—
THE BODY WAS discovered the next morning by the maidservant, who saw Kausalyā and Sumitrā lying unconscious at the dead king’s feet and ran from the room crying. Wailing began in the women’s quarters, and all the servants of King Dasharatha crowded into the room, sobbing as if the world had ended.
Cradling the king’s head in her lap, Queen Kausalyā said to Kaikeyī, “See where your selfish designs have led? This king could not live without Rāma. By banishing that worthy son, you have killed our husband.” The other women, too, cried out in despair, “Who will protect us now?” Among themselves, they whispered, “Who will save us from the evil deeds of Kaikeyī, a woman without human feeling?”
Soon the ministers and holy men came and removed the body. They immersed it in oil to preserve it, for not one of the four sons of Dasharatha was present to perform the funeral rites. Headed by Vasishtha, they held an emergency meeting.
“Bharata must be summoned to conduct the rites of the dead,” said one of the Brahmins to Vasishtha.
“And he must take the reins of the kingdom,” a minister said. “For without a king, this land will surely dissolve into anarchy.” So it was that Vasishtha ordered the messengers to summon Bharata home to a kingdom without a ruler, a kingdom shrouded in mourning like the dark night.
As I die of grief now at the death of my son,
so you too will die of grief from losing your son.
—Ayodhyā Kānda 64.54
CHAPTER 14
Bharata’s Grief
FAR FROM THE fertile fields of Kosala, in the charming kingdom of Kekaya, the land of his mother’s birth, Bharata slept fitfully. Little did he know that messengers were drawing near the city to summon him home.
The next morning, his brightness dimmed, Bharata did not smile or greet his friends. He sat brooding in a corner of the elegant room where he and his cousins usually gathered. Shatrughna stood beside him, as always. Reflecting his brother’s mood, he too felt withdrawn from the usual banter. Seeing Bharata’s strange state of mind, his cousins tried to cheer him up with songs, jokes, and dancing. They even performed a humorous skit.
Finally, one of his closest friends asked, “Dear Bharata, when your friends try their best to make you happy, why do you keep staring with a long face?”
Bharata struggled with his emotions and could not speak. Finally, his voice quivering, he said, “In a dream, I saw my father in dire straits. The strong-limbed Dasharatha, smeared with mud, his hair unkempt and his clothing disheveled, fell from a mountaintop into a pool polluted by cow dung. Standing in that pool, he drank oil from cupped hands and laughed like a madman. Then he dived headfirst again and again into a vat of oil. Finally—and this is the worst part—wearing a red garland and red sandalwood paste, he climbed into a chariot drawn by asses, driven by a red-faced demoness who laughed hideously, heading south.”
Bharata looked around at his dear friends. “I fear that one of us will soon die, either Rāma, Lakshmana, Shatrughna, my father or me. This is why I do not respond to your kindly efforts to cheer me. I cannot shake the fear I felt upon seeing my father in such a wretched condition.”
The group of friends fell silent now, for everyone knew that such a dream did not bode well. Just then messengers from Ayodhyā were announced. As they entered the room, Bharata and his friends leapt to their feet to welcome them.
The faithful Bharata could hardly wait until the formal greetings ended. “Tell me,” he said, “how is my father? Are my mothers well? How are Rāma and Lakshmana? And do the people prosper?”
Having been instructed by Vasishtha to avoid telling Bharata the sad news, they answered in general terms. “They are all well, only you have been summoned home on urgent business. You must leave today.” Then they handed Bharata gifts of costly garments and jewelry for his relatives, as well as two bags of gold pieces. “The larger is for your grandfather, and the other for your uncle, to thank them for hosting you so graciously.”
Bharata gratefully accepted the gifts, generously rewarding the trustworthy messengers with gold.
Filled with foreboding, Bharata bade farewell to his maternal grandfather, King Ashvapati. “You have my blessings on your journey,” said the monarch. “Offer my greetings to your mother, your father, the holy men who surround your family and your two radiant brothers, Rāma and Lakshmana. You are a noble son to my daughter and are always welcome here.” Then, to honor Bharata and his family, he sent with him two thousand gold pieces, horses, elephants, mules, well-bred dogs, luxurious carpets, deerskins, and other items of wealth.
Bharata barely took time to express his thanks for their kindness, so anxious was he to mount his chariot for home. Flanked by their grandfather’s army and most trusted officials, Bharata and Shatrughna left the city where they had been treated like gods.
The journey took them over mountains, across rivers, and through uninhabited forests. At one point they rode on elephants through dense woods. Later the pure and high-souled Bharata, with Shatrughna, hitched swift steeds to his chariot and left the army behind. By changing the teams they were able to keep traveling through the night and reached Ayodhyā at dawn on the seventh day.
Home at last, Bharata saw inauspicious signs when he entered the city. “Where are the Brahmins who chant their hymns at daybreak?” he cried to Shatrughna. “Where are the merchants selling flowers? Why do the gardens look empty, with no young children playing about? Where is the smell of sweet incense, entwined with the cool breeze? Birds have lost their voices, the front porches are unswept, and the temples stand empty, their fires untended. No smells of sumptuous food fill the air, no one eats, no one worships, no one celebrates. Tears streak the faces of the people, and their clothing is unwashed and torn. I fear the worst, as this city bears all the signs of the passing of the king.”
His eyes welling with tears, the weary Bharata made his way to his father’s palace. When he found the chambers silent and his father absent, he hurried to his mother’s palace, hoping to find him there.
Kaikeyī, resting on her couch, rose to greet her son. Clasping him to her breast, she covered him with caresses. Sitting down on her divan, she drew him to her side. “Tell me, how long was your journey? You must be so tired. Tell me, how are your grandfather and your uncle? Did you enjoy staying there? Tell me everything.”
Bharata answered her questions dutifully, but when he could no longer contain himself, he burst out, “Where is my father? Why isn’t he here to greet me? I have been summoned home so abruptly. Please, dear Mother, tell me what is wrong!”
When his devious-minded mother told him, in unconcerned tones, that his father had gone the way of all earthly mortals, the mighty warrior Bharata fell to the ground like a shāla tree felled by an ax.
“I am destroyed!” cried Bharata. “How can I live without my beloved father to wipe away the dust from my face? Fortunate are Rāma and Lakshmana, for at least they could perform his last rites.”
Bharata writhed on the floor in anguish, crying out, “I must see Rāma immediately, for now he is my father, my brother, my friend, and my master. I am his devoted servant. Only by serving Rāma can I feel happy, now that my father is gone.”
Kaikeyī tried to raise him. “It is not seemly for royalty to wallow in grief,” she said coldly. “Rise up, for in bravery, in the recitation of the Vedas, and in the performance of righteous acts, you are more radiant than the sun.”
Bharata knelt by her couch, sobbing with his head in his hands. “Tell me, what were his last words, he who was the model of perfection and protector of all?”
Kaikeyī said impatiently, “He cried out, ‘How fortunate the ones who will see Rāma returning. O Rāma! O Sītā! O Lakshmana!’”
Bharata felt a chill pass through his body and he shuddered. He was afraid to ask the next question. Unable to meet his mother’s eyes, he finally whispered, “Where is Rāma?”
�
�He has been banished to the Dandaka Forest with Sītā and Lakshmana, clad in bark cloth.”
Bharata’s eyes darted around wildly. Surely he must be going mad. “How could the pure-minded Rāma have done something so wrong?”
Then Kaikeyī, thinking her moment of glory had finally arrived, told Bharata all she had done—starting with the night in the chamber of anger, the king’s promise, the exile. “I did this all for you, Bharata,” she concluded with a proud smile. “So abandon your sorrow, perform the funeral rites, and be installed as lord of the world.”
Bharata turned away from his mother, whose smile now seemed hideous. For a long time he could not even speak, so great was the turmoil in his heart.
“You, whom Rāma cherished as tenderly as his own mother; you, whom Kausalyā treated as a sister—how could you harm them?” he said finally, his voice shaking with emotion. “Now I see that it was you who killed my father. Now I see that he died of grief. You have consumed our family. How could you even conceive of such evil deeds?”
Then the noble-hearted Bharata, gathering his strength about him like armor, stood up to leave. “Know this. I will never fulfill your ambitions. I will never rule in Rāma’s place. In spite of you, I will bring back from the forest my faultless brother, who is dearly loved by the people. I want nothing to do with your schemes.”
Stunned by this turn of events, Kaikeyī sank to the floor.
She was sobbing now, but the usually gentle Bharata, unable to contain his rage, his chest heaving like a bellows and his eyes blazing with fire, continued to denounce her actions. “By killing my father and banishing the one who was loved and respected by all, you have brought dishonor to me and to the whole line of Ikshvākus. How can I face my other mothers, who have been separated from their husband and their sons by you? For everyone knows that to a mother, none is so dear as a child.”
Distraught, the pure and loyal Bharata left Kaikeyī and made his way to Kausalyā’s palace. He stopped short when he saw the mother of Rāma looking so pale and thin, her face lined by rivers of tears.
“The throne that you envied is now yours,” said Kausalyā, her voice shaking. “The ruthless Kaikeyī has taken it from my son, who must now live as a poor wanderer in the forest, while you will enjoy the kingdom, with its vast wealth and storehouses of grain.”
The blameless Bharata could not bear to hear these bitter accusations from Kausalyā and he fell to the floor. Finally recovering enough to speak, he said, “O faultless one, I am innocent. I beg you, do not blame me for schemes of which I knew nothing. You know that my heart is bursting with affection for Rāma.”
Kausalyā said nothing. Then Bharata uttered a scorching oath: “May those who sent Rāma to the forest spend the rest of their lives as slaves. May they forget the teachings of the scriptures. May they suffer the fate of one who treats his teachers with irreverence or harms a cow. May they endure the destiny of the seller of poison. May they be excluded from the society of the virtuous.”
“O my beloved son,” cried the tenderhearted Kausalyā, who was now weeping, “through God’s grace, your heart is still noble, and your soul is among the blessed. Stop now, for I cannot bear to hear you utter these sad curses.” She raised Bharata to his feet and clasped him tightly in a maternal embrace.
Bharata spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying to fathom all that had happened in his absence. He spent the night tossing and turning, heaving great sighs, the peace of sleep eluding him.
The next morning, Vasishtha, who had ruled the kingdom in the absence of a king, spoke calming words to Bharata. “It is time to perform your father’s funeral rites. It is time to end your grief.”
Bharata, ever conscious of his duty, began preparations. But as he stood by the king’s body and attendants lifted it from the bath of oil, he again gave way to his emotions. “What were you thinking, O dear Father, when you sent Rāma away?” he lamented. “Why have you gone away, leaving me alone with a city drained of light, mourning for you?”
“Gather yourself, O Bharata,” Vasishtha gently advised him. “For the sake of your father, these rites must be performed with a steady mind.” Once again Bharata checked his emotions and helped the priests perform their tasks.
Carrying the king’s body on a palanquin, his servants slowly walked to the banks of the River Sarayu on the edge of the city, where the funeral pyre awaited. Men from Ayodhyā scattered gold and silver coins on the path ahead while the women watched from afar. More people followed on foot, on horses, and on camels. The pandits chanted sacred mantras. Bharata lit the pyre, and the air became dense with smoke.
Twelve days later, Bharata bathed in the river to purify himself, as part of the shrāddha ceremonies, sacred rites for ancestors and departed parents. To ensure the happiness of his father in heaven, Bharata gave the Brahmins goats, cows, and piles of gems, cloth, and rich foods.
On the thirteenth day, when Bharata was completing yet another rite, he broke down again, sobbing. “Without my father and brother Rāma to guide me, I will enter the flames. I will retire to a hermitage.”
Shatrughna, seeing his brother’s anguish, remembered all his father’s acts of kindness and felt his own sadness stabbing at his heart. And Shatrughna, too, fell down sobbing next to Bharata.
“Why do you delay in your duties?” the self-composed Vasishtha admonished Bharata, to bring him to his senses. “All beings must experience hunger and thirst, pleasure and pain, life and death. These cannot be avoided.”
“All things have a beginning and end,” added Sumantra as he helped Shatrughna and Bharata to their feet.
Finding peace in Sumantra’s kind words, the two lionhearted brothers, their eyes red from tears, completed the ceremony. Despite their grief, Bharata and Shatrughna stood resplendent, like two glorious flags of Indra, unfaded by sun and wind.
In spite of you, I will bring back from the forest
my faultless brother, who is dearly loved by the people.
—Ayodhyā Kānda 73.26
CHAPTER 15
Bharata Seeks Out Rāma in the Forest
CROWDED WITH MINISTERS, representatives, and holy men, not a seat remained in the palace hall. It was the fourteenth day after the death of their monarch, and they had assembled to decide who would fill the empty throne.
The eldest member rose to speak. “Only because of strong unity has this fatherless kingdom been spared from anarchy. With Rāma in exile, it falls on the next eldest son to rule. O Bharata, take up the crown!”
There was a long silence. Finally, Bharata stood up, radiant in his silken robes and gold ornaments. After reverently circling the crown and other materials that had been assembled earlier for Rāma’s coronation, he faced the assembly.
“Surely it is the eldest who should rule,” said Bharata, his voice ringing in the great hall of the palace, with its walls made of gold. “This is the tradition of kings and the tradition of our family. You should know me better. I will not take the crown that my mother sought for me. I will spend the years of exile in the forest instead of my brother, and with my armies I will deliver Rāma to his rightful place on the throne.”
Flowers rained down from the heavens. Tears fell from the noble ones’ eyes. All the people rejoiced, their sorrow vanquished by Bharata’s heroic words.
“May the giver of plenty, Lakshmī, shower you with rewards for such an unselfish act,” cried one minister. “Who but the high-minded Bharata would give up a kingdom for the sake of his brother?”
Immediately the assembly decided that a highway should be built so Bharata could lead his army to the forest. Having spent the last weeks immobilized by depression, the people of Ayodhyā threw themselves into the task. Masons, carpenters, bridge builders, and dam builders happily went about their work. They spent weeks leveling, cutting, digging, and smoothing the way.
When it was finished, the road arched through the co
untryside up to the banks of the River Gangā, with its cool waters and leaping fish. Flanked by landscaping as beautiful as the gardens of heaven, the royal way glistened with white pebbles. Sprinkled with water mixed with fragrant sandalwood paste, its smooth sidewalks looped through flower beds and groves of blossoming trees, lined by banners swaying in the wind. Songbirds rejoiced in its completion.
Elegant roadside resting camps for Bharata and his followers were built along the path. Surrounded by moats, each royal camp was graced by serene gardens and luxurious resting areas.
The highway and its camps were completed on a day when the moon joined with auspicious stars. The people poured into the streets, ringing conch bells in jubilation. Musicians sang and the sages chanted.
After the ceremony, while resting high up in the palace, Bharata and Shatrughna heard the bards joyously praising Bharata with glad songs, just as they lauded King Dasharatha in happier times. The pure-hearted Bharata burned with shame and grief.
Summoning his ministers, Bharata quickly gave the order for silence. “I am not the king!” he told them. Sinking onto a couch, his head in his hands, he moaned, “O Shatrughna, what a disservice has been done to the people by my mother!”
Just then, a messenger arrived. He announced, “Honored Prince, the revered Vasishtha requests your presence in the court.” Bharata and Shatrughna exchanged worried glances and hurried there.
As Bharata entered the palace hall, with its luxurious seats covered in gold-threaded cloth, he wondered why it was crowded with all the most important leaders of the kingdom, including a representative from each realm. Without Bharata’s knowledge, Vasishtha, having perceived the support for him among the people, had summoned all the royal advisors and holy men.
The wise Vasishtha, who knew the Dharma of kings, rose to speak in kind tones. “O Bharata, your brother Rāma, so devoted to truth, will never agree to rule against his father’s wishes, any more than the sun will give up its light. You have inherited this kingdom through no action of your own. So now take up the throne, rule happily, and receive gifts from all the kingdoms under your rule.”
The Ramayana Page 12