The Ramayana

by Linda Egenes, M. A.

  Enchanted by the herons and swans frolicking in the sacred waters of the Yamunā, Sītā pointed to trees and songbirds that were new to her. Rāma, who knew the forest, taught her their names. Lakshmana gallantly stopped to pick flowers that caught her eye, and soon a garland of blossoms adorned her neck.

  In this happy way Sītā walked in a leisurely fashion toward their new home.

  The next day, as they drew near Chitrakūta Mountain, Rāma felt more and more joyful. “See how the trees are illuminated with blossoms, now that winter is past,” he said to Sītā. “See the mango trees, filled with crowds of monkeys, branches bowing low with their offerings of fruit. We can live here and eat these fruits.”

  Rāma gestured toward the sky. “Lakshmana, see the giant honeycombs dripping from every tree. See how the lofty peak of Chitrakūta Mountain touches the heavens. We will settle in this holy place, in the company of high-minded sages, on a level spot populated with trees, entertained by melodies of birds and trumpeting of elephants. We will be happy here.”

  When they at last reached the mountain, the three royal travelers came upon the āshram of the high-souled sage Vālmīki, who would many years later compose the Rāmāyana. As befitted a knower of Dharma, Vālmīki greeted them by circling their heads with a ghee lamp. After eating the food offered by the sage, they took their leave with gratitude and respect.

  After walking deep into the forest once more, Rāma wasted no time. “Lakshmana, gather the materials for building our home. My heart longs to live here.” Immediately, the mighty-armed warrior Lakshmana hewed logs of many different trees and built a strong hut with a leaf-woven roof.

  “The hour is auspicious,” said Rāma. “Let us perform the ceremonies for blessing a home.” After taking his bath in the River Mandākinī, the pure and illustrious Rāma performed the rites, reciting the sacred mantras to bring happiness and blessings from nature. Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana entered together and began to dwell quietly in the forest.

  Their minds deep in silence, living in harmony with the wild birds and beasts, gathering nuts and fruits to eat, the three wanderers made their home on Chitrakūta, between the pure waters of the River Mandākinī and the tall peaks of the mountain. Flower petals covered their path, honey sweetened their food, and the river quenched their thirst. Charmed by the forest and his dear Sītā, buoyed by Lakshmana’s companionship, Rāma’s days were infused with joy. Soon he forgot the sadness of leaving Ayodhyā and lived happily as before.

  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.

  —Ayodhyā Kānda 54.30

  CHAPTER 13

  The Death of King Dasharatha

  In a land without a ruler

  clouds no longer bless the earth with rain,

  farmers harvest no grains,

  and no sons obey their fathers.

  In a land without a ruler

  no one plants shade trees or flower beds

  or builds a palace.

  Armies cease to march

  and the lawless rule.

  Merchants neglect

  to travel with their wares

  to distant cities.

  In a land without a ruler

  young women abandon evening pleasure gardens,

  the wealthy lock their doors at night,

  fields no longer yield bounty,

  and young men refrain from courting.

  In a land without a ruler

  pandits receive no gifts,

  ascetics stop their wandering,

  and the learned cease

  to debate in honeyed groves.

  Travelers fear to venture out,

  archers no longer twang their bows,

  horses stop their prancing before shining chariots,

  elephants no longer lumber along highways,

  ringing their bells.

  Where there is no king

  there is no wealth,

  no ghee-laden offerings,

  no alms for the poor,

  no festivals of merry singers and dancers,

  no armies victorious over foes.

  Like a river without water,

  like a chariot without a horse,

  like a mountain without peaks,

  the land without a ruler

  cries in the night.

  For the king is truth.

  He is righteousness.

  The protector of good,

  he is the father of the orphan,

  the mother of all.

  When Sumantra bade farewell to Rāma on the banks of the River Gangā, he thought his heart would break. He stood watching until Rāma, Sītā, and Lakshmana crossed the river and disappeared into the woods on the opposite shore. And then he was alone.

  Sumantra wandered by the shore for several days, talking with Guha and waiting for news from Guha’s spies, who followed Rāma’s progress. When he heard that Rāma had reached Bharadvāja’s āshram and traveled on, he knew there was no hope of ever rejoining his master’s son. So Sumantra hitched the horses to King Dasharatha’s chariot and started the lonely journey home.

  It was just as he feared. From afar, Ayodhyā no longer beckoned like a bejeweled queen. Bleak and desolate, the gates shuttered, the city looked more like a widow who had just lost her husband. When he drove into the silent city, people heard his chariot and ran into the streets, their weary faces lit with a glimmer of hope. But when they saw the empty chariot, they cried out, “Where is he?” When Sumantra told them that their beloved Rāma had crossed the wide Gangā, people burst into tears, their last hopes shattered.

  Hearing the women of Ayodhyā weeping behind their window screens was trying enough, but for Sumantra the worst was yet to come. Nothing could prepare him for the fallen state of the king, who lay like a withered leaf on his couch. When Kausalyā whispered Sumantra’s arrival to the king, the aged monarch slowly turned his face to face him. His old friend could see that the king was cherishing the hope that Rāma was with him.

  When Sumantra gently told the king that he had returned without Rāma, Dasharatha found strength enough to ask, “Then tell me, O faithful friend, your news of Rāma. How does the royal prince, accustomed to sleeping on silken beds, endure nights on the hard ground? How does the delicate Sītā walk so far, without a chariot to relieve her fatigue? What did Rāma, Lakshmana and Sītā say when you parted?”

  Sumantra, who always spoke the truth, did not hold anything back, though his voice choked with emotion. “Rāma asked that I salute you again and again, and that I touch your feet, as he would do if he were here. He offers his greetings and love to all the royal mothers. He greets his mother Kausalyā with reverence and says that all is well. He entreats her to be vigilant in pursuing her Dharma—to light the sacred fire at the proper hours, to always serve his father as she would her God, to treat Kaikeyī as she would treat Sumitrā, without pride or rancor, and to serve Bharata as she would the king himself, for rulers must be honored for their power.

  “He also left a message for Bharata,” Sumantra continued. “Rāma said, ‘O Bharata, please my father by ruling the kingdom, and always respect his wishes.’” At that point Sumantra could barely continue, as he recounted that Rāma’s tears fell like rain when he entreated Bharata to treat all his mothers equally, and to take special care of Rāma’s aged mother Kausalyā, now bereft of her son.

  “Seeing Rāma’s tears, the faithful Lakshmana could not contain his feelings,” said Sumantra. “Lakshmana said, ‘Rāma is my brother, my father, my king, and my master. I fear that my father cannot expect to continue ruling, having exiled the virtuous Rāma, who is adored by all.’ But the blameless Sītā said nothing. Her breast heaving with sobs, her face pinched with grief and bathed in tears, she helplessly watched
me take my leave.

  “The royal horses at first refused to return home without Rāma, and tears rolled from their large eyes. And as I journeyed back to Ayodhyā,” said the brokenhearted Sumantra, “I saw a land in which buds wither, water boils in rivers and lakes, and wild beasts have lost the will to hunt their prey. Flowers wilt, birds shrink from view, and men and women are exhausted by tears. For no creature cares to live without Rāma.”

  At these blunt words of Sumantra’s, Dasharatha again lamented his fatal mistake. “How could I have acted so foolishly, swayed by Kaikeyī’s poisoned words, without consulting my friends, ministers and citizens? O Sumantra, if I have ever done good to you, take me to Rāma now. Let me rest my head near his, for I cannot live without seeing him and his brother Lakshmana and the devoted Sītā once more. Please, take pity on an old man, and bring me to them.”

  Sobbing, the king said to Kausalyā, “There is no way for me to cross over this ocean of grief. How great my sin must have been, for my children to be torn from me.”

  Hearing the king’s heart-rent words, Kausalyā could not contain herself. Her body shook and she fell to her knees, begging Sumantra again and again to bring them to Rāma.

  That good servant wished he had bitten his tongue. Now he tried to reassure the queen. “Sītā has taken to forest life like a creeper to a tree. She delights in the blossoming flowers and the songbirds, and is learning their names from Rāma. She wears her lovely ornaments and silken sārīs, and trips along in the forest as if it were her own pleasure garden. Because her pure heart is overflowing with love for Rāma, her natural serenity and beauty, like the petals of a lotus flower, are undiminished by the wind or sun. Those three, fulfilling their father’s vow, delight in the forest life.”

  “Oh my son, my son!” The more Sumantra tried to soothe her, the louder Kausalyā cried. Then suddenly she stopped crying, and for the first time since Rāma’s exile, Kausalyā turned to King Dasharatha and chastised him for causing this unthinkable misfortune.

  “When I see Rāma’s face before me, with his lotus eyes and crown of thick curls, my heart breaks into a thousand pieces. And who is to say that Bharata will even relinquish the throne when the fourteen years of exile are over? And why would Rāma accept the leftovers of his younger brother? Such an insult cannot be borne by that tiger among men, who with his invincible strength and golden-tipped arrows can devour the ocean itself. But he is the knower of Dharma, so he has respected your vow. He has been undone by you like a fish swallowed by its own parent. And I, too, have been destroyed. For a woman depends first on her husband, second on her son, and third on her relations. All of these are no more. By destroying our son, you have destroyed me. Worse, you have destroyed this city, this kingdom, this state, yourself, and your ministers. Only your one son and one wife are happy.”

  Pierced by these scorching arrows from the normally serene and dutiful Kausalyā, King Dasharatha could scarcely breathe. In his misery, his mind swirling with emotion, he fell unconscious. After a long time, he came to his senses.

  “O my faithful queen,” cried out King Dasharatha, trembling with remorse. “Take pity on me.” Folding his hands together like a mendicant, he begged her, “You are ever loving and kind to all, even your enemies. I beg you, my dear queen, who is anchored in Dharma, forgive your unworthy husband’s misdeeds, as you have been taught. Do not treat me unkindly, even though you are drowning in grief.”

  Seeing her proud husband begging for forgiveness, the good and humble Queen Kausalyā burst into tears again. “It is I who must be forgiven,” she said. She tenderly placed his hands, folded like a lotus bud, on her head. “I fall at your feet for what I have done, to cause a great and just man to beg for his wife’s forgiveness like a common thief. I have always clung to Dharma, and I know that you, too, are a man of utmost integrity. It is my sorrow that has caused me to say words I did not mean to say. Surely, grief chokes courage, blinds knowledge, and clouds the senses. There is no greater enemy than grief.”

  King Dasharatha removed his hands from her head and tenderly clasped her delicate hands in his own, and so the two righteous and heartbroken parents of Rāma were reconciled. His wife’s soft words soothed him like a healing balm, and finally the tormented king fell into a deep and restful sleep.

  —

  THE NIGHT STILL covered the earth in a veil of darkness when King Dasharatha woke up. His mind brooded over the events of the last weeks, churning over them again and again, hoping to discover how this calamity could have befallen his family. Then, like a flash of sunlight on a cloudy day, he recalled a misdeed he had unwittingly committed many years before, as a youth. Waking Kausalyā, he told her this strange and tragic story.

  “Long ago, before we married, in that long-forgotten time when I was a young king, I was known as a skilled archer, because I could hear the sounds of an animal and direct my arrow to it without even seeing the target. Like a man who longs to eat poison fruit because it looks pretty, I did not know the consequences of shooting by sound alone. But whether you know the consequences or not, you reap the fruit of your action.

  “It was the season of rain, and the waters cooled the scorched earth like a mother’s caress. Birds splashed happily, elephants drank long and deep, and withered leaves shed their dust and sparkled with vitality. In this happy time I went hunting alone in the lush woods near the River Sarayu. I hunted at night, hoping to kill an elephant.

  “My bow and arrow in hand, I crept quietly through the forest and stopped by a tranquil pool. Staying absolutely still, I waited. Soon I was rewarded by the sound of an elephant stomping to a pond and drinking from its waters. I sent the arrow flying to meet its mark.

  “A man cried out in agony, ‘Why would someone want to kill me, a hermit devoted to austerities? I was only filling my pot with water, to carry to my aged parents. What have I done to be pierced in the middle, my vital parts torn in two?’

  “I was paralyzed with fear and shaking with grief. Surely I would wake up from this nightmare, I thought, for even at that young age I always tried to follow Dharma. And now I had mistakenly struck down a Brahmin, the most heinous sin of all.

  “Hoping to help him, I crashed through the palms and reached his side. There I found a youthful ascetic, lying on the ground and clutching his side, his water pot rolling at his feet. Even in his agony he shone with an inner light made brilliant through long meditations.

  “Recognizing me, he reproached me. ‘What harm did I do you, O mighty king, that you would want to strike me?’ he said in anguish. ‘Your one arrow has killed three, for my aged mother and father are blind, and I am their sole caretaker. What made you shoot a man who was carrying water to his ailing parents? You must go quickly to my father’s āshram and tell him, lest he destroy you with his anger. But first, remove the arrow and put me out of pain.’

  “I knew that by my removing the arrow, the youth might die. Seeing my fear and regret he said, ‘Do not worry that you will be killing a Brahmin. I am the son of a merchant and laborer.’ And so I did as he asked, and he passed to the next world.

  “For a long while, I was paralyzed with remorse. Finally, I gathered myself together and, taking the water pot, made my way to the āshram nearby. There I found an old man and woman, radiating light but unable to move without their son to carry them on his back, like a forest that must wait for the rain.

  “At first they thought I was their son. ‘Dear son, why have you taken so long to bring water to your mother?’ asked the sage. ‘Have we done something to offend you?’

  “Trembling all over, placing my palms together in respect, I finally found the courage to tell them about the dreadful accident.

  “At first the sage said nothing. A wave of unspeakable grief passed over his face, and tears fell. Then he said quietly, ‘It is fortunate that you yourself have told me of this inconceivable act, for otherwise your head would have shattered into a thousand pie
ces. The entire line of Ikshvākus could have been destroyed today.’ Then he asked me to lead them to the place where their son lay.

  “While performing the last rites for their slain son, the weeping couple cried out again and again, ‘Take us with you, for we cannot exist without you to feed and care for us. You will reach the highest heaven, for your faithful service to us on earth and for the power of truth you have attained.’

  “Throughout all this, I stood with my hands folded, too stunned to move. Finally, the sage turned to me, his face radiating such light that it nearly blinded me. ‘As a warrior, it is a grievous sin to kill a holy man, but because you did it in ignorance, you will not suffer the most severe consequence. Yet the misery you have created will find you, as surely as your own arrow found its mark. As I die of grief now at the death of my son, so you too will die of grief from losing your son.’ Having cursed me, the old man and his wife left this world to join their son.”

  Having finished his story, King Dasharatha said, “Like an illness caused by eating poisonous food, I now face the inevitable consequences of that regrettable mistake. The words of that grieving father stretch across the long corridor of time to reach me, and now I will surely die, grieving for my son.”

  Reaching out to touch Kausalyā, he said, weeping with fear, “Lay your hand on mine, O auspicious one. I can no longer see you, for men who are near death cannot see. My senses will retract, one by one, until finally my mind will fail, like a lamp whose oil has dried up, and then my heart will stop. If only I could feel the touch of Rāma once more, my Rāma who knows Dharma and who is undefeatable. The sadness dwelling in the deep pools of my heart is swelling to consume me, just as the river consumes its banks in a flood.”

  Then the king cried out, “O Rāma, fortunate are those who will live to see you again. O Kausalyā and Sumitrā! O Rāma! O Sītā! O Lakshmana!”

  Overwhelmed with sorrow, his last thoughts on Rāma, attended by Kausalyā and Sumitrā, the noble King Dasharatha gave up his life.