Struggling to keep up, they called to the horses, “Slow down, noble ones! We know you can hear us, for you have sharp ears. Bring your master, the lover of truth, back to Ayodhyā. Otherwise, with our bodies covered with dust, our hair white as a swan, we will leave our wives and families to follow the one who is steadfast in Dharma. Even the trees are beckoning him to return; even the birds cry out to hold him.”
When Rāma saw these venerable and respected sages falling behind, he compassionately ordered Sumantra to stop. Stepping from the chariot, he continued on foot with Sītā and Lakshmana. In this way the holy men could keep up.
Finally, at the end of an exhausting day, the procession reached the River Tamasā. There Sumantra let the horses roll in the grasses and graze. After the evening ablutions, he and Lakshmana prepared a bed of boughs for Rāma and his wife.
While Rāma and Sītā and the people of Ayodhyā slept under the starry sky, Lakshmana stood watch, and Sumantra kept him company. To pass the long hours of the night, Lakshmana expounded on Rāma’s virtues while Sumantra listened.
In the early hours of the morning, long before dawn, Rāma awoke. Seeing the men of Ayodhyā still sleeping, he whispered to Lakshmana, “Let us leave now, so these good men can return to their warm beds and their families. After all, it is the Dharma of a prince to save the people from hardships, not to create difficulties for them.”
Without making a sound, Sumantra hitched the horses to the chariot and took his place in front. Driving Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana, Sumantra carefully pulled away from the encampment and crossed the River Tamasā in the darkness, the spokes of the wheels churning the high waters.
Once on the other bank, Rāma said, “Travel north to begin the journey in an auspicious direction. Then switch back, so the people cannot trace us.”
On Sumantra drove, on through the night. At daybreak, after his morning meditation and prayers, Rāma ordered Sumantra to press on—on beyond the fertile rolling hills of Kosala, tucked into the earth like the folds of a mother’s apron. On across the Gomatī and other rivers the chariot forged ahead.
When the people awoke at dawn and found that Rāma had disappeared, they lamented, “O cursed sleep, we have lost him!” In vain they tried to trace his tracks, and in the end returned home, dejected and weeping.
When they reached Ayodhyā, their wives, whose love for Rāma was like a mother for a son, chastised their husbands. “What use was it returning without him?”
The loss was so great that the whole city of Ayodhyā plunged into mourning. No women cooked food, no men decorated their shops; all were overcome with memories of the happiness they had once enjoyed and thoughts of future glories blighted. Ayodhyā was like a star whose light had been snuffed by the clouds, a vast ocean whose waters had shrunk to a puddle.
As they rolled on through the countryside, Rāma chatted with Sumantra, trying not to hear the laments of the people in villages they passed, who followed him as the people of Ayodhyā had done. Finally they reached the farthest boundary of Kosala.
Here Rāma motioned to Sumantra to pause. Before going into exile, he wished to honor one last time the kingdom of his birth—a kingdom rich in grain, precious gems, and gold. A kingdom lush with gardens and mango orchards, with cows crowding its pastures, and the chanting of sacred texts reverberating in its homes. Long free from fear of attack, its people were prosperous and contented.
Rāma bowed reverently with folded hands and spoke to the country folk who had followed him from the nearby village. “You have proven your love and devotion, but now you must return to your homes and your work.”
Facing the direction of his birthplace, he vowed, “May the gods bless you, fair city of Ayodhyā. When my exile in the forest is over, and I have fulfilled the vow of my father, I shall see you again, O Ayodhyā, together with my father and mother.” Then the chariot surged forward, and Ayodhyā slipped out of sight as the sun slips below the horizon at day’s end.
Beyond the boundaries of Kosala kingdom, the chariot at last came to rest at the sacred Gangā, the River Ganges, winding its way to the sea. Ancient āshrams adorned its shores, its waters purifying all sin. Called the “Stream of Golden Lotuses” by the gods in heaven, the stream swirled like a dancer in one place and drifted graceful as a swan in the next. Birds flitted in bursts of light on its shores. Elephants drank its waters like nectar, flowering trees dropped their petals in obeisance, and fishes shining like jewels flashed through its waves.
Taking in this delightful scene, Rāma’s heart suddenly felt lighter. As he was about to dip in the purifying waters, he saw a group of tribal men approaching, wearing decorative paint and simple clothing of bark and feathers.
Rāma smiled broadly. He immediately recognized his dear friend Guha, the king of the Nishāda tribe, who ruled this region of dense forest on the edge of the kingdom of Kosala. Guha had been like a brother to Rāma when they studied together in Vasishtha’s āshram.
Greeting Rāma with folded hands, the humble Guha said with devotion, “O dear Rāma, my kingdom is now your kingdom. Please, rest here in our comfortable beds and nourish yourselves with delicious food, which I have brought. As long as you wish, let this be your home, and let all that you see be yours.”
Rāma embraced Guha fondly in his strong arms and asked after his friend’s family. “It is a delight to visit you here,” he said. “But as you must have heard, I have vowed to become an ascetic, so I cannot accept your gifts of food and bedding. My father’s horses, though, will surely appreciate grass and water.”
Rāma walked to the river to bathe, drinking only a little water brought to him by Lakshmana, fasting as he had been taught to do upon reaching a holy place.
The tireless Lakshmana again prepared a bed of boughs, this time under a flowering ingudī tree, and then took up his watch over Sītā and Rāma as they slept. Distressed to see the loyal Lakshmana forgoing sleep, Guha said, “Please, you must rest on a comfortable bed. Let those of us who are accustomed to sleeping in the forest watch over Rāma during the night.”
Then the brave Lakshmana gave way to his emotions, weeping like an elephant in pain. “How can I rest when the pride of Ayodhyā, whose birth was accompanied by all auspicious signs, sleeps on the ground with the blameless Sītā? At this moment, our revered father is surely dying of grief.”
Guha, agitated beyond bearing, consoled the loyal Lakshmana with inspiring words and stories, and so passed the night.
The next morning, Rāma said to Lakshmana, “Hear the cry of peacocks in the woodland and the dark-feathered kokila bird. See how the dawn streaks the sky. Today we will cross Mother Gangā. Dear brother, ask our loyal friend Guha to supply a boat to ferry us over.”
Delighted to be of service to his beloved friend Rāma, Guha delivered a splendid boat and boatmen to guide it. As Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana prepared to board, Sumantra knew that he would not be following them. The faithful minister could not bear the parting. His eyes flooding with tears, he entreated, “What are your wishes?”
Gently Rāma touched the aged minister’s shoulder with his right hand and said, “You have served me well, but now you must return home to serve the king with all devotion, as you always have. For now we leave the chariot and our belongings behind and enter the forest on foot.”
Sumantra gave way to his grief and sobbed, for he had never imagined that he could be separated from Rāma. “You will earn great merit for following your father’s wishes and entering the forest like a commoner,” he said. “But the rest of us will pine away without you. What will we do, now that we are subject to Kaikeyī’s desires?”
Rāma comforted him by saying gently, “In the long line of Ikshvākus, no one has served our family as well as you. Now I am depending on you to help my father bear his sorrow. He is old and fraught with suffering; he needs you to support and guide him. Kindly return home with messages of love and respect for my f
ather and mothers.”
Still Sumantra could not reconcile his heart to this painful separation. “Please do not think me disrespectful, for today I speak not as a servant, but with my heart and soul. How can I return with an empty chariot to Ayodhyā, where the people thirst for your return as men thirst for water in a drought? You, who always treat your servants with love, cannot abandon one who wishes to serve you.”
Rāma, who felt sympathy for those who assisted him, finally said, “I know that by attending to my father for so long, you have become intensely devoted to me. Perhaps it will help you to know that there is a reason for my request. When Mother Kaikeyī sees the empty chariot, she will know without a doubt that her wishes are being fulfilled, and will not suspect the truthful king of deception.”
Sumantra reluctantly accepted the wisdom of Rāma’s words. Having blessed Sumantra and taken his leave, Rāma now asked Guha to bring him the milky sap of the banyan tree. Seated on the ground, Rāma and Lakshmana smeared their hair with sap and tied it in a knot at the top of their heads. Speaking the sacred vows of ascetics, dressed in bark-cloth robes and matted locks, Rāma and Lakshmana glowed like two ancient Rishis.
The knower of Dharma thanked his gracious host Guha and embraced him fondly. Without looking back, the three boarded the boat, Lakshmana entering first to help Sītā. After rinsing his mouth with water, Rāma offered salutations to the holy river and prayed for a safe crossing. At the midpoint, the boat stopped as Sītā sang a prayer to the holy Gangā.
O Mother Gangā, grant your son a safe journey.
After fourteen years, may he return safely, and then,
O Devī, in thanksgiving will I perform a yagya to you.
O lady of a thousand lotuses, consort of the ocean king,
to you I bow down,
to you I offer adoration.
When the mighty-armed Rāma returns and regains his empire,
a hundred thousand cows will I give away,
a thousand vessels of gold
to please you.
I will worship all the gods who adorn your shores,
visit all the sacred āshrams
when Rāma, his brother, and I
touch your shore once more,
delivered from exile.
Guided across by the devoted boatman, they reached the far shore of the Gangā, where their life in the forest would begin.
When the period of my exile in the forest is over,
and I have fulfilled the vow of my father,
I shall see you again, O Ayodhyā, together with my father and mother.
—Ayodhyā Kānda 50.3
CHAPTER 12
Life on Chitrakūta Mountain
High on Chitrakūta Mountain
Rāma said to Sītā,
“See, my beloved, how this mountain shimmers
in ribbons of gold, silver, emerald,
and traces of stars.
Flocks of birds light on its peaks
like a cloud.
Herds of deer leap through mango groves.
Leopard, hyena, and bear
frolic under rose-apple blossoms.
“See how the trees never lose their bloom
in this enchanted place
and bow down to offer us jackfruit and mango.
The wind carries sweet fragrances
of the flowering champa tree
and trills of birds.
“In the moonlight healing herbs
glow like flames.
Sages with matted locks
salute Sūrya, the sun Deva, each morning,
and those of disciplined vows
perform their oblations each evening
as the setting sun tints its waters gold.
“Bathe with me in this river
three times a day,
for it is the refuge of the sinless.
My lovely one, bathe in the Mandākinī,
with its carpets of red and white lotuses,
and escape all fatigue.
“Imagine these wild beasts
are the citizens of Ayodhyā,
and the mountain is the city,
with its peaks of palaces brushing the sky.
Imagine this river is the Sarayu, passing
by our distant home.
“As for me, I find this perpetual spring of Chitrakūta
even more pleasing than that fabled city.
Neither loss of kingdom nor loss of friends troubles me.
With you here to give happiness,
with Lakshmana here to serve me,
I cling to the discipline of forest life
and drink the nectar of this river
to honor my promise to my father.”
After offering his blessings to the faithful boatman, Rāma surveyed the narrow path leading into the heart of the forest. Though he still felt the light and pure air of the River Gangā, he noticed that the woods here seemed denser and wilder than those they had left on the other shore. Vines choked the trees, the forest canopy so thick that sunlight barely reached the ground.
“Lakshmana,” Rāma said, “together we must shield Sītā from the perils of this uninhabited forest. It is, after all, the duty of warriors to protect others. If you walk first and I walk last, with Sītā in between us, she will be safe from dangers all around. We must keep watch without fail, for Sītā’s safety depends solely on us.”
And that is the way they would walk for the next thirteen years.
Later, Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana took rest under a tree, and the three prepared to spend their first night in the forest there. Freed from the company of his subjects for the first time, Rāma at last unburdened his heart to his brother as Sītā slept. Stretched on the earth, Rāma said, “The nights must weigh on our father like a shadow, and I fear he is sleeping badly. What if Kaikeyī goads and taunts my mother and yours? Without sons to defend their interests, what will become of those women? Lakshmana, you must return home at once to defend them from Kaikeyī.”
Lakshmana waited until his brother ran out of words. Then that able-bodied warrior said comfortingly, “O Rāma, it is true that our family and the people of Ayodhyā are bereft without you. But you must not lament, for Sītā and I also depend on you. Without you, we are like fish without an ocean. I do not wish to leave you, even to see my own father and mother—even to see heaven, if it is far from you.”
Cheered by Lakshmana’s tender words, his heart relieved from its acute pressure, Rāma fell asleep without fear or distress, like a lion in his mountain kingdom.
The next day the three walked along the river, hoping to find the confluence of the Rivers Gangā and Yamunā. They walked through pleasant flowering groves, admiring the views. By the time the sun reached its zenith, they spotted the smoke of an āshram fire and quickened their pace.
Coming to a clearing, they saw before them the āshram of the famed Rishi Bharadvāja, who lived at the meeting point of the two holy rivers. The sage sat before his hut, and they approached reverently, bowing to him and introducing themselves.
“I have been expecting you,” said Bharadvāja simply. “I have heard of your unjust banishment and how the faithful Sītā and the lionhearted Lakshmana followed you to the forest.”
After offering them water to bathe their feet, he gave them madhuparka, a traditional offering of yogurt, clarified butter, honey, and coconut milk. Then he served them foods and drinks made from roots and berries, gathered in the forest. Versed in Dharma, the holy Bharadvāja revived his guests with pleasing food and generous hospitality.
“You are welcome to stay here as long as you like,” said Bharadvāja. “Why not make your forest home here with me?”
“Thank you, revered sage,” said Rāma, “but if we stay here, we will be close neighb
ors with Ayodhyā. I am afraid the people would seek us out. Do you know of a secluded place farther away that would be safe for Sītā?”
The sage smiled. “I know of just the place. Chitrakūta is a holy mountain, with lush vegetation, grassy clearings, and high waterfalls. It abounds in roots, berries, and honey. Peacocks and songbirds sing sweet melodies, deer leap and play, and streams sparkle with the splashing of elephants. Holy sages fill its caves, and it is said that as long as a man sees the peaks of Chitrakūta Mountain, he will devote himself to virtue and will not set his mind on misdeeds.” Sītā glanced at Rāma and smiled. It sounded like the perfect place.
After spending the night at the peaceful āshram, the three forest dwellers thanked the holy sage again and again for his kindness, and set out on their long walk to Chitrakūta Mountain. Only now their hearts were lighter.
When it came time to cross the sacred River Yamunā, known as the daughter of the sun, the two strong-armed brothers hewed wood and bamboo and built a raft. Lakshmana fashioned a comfortable seat of rattan reeds for Sītā and adorned it with auspicious rose-apple blossoms. Tenderly Rāma gathered the bashful Sītā and settled her on the seat. Seated on her flower and bamboo throne, radiating beauty and light, Sītā floated like a forest queen on her barge, attended by the two princes.
Rāma and Lakshmana rowed swiftly across the streaming river, pausing midway for Sītā to sing a prayer. When they reached the other side, the blameless Sītā, friend to all living beings, cried in delight, “There is the banyan tree that Sage Bharadvāja told me about! He said to pray for my heart’s desires there.”
Sītā circled the ancient tree, long revered by saints. Bowing low before it, she prayed, “Glory to you, Mother of the Forest. May my husband return home safely, and may we live to see Mother Kausalyā, Mother Sumitrā, and Mother Kaikeyī once again.”
As he watched his beloved Sītā with tender affection, Rāma said to Lakshmana, “Be sure to gather any flowers that Sītā would like along the way.”
The Ramayana Page 10