rāma’s face one last time. All around, people cried out in distress.
Hearing the cries of the people, the aged king staggered to the road, followed by his wives. “Rāma,” he cried after the chariot. “Rāma.” Tears streaming down his face, he held out his arms like a beggar. “Stop, I beg you, stop!”
Seeing his father crying out piteously, his mother trailing behind with faltering steps, Rāma said urgently, “Speed up!” Sumantra hesitated, not knowing whether to follow the orders of his king or those of Rāma. “If the king reprimands you when you return, tell him that I did not want to prolong his misery,” said Rāma.
And so the chariot left the grieving king and his wives behind. Queen Kausalyā, her eyes blinded by tears, cried out, “O Rāma! O Sītā! O Lakshmana!” again and again.
The king stumbled after the chariot until a minister gently said, “One must not follow too far the guest he desires to return home.” Nodding in acquiescence to these words of tradition, the elderly king stopped. Bent over with grief, he stared helplessly as Rāma’s chariot rolled out of sight. The citizens of Ayodhyā roiled around the chariot like a river around a boulder, determined to follow Rāma to the forest.
An eerie silence stole over the city, the only sounds the sobbing of the bereft monarch and his wives. Still the king remained there, his hands outstretched to the cloud of dust gradually disappearing on the horizon.
Then it was over. The brokenhearted king stood staring at the tracks left by Rāma’s chariot until a wind swept them into oblivion. He fell to the ground in a swoon.
I could no more be separated from Dharma
than the moonlight from the moon.
—Ayodhyā Kānda 39.28
CHAPTER 11
The People Follow Rāma
Rāma is a sun to the sun,
fire to burn all fires,
law to lawgivers,
and a God to the gods.
The essence of all life,
he imparts grace to the graceful
and diverts fear from the fearless.
To him can come no harm.
The night breezes caress
the noble one to sleep.
Mangoes drop from the trees,
a willing offering to a pure being.
The sun softens its heated rays
and the moon embraces him like a mother.
Rāma is a tiger among men
whom none can defeat.
Though Ayodhyā mourns his departure
like an orphaned child,
Rāma walks with happiness, resplendent with light.
Before him strides the invincible Lakshmana,
keeper of swords and celestial weapons.
Between the two brothers Sītā steps lightly,
shining with grace and beauty.
When King Dasharatha fell, the queens rushed to his side, raising him up. The king’s eyes fluttered and opened. The first person he saw was Kaikeyī, who had once been his favorite.
Raising his face to the sky, he declared with force, “Never again will my eyes rest upon you. Before all the gods and the sun, I renounce the vows that I made, the hand that I held, as I led you around the sacred fire. All that is mine is no longer yours; what is yours is no longer mine. For you have shunned Dharma and have chosen a path merely for material gain.”
Then he turned to Kausalyā. His energy spent, he said weakly, “O Mother of Rāma, take me to your palace. I cannot bear to stay anywhere else.” The heartbroken queen, herself barely able to stand, led the king away, his face dark as an eclipse of the sun.
The palace echoed hollowly without the two princes and the adored Sītā. The king lay on Kausalyā’s couch, tormented by thoughts of Rāma and Lakshmana sleeping in the dust and Sītā stepping on thorns. He slept fitfully. At midnight, he called out to Kausalyā, “Let me feel your loving touch. My sight, which followed Rāma, has not returned. I fear I am blind.”
The good Queen Kausalyā, sunk in her own dark thoughts, roused herself to comfort the king. After he fell once again into a fitful slumber, Kausalyā, overcome with sadness and fatigue, gave way to her feelings. “My precious son, that tiger among men, has been ripped from my arms. Who
knows what plight Rāma is facing this very minute? How can I live, when grief burns me as the sun scorches the desert?”
Sumitrā heard Kausalyā crying. Steadfast in Dharma and charming of speech, she comforted the devout and pure Kausalyā with words straight from her heart.
“You know more than anyone that this son of yours is no ordinary man. All good qualities adorn him like ornaments on a bride. Your son, who is endowed with all the attributes of an ideal ruler, renounced his own kingdom for the sake of his high-souled father. What can be the reason for mourning such a noble deed? His brother Lakshmana, in his compassionate service to Rāma, will also be honored throughout time as an exalted soul. Sītā, who has given up all comfort and luxury to follow her husband, will evermore be held highest among women.
“The gods shower blessings on those who uphold Dharma,” Sumitrā went on. “What harm can come to these lovers of truth? The time will pass quickly, and soon Rāma of the blue complexion will return to Ayodhyā, and you will shed tears of joy like a cloud sprinkling the earth below.”
With these sweet, healing words of Sumitrā, Queen Kausalyā felt heartened, and her grief left her like a bad dream at daybreak.
Meanwhile, far from the palace, Rāma’s chariot rolled ahead, followed by the men of Ayodhyā, who could not bear to lose sight of their beloved prince. Over and over they begged him to turn back. When they reached the gates of the city, Rāma turned and spoke to them from the chariot, his eyes filled with the love of a father for his children.
“I have renounced the kingdom as my father wished. Now it is for the people of Ayodhyā, who have always lavished love and affection on me, to direct that loyalty to Bharata. Though young in years he is old in wisdom. He will rule the kingdom with prudence and gentle strength. The king’s wishes must be carried out, and then he will have no reason to grieve.”
The more Rāma remained true to his Dharma, the more the people felt attached to him. He now ordered the chariot to go on—yet no one turned back when it hurtled forward. Even the pandits of the kingdom, who were old, wise, and powerful through years of reciting the Veda, followed him.
The Ramayana Page 9